Like any straight male who admits to watching the Oscars, I'm there for the foxy ladies and the chance at a nipple slip. The always tasteful and entertaining pageantry that comes as a free bonus reminds me these people truly deserve to be the exceptionalism on top of the de facto level of American Exceptionalism. They are America's royalty, and their chemical dependence, alcoholic binges, semi-informed stances on important topics of the day, cheesy tattoos, and imploding disposable marriages reaffirms that belief daily.
Just because they are American royalty doesn't mean I have to blindly do their bidding. Here in the United States, we have a long, proud tradition paid for in blood that allows me to choose to do the bidding of whichever extended basic cable personality talking head I choose. I cannot, and will not do that for Hollywood because they hate our country.
The latest proof? Last night's Oscar ceremony, where the Academy, in all of its French-worshipping wisdom, bestowed the highest honor our country has to offer, the Best Picture Academy Award, to The King's Speech over The Social Network - which just drips with made in the USA. Hollywood chose to honor the story of a stuttering weakling with his fancy clothes and accent learning how to talk (something I did at 29 months thank you very much) so he could avoid embarrassing himself when he had to beg Uncle Sam and George Patton to pull England's ass out of the Nazi fire.
The Social Network is an American story... have an idea that's the intellectual equivalent of those bottles that hang on hospital beds that you piss in when you can't make it to the toilet, and ride it to the stratosphere of billions of dollars. Facebook is America, and looking at recent events in the Middle East, maybe we should have sent Facebook into Iraq and Afghanistan if the goal was to give those countries the taste of American awesome that I assume every country totally wants.
Once again, Hollywood's actions force me to ask why they hate our country? They also sort of make me wonder why they hate real men? Sure, The Social Network is pure America, but even more pure America was True Grit, so when the overrated Social Network screenplay beat out True Grit, I had to wonder why were they celebrating dweebs over cowboys?
Who can crack the riddle of the left-wing liberal agenda?
Monday, February 28, 2011
Tuesday, February 22, 2011
Insights into Irrelevant Television
Traffic Light versus Perfect Couples
My all-time favorite show, Two and a Half Men, with its Jason Voorhees-esque ability to stick around, had to go on a brief production hiatus because one of its stars, Charlie Sheen, needed a little "me time." So I thought I would check out a few of the other shows out there. I have my Tivo set to automatically record anything that has any remotely hot women in it, and while I may miss a few shows because my standards are evidently lower than my Tivo's, I usually do alright sifting through the 40 terabytes of additional storage I have hooked up to my box.
Through pure happenstance, I watched two particular mid-season replacements back to back. Perfect Couples and Traffic Light are both shows featuring an almost identical casts of early 30-somethings in almost identical places in their lives going through a few identical comedy bits.
Tough thing for me is that I haven't laughed once during either of the two episodes of Traffic Light that I've seen, and given my penchant for CBS sitcoms, I'll obviously laugh at anything. Even when I'm sober, I'm a wet dream for stand-up comedians doing their Laugh Factory Comedy Central specials because I nearly piss myself from moment one (I guess I'm basically the same drunk, just more handsy). Starting the tired routine about how men and women differ? Totally there. Stole a joke from Dane Cook? No problem. Laughed the first time, still going to laugh now.
So for a sitcom not to illicit a single laugh from me over the course of two episodes is disturbing. Maybe they could call it Law and Order: Traffic Light, rebrand it as a cop show, and save some jobs. The heart-string twist at the end of the pilot felt like it was meant for another series and rubber cemented onto this show.
Perfect Couples has a few more episodes under its belt, so while it also did not illicit a single laugh from me in the first two shows, I've gotten an isolated snort here and there from later episodes. Perfect Couples goes a little further with the stereotypical archetypes, and that helps separates it from the cast of Traffic Light, which so far has been the TV equivalent of sodium-free soup. Perfect Couples also has a foxy ace up its sleeve and her name is Olivia Munn. Always thought she was stunning, but I genuinely consider her a pretty funny personality as well. Traffic Light has no answer for Munn, and therefore I have to give this round of Insights into Irrelevant Television to Perfect Couples.
Now onto a Keeping Up With the Kardashians sorbet to cleanse the palate.
My all-time favorite show, Two and a Half Men, with its Jason Voorhees-esque ability to stick around, had to go on a brief production hiatus because one of its stars, Charlie Sheen, needed a little "me time." So I thought I would check out a few of the other shows out there. I have my Tivo set to automatically record anything that has any remotely hot women in it, and while I may miss a few shows because my standards are evidently lower than my Tivo's, I usually do alright sifting through the 40 terabytes of additional storage I have hooked up to my box.
Through pure happenstance, I watched two particular mid-season replacements back to back. Perfect Couples and Traffic Light are both shows featuring an almost identical casts of early 30-somethings in almost identical places in their lives going through a few identical comedy bits.
Tough thing for me is that I haven't laughed once during either of the two episodes of Traffic Light that I've seen, and given my penchant for CBS sitcoms, I'll obviously laugh at anything. Even when I'm sober, I'm a wet dream for stand-up comedians doing their Laugh Factory Comedy Central specials because I nearly piss myself from moment one (I guess I'm basically the same drunk, just more handsy). Starting the tired routine about how men and women differ? Totally there. Stole a joke from Dane Cook? No problem. Laughed the first time, still going to laugh now.
So for a sitcom not to illicit a single laugh from me over the course of two episodes is disturbing. Maybe they could call it Law and Order: Traffic Light, rebrand it as a cop show, and save some jobs. The heart-string twist at the end of the pilot felt like it was meant for another series and rubber cemented onto this show.
Perfect Couples has a few more episodes under its belt, so while it also did not illicit a single laugh from me in the first two shows, I've gotten an isolated snort here and there from later episodes. Perfect Couples goes a little further with the stereotypical archetypes, and that helps separates it from the cast of Traffic Light, which so far has been the TV equivalent of sodium-free soup. Perfect Couples also has a foxy ace up its sleeve and her name is Olivia Munn. Always thought she was stunning, but I genuinely consider her a pretty funny personality as well. Traffic Light has no answer for Munn, and therefore I have to give this round of Insights into Irrelevant Television to Perfect Couples.
Now onto a Keeping Up With the Kardashians sorbet to cleanse the palate.
Monday, February 14, 2011
Could it be love?
A few posts ago, right around New Year's 2011, I opened up more than I expected to and confessed that as much as I tout my writing as a means to score babes, what I might really want is for writing to help me find true love. Sure, there's something to be said for a high three-digit tally in the "Who banged the most Butter Faces with crazy stairmaster legs" game of life, but that game grows tiresome as you get older, if only because most hot chicks don't like old guys.
Then a revelation occurs, much like it did around New Year's Eve. Last night, I decide to take a night off from my usual lifestyle, and get comfortable on the sofa with a half gallon of activa yogurt and a thermos-full of my mother's world famous sea breeze. I'm all in for every moment of Justin Bieber I can get my hands on with about twelve different devices recording the Grammys in various capacities so I can pour over every moment later on. Needless to say, Bieber mofo'ing rocked it, as did my mother's Sea Breeze recipe. Show's over, and I start to assemble fan montages for the blogs that I know will have me up all night. That's when I saw her.
A vision from another world with the language skills to prove it. I don't know what the words to her angelic song meant, but I know they touched my soul, my deepest being. Sure, she lives in Los Angeles and I live in New York, but at least I have an idea of where my heart, and therefore my writing, want to take me. I hope she'll wait for me, because if anyone thinks I'm moving to LA so I can mix with all those Illegal Immigrant Scientologists praying to the earthquake gods, they're sorely mistaken.
Until then, au revoir, my love. I anxiously await getting to know you better when the Autotune the News folks go to town on this.
Then a revelation occurs, much like it did around New Year's Eve. Last night, I decide to take a night off from my usual lifestyle, and get comfortable on the sofa with a half gallon of activa yogurt and a thermos-full of my mother's world famous sea breeze. I'm all in for every moment of Justin Bieber I can get my hands on with about twelve different devices recording the Grammys in various capacities so I can pour over every moment later on. Needless to say, Bieber mofo'ing rocked it, as did my mother's Sea Breeze recipe. Show's over, and I start to assemble fan montages for the blogs that I know will have me up all night. That's when I saw her.
A vision from another world with the language skills to prove it. I don't know what the words to her angelic song meant, but I know they touched my soul, my deepest being. Sure, she lives in Los Angeles and I live in New York, but at least I have an idea of where my heart, and therefore my writing, want to take me. I hope she'll wait for me, because if anyone thinks I'm moving to LA so I can mix with all those Illegal Immigrant Scientologists praying to the earthquake gods, they're sorely mistaken.
Until then, au revoir, my love. I anxiously await getting to know you better when the Autotune the News folks go to town on this.
Thursday, February 3, 2011
Everyday miracles
Sure, some people get to see the Virgin Mary in their blueberry pancakes or Munch's The Scream on their moldy butter. Then said people get to make an easy grand selling these food products on ebay or getting an interview on some local morning show. Not me, here's what I get:
I get the potato shaped like a dude's junk. Not even awe-inspiring junk, if I rolled that small I'd never stop crying. But there you have it, fortune took a moment to smile on me and that smile took the form of oven-roasted genitalia giving it that sweet leprosy vibe.
After I took that picture, I totally ate it and honestly it tasted exactly as an oven-roasted, garlic, rosemary, and olive oil coated set of balls made out of an organic potato should. It's nice, if not a bit strange, to actually remember how this dong ended up in my mouth as opposed to all those bizarre mornings waking from a night of blackout drinking in former Soviet satellite nations.
These digressions constantly remind me that I haven't cracked the writer's block I've suffered since I got my first two paragraphs down. I know a lot of writers use a tool called outlining, but I never knew what it was until recently. Apparently it's common practice at homicide scenes as well, but I can't see how outlines would accomplish anything there. Regardless, I decided maybe it was time I started expanding my writing tool box to get over this Chapter 1, Paragraph 2 hump I've crashed into.
1. Introduce King Rex on a penal mining asteroid working a jackhammer from the future. I mean really working it, glistening and grunting.
(Easy enough since I already wrote this.)
2. ????
3. ????
4-????. ????
????. King Rex and Hotina Fox totally do it. End with the hook to save the galaxy.
(Also easy enough since I already wrote this.)
Seeing my idea laid out like this has helped tremendously. I get so wrapped up in wanting to explore the beauty of language and wanting to score so many hot chicks, that I forget how often writing boils down to nose-to-the-grindstone work. It's not brain surgery, I just need to think of a few points that get Rex and Hotina from that first paragraph to complete carnal grunting. To do that, I'm going to need the right tools such as those giant touch screen displays I see on the 24-hour news channels. Can't do a proper outline without special-ordering a few of those.
Sure, I may still be climbing the slopes of Mount Writer's Block, but at least I can buy my way into sight of the peak.
I get the potato shaped like a dude's junk. Not even awe-inspiring junk, if I rolled that small I'd never stop crying. But there you have it, fortune took a moment to smile on me and that smile took the form of oven-roasted genitalia giving it that sweet leprosy vibe.
After I took that picture, I totally ate it and honestly it tasted exactly as an oven-roasted, garlic, rosemary, and olive oil coated set of balls made out of an organic potato should. It's nice, if not a bit strange, to actually remember how this dong ended up in my mouth as opposed to all those bizarre mornings waking from a night of blackout drinking in former Soviet satellite nations.
These digressions constantly remind me that I haven't cracked the writer's block I've suffered since I got my first two paragraphs down. I know a lot of writers use a tool called outlining, but I never knew what it was until recently. Apparently it's common practice at homicide scenes as well, but I can't see how outlines would accomplish anything there. Regardless, I decided maybe it was time I started expanding my writing tool box to get over this Chapter 1, Paragraph 2 hump I've crashed into.
1. Introduce King Rex on a penal mining asteroid working a jackhammer from the future. I mean really working it, glistening and grunting.
(Easy enough since I already wrote this.)
2. ????
3. ????
4-????. ????
????. King Rex and Hotina Fox totally do it. End with the hook to save the galaxy.
(Also easy enough since I already wrote this.)
Seeing my idea laid out like this has helped tremendously. I get so wrapped up in wanting to explore the beauty of language and wanting to score so many hot chicks, that I forget how often writing boils down to nose-to-the-grindstone work. It's not brain surgery, I just need to think of a few points that get Rex and Hotina from that first paragraph to complete carnal grunting. To do that, I'm going to need the right tools such as those giant touch screen displays I see on the 24-hour news channels. Can't do a proper outline without special-ordering a few of those.
Sure, I may still be climbing the slopes of Mount Writer's Block, but at least I can buy my way into sight of the peak.
Monday, January 31, 2011
Taking a stand
Sometimes there comes a moment in people's lives where they are forced to look destiny in the eye and shout to the heavens, "No further! We draw the line here." I assume this goes double when children are concerned, not that I'd know given how much I've spent on doctor's and lawyers to prove I'm not the baby daddy of any of those kids (you all know who you are).
So when Denise Richards tweets (Twitter? For the love of...) "If you caught 'GMA' today..FYI.. No 'adult film star' will be babysitting our kids!" I'm likely to believe her. I'd hate to be the porn star trying to get between a mother and her child, especially considering what Ms. Richard's character was capable of in Wild Things (no, not the champagne scene... which may be one of the finest in cinematic history).
Standards are not dead, except for those of the people who create a twitter account and say to themselves "I think I want to keep my finger on the pulse of Denise Richards' moment to moment existence." I take that back, I'm sure if I spent 30 seconds on twitter, I could find a former reality TV star whose only current claim to fame would be twitter posts and "I want a baby" headline interviews to US Weekly.
That said, Ms. Richards still looks fantastic, may need to bust out my Wild Things/Starship Troopers Laser Disc twin pack.
So when Denise Richards tweets (Twitter? For the love of...) "If you caught 'GMA' today..FYI.. No 'adult film star' will be babysitting our kids!" I'm likely to believe her. I'd hate to be the porn star trying to get between a mother and her child, especially considering what Ms. Richard's character was capable of in Wild Things (no, not the champagne scene... which may be one of the finest in cinematic history).
Standards are not dead, except for those of the people who create a twitter account and say to themselves "I think I want to keep my finger on the pulse of Denise Richards' moment to moment existence." I take that back, I'm sure if I spent 30 seconds on twitter, I could find a former reality TV star whose only current claim to fame would be twitter posts and "I want a baby" headline interviews to US Weekly.
That said, Ms. Richards still looks fantastic, may need to bust out my Wild Things/Starship Troopers Laser Disc twin pack.
Friday, January 28, 2011
The day my world shattered.
That day is today, and it's because of left-wing media agendas such as this:
When is Beef not Beef?
The American media has always had it in for one of the staples of my diet, Taco Bell, and now they are going after Taco Bell's "beef" tacos. The fact that I now have to put Taco Bell "beef" inside quotes sickens my stomach, but that's the media for you.
Apparently some socialist decided to call Taco Bell's bluff about what they actually put inside their food and found out that the product Taco Bell uses to fill its "beef" taco doesn't meet the federal requirements necessary to call something beef. The USDA requires products called beef to contain 40% actual beef (seems like they are setting the bar a little high just to prevent competition) and Taco Bell's taco filler only gets to the 36% mark. Honestly, what's a measly 4% among friends? Just think how many American successes occurred throughout history because we weren't a bunch of clenched-ass hall monitors quibbling over 4%.
Sure, the labels used on Taco Bell's internal packaging meet the guidelines -
- but if I wanted to know exactly what I was eating, I wouldn't be standing in a Taco Bell Drive-Thru at 3am because that's the only part of the store open when I'm batshit hallucinating and need a snack. In fact, just to show my support, I'm going to mix the most there-is-no-God hallucinogenic cocktail I can muster and hit up a Bell right now.
Screw all of you muckrakers and go back to 1985's Mother Russia. As a side benefit, this will also get me out of having to fill in the gap in Chapter 1 that I left in my last blog post. Writer's block came on hard and fast.
When is Beef not Beef?
The American media has always had it in for one of the staples of my diet, Taco Bell, and now they are going after Taco Bell's "beef" tacos. The fact that I now have to put Taco Bell "beef" inside quotes sickens my stomach, but that's the media for you.
Apparently some socialist decided to call Taco Bell's bluff about what they actually put inside their food and found out that the product Taco Bell uses to fill its "beef" taco doesn't meet the federal requirements necessary to call something beef. The USDA requires products called beef to contain 40% actual beef (seems like they are setting the bar a little high just to prevent competition) and Taco Bell's taco filler only gets to the 36% mark. Honestly, what's a measly 4% among friends? Just think how many American successes occurred throughout history because we weren't a bunch of clenched-ass hall monitors quibbling over 4%.
Sure, the labels used on Taco Bell's internal packaging meet the guidelines -
- but if I wanted to know exactly what I was eating, I wouldn't be standing in a Taco Bell Drive-Thru at 3am because that's the only part of the store open when I'm batshit hallucinating and need a snack. In fact, just to show my support, I'm going to mix the most there-is-no-God hallucinogenic cocktail I can muster and hit up a Bell right now.
Screw all of you muckrakers and go back to 1985's Mother Russia. As a side benefit, this will also get me out of having to fill in the gap in Chapter 1 that I left in my last blog post. Writer's block came on hard and fast.
Monday, January 17, 2011
So it begins...
With scotch in hand, I bantered back and forth yesterday with my writing partner. I wasn't sure how adding an extra person to the mix would play out, but that tactic has always proven effective in the bedroom so it seemed like a safe bet. The process, heated. The results speak for themselves as I will show you in a minute.
But what about the process of letting someone into that protected space that is your creativity? At first, I approached it like I assume a marriage would be based on the razor sharp situational comedies of CBS. That worked well for a while, but creativity - at least my creativity - comes from inner storms and unrest. Before long, shouts, tears, foxhole embraces through an unceasing horror and promises that we would make it through to the other side. When those clouds broke and I saw what I had written before me, I knew every step of the journey had been worth it
That is, of course, until my driver, The Register, found me doubled over the toilet inducing myself to vomit while a voice from Poison Control could be heard shouting through my cell "stay with me, dammit, don't close your eyes!" Turns out in my bleary-eyed state, I accidentally poured myself a full three fingers of some cleaner from under my sink and in the ensuing hallucinations, embraced a somewhat tacky lamp as my writing partner.
Regardless, let me debut the embers from which my conflagration that is my novel will emerge, like a Phoenix rising from an Arizona...
So there you have it. I figure I just need to fill in that little gap there and I've got the first chapter of my opus in the bag. Many thanks to The Register for knowing CPR, Mandy from Poison Control, and the lamp in my upstairs bathroom shaped like a bottle of Tabasco sauce. I couldn't have gotten this far without all of you. A heart-felt thank you.
But what about the process of letting someone into that protected space that is your creativity? At first, I approached it like I assume a marriage would be based on the razor sharp situational comedies of CBS. That worked well for a while, but creativity - at least my creativity - comes from inner storms and unrest. Before long, shouts, tears, foxhole embraces through an unceasing horror and promises that we would make it through to the other side. When those clouds broke and I saw what I had written before me, I knew every step of the journey had been worth it
That is, of course, until my driver, The Register, found me doubled over the toilet inducing myself to vomit while a voice from Poison Control could be heard shouting through my cell "stay with me, dammit, don't close your eyes!" Turns out in my bleary-eyed state, I accidentally poured myself a full three fingers of some cleaner from under my sink and in the ensuing hallucinations, embraced a somewhat tacky lamp as my writing partner.
Regardless, let me debut the embers from which my conflagration that is my novel will emerge, like a Phoenix rising from an Arizona...
King Rex toiled sweatily in the dank asteroid corridors of PC-1208, the dankest hardcore penal colony this side of heaven. King Rex used to be a king, and now look at him, kingly was the last word I would use to describe him. Every muscle tightened and throbbed as he worked the electro-pick-axe against the tunnel wall, and she noticed. A piece of mineral rocket fuel fell. King Rex grunted and sweated as he lifted the fallen rock into a nearby mining gravity cart. She noticed the horse noises King Rex made as he did this as well.
(To be filled in later)
King Rex and Hotina Fox tore at each other passionately. To say they made love would be an insult to all those middle-aged suburbanites that have their boring sex. No, King Rex and Hotina Fox made beast, and after a few days of healing, they would have the scars to prove it. Their beast-making was the best in the history of recorded time, Hotina loved that she made this man make the same horse noises as lifting a heavy rock.
"Hi, my name is Hotina Fox."
"And mine is King Rex, should we save the galaxy?"
So there you have it. I figure I just need to fill in that little gap there and I've got the first chapter of my opus in the bag. Many thanks to The Register for knowing CPR, Mandy from Poison Control, and the lamp in my upstairs bathroom shaped like a bottle of Tabasco sauce. I couldn't have gotten this far without all of you. A heart-felt thank you.
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