Rattle Your Peach Basket

Things I Can't Un-See

2009-01-17T16:44:00.000-08:00

Ever have one of those times when you see something so bizarre and inexplicable, you wish you had a camera to capture the moment? This is one of those times.

Yesterday morning I was walking down Sunset Blvd. to my local coffee house (lack of free internet equals increased focus on the writing). Along the way I passed 3 latino day laborers sitting on a low wall, three painters or dry-wallers taking their first break of the day. They looked fairly typical, wearing the day laborer uniform of ball cap, t-shirt and jeans. Except for what they were holding. Day laborer number one was noshing a Burger King breakfast sandwich. Number two was getting down on some hash browns. Number three? He was staring off into the distance as a red G-string hung from his loose fist in front of him.

What exactly had happened here? Could he not afford a BK breakfast sandwich? Was he dreaming wistfully of his lost love from an all-nude show from the night before? Were they his? He didn’t seem terribly envious of his compatriots’ meals. He wasn’t gazing longingly at it. The g-string was just there, the way one might idly dangle one’s keys. Maybe it’s his. Maybe he was thinking, “If I can just get through today, I can unwind on the pole when I get home.” Maybe it’s his lucky charm. If anyone has a reasonable explanation, please let me know. Probably the most mystifying thing I’ve seen

Publish Post

all month.

The All Time Tops

2008-10-09T11:30:00.000-07:00

When I was a kid, the top grossing movies of all time list always captured my interest. I remember when E.T. surpassed Star Wars, and then Return of the Jedi took it back. Or something like that. There was always a new top movie of all time, and it was always one that I liked, so it was fun to watch.

Even later, in the next era, when Jurassic Park took the top spot, I was cool with that. If I was gonna have my childhood fantasy universes implode in upon themselves by the knowledge that no longer did everyone share my version of a perfect movie fantasy world, it might as well be by a movie about dinosaurs. I mean, if you can't have light sabers, then a T Rex in the modern world will have to do.

Then came Titanic. Yeah, I saw it in the theater. It was a first date, too. NOT a good idea. She was funny though, and we both bitched about what a depressing first date activity it was, then went to a bar and sang karaoke to lighten the mood. The story sucked, and the fact that people were crying in the theater at the end actually seems kind of funny now (is that wrong?), but it was kind of cool to see what it might have been like to be on that ship on that day. No one had ever showed that before. But number one of all time????!!! Clearly the world's tastes had shifted. For the worse. Very disheartening. Where was the 1980s optimism? Where was the 1970s sense of fantasy? Did most people really want to see not just tragedies, but tragedies that REALLY HAPPENED? With sappy ass pseudo-Celtic theme music performed by a hateful anorexic witch?

After that I kind of stopped paying attention. I suppose it could be likened to the rest of the baseball playoffs, now that the Cubs are out of it. I was so jaded I didn't really care what movies took over. I'm sure there were a few other huge box office phenoms that I barely noticed.

Thankfully, America (and I guess, the world) came to its senses. We FINALLY had Lord of the Rings, then a couple Spider Man movies to kick off a new era of superhero related blockbusters. No longer would I have to endure obscure rubber-suited crapfests of my childhood heroes (Swamp Thing). I actually can't believe they made two of those. But I digress.

The next era was marked by a tug of war within my heart. Fantasy worlds stayed on top, which was nice for a geek like me. Too bad they were the worlds of Shrek, Pirates of the Crapibbean, Independence Day, and the ultimate heart breakers, the new Star Wars movies. THAT period of time was really like watching the Cubs make the playoffs every year only to get swept. I had such hope. Oh Mr. McDonald, what a fool believes, indeed.

This was followed by a short stint of kickass redemption. And by short I mean two movies: Ironman, who took the heart of the ocean and shoved it in his chest to power up, and The Dark Knight, in which two Titanics are forced to sink each other. Sweet.

I fear for the next swing of the pendulum though. I really do. I mean compare these lists of top films from each era:

Late 70s / Early to mid 80s:

1. Star Wars
2. Star Wars: The Empire Strikes Back
3. Return of the Jedi
4. E.T.
5. Raiders of the Lost Ark
6. Jaws
7. Superman
8. Ghostbusters
9. Back to the Future
10.Beverly Hills Cop

Fuck yeah.

The 90s:

1. Titanic
2. Jurassic Park
3. The Phantom Menace
4. Forest Gump
5. Independence Day
6. The Sixth Sense
7. Ghost
8. Terminator 2
9. Toy Story 2
10.Batman Forever

Ok, some good ones in there, but...ok 2 good ones in there, and some real turdburgers. You can see where this is headed.

The Oughts (2000s):

1. The second two Pirates of the Caribbean loot your wallet
2. Charlie and sucking factory
3. Harry Potter discovers he's gay
4. The second two Matrix movies discover they're gay
5. Bruce Almighty
6. Cars/Robots/Other inanimate objects made further inanimate by Disney and Pixar
7. Signs (that M. Night Shyamalan's career has peaked)
8. Superman Returns in the same movie but with worse special effects than the one 30 years ago
9. Evan Almighty
10.The Polar Express to soullessville

What a dark, dark time. And then:

The Late Oughts (2007-08):

1. Ironman
2. The Dark Knight
3. Indiana Jones and the Kingdom of Go Fuck Yourself

Alright, two outta three ain't bad. But here is what I predict for the future:

2010-2020:

1. Beverly Hills Chihuahua nips away your taste
2. The Bratz movie
3. Paris Hilton fucks a dog
4. Hanna Cyrus: Sticky Sweet: Books Are For Burning (concert film by Martin Scorsese)
5. Leo and Russell Crowe and Colin Farrel do something tough
6. Disney's FUCK YOU GIVE US YOUR MONEY YOUR STUPID KIDS LOVE OUR SHIT
7. Night at the Museum 4: National Treasure 6
8. National Treasure 7: Night at the Museum 5
9. Harry Potter Almighty
10.Alvin & The Chipmunks (re-release)

I weep for our future. I wonder what's number one right now? What? What do you mean IT'S STILL TITANIC?!?!?!

The 50 Worst Album Covers of All Time - Part II

2008-09-05T14:40:00.000-07:00

Here we are, friends. The second and last installment that you've all been waiting for: Numbers 25 - 1.

#25

This one goes out to JT.

#24

Jonah's manager, a marketing wunderkind in his day, knew they'd have a hit on their hands if they could somehow combine cone bras and construction. This debut fared much better than both its follow-ups, "I backfill floozies" and the more honest "I pay for sex."

#23

This record sold surprisingly well, mostly because people thought it was a comedy album. It contains, in fact, 128 funeral dirges.

#22

Nice of these gals to prop themselves up like that, so's not to get in the way of the road. It's the only way in or out of Dreamtown!

#21

Nobody wants this story, Slim. No-body.

#20

Roger doesn't remember it, but this photo shoot took place in just 28 seconds, using only his "got any crack?" face.

#19

With...who?

#18

I can answer that one for ya, Fos: it's "estra." Kudos to the photographer, though, for getting this pre-trampling shot.

#17

New accent? How bout a new sharpie? Seriously, you spent less money on this font work than Foster Edwards (although you did fit all the words in). You could have had wigged elephants, Man!

#16

You're welcome, Mikey. You're welcome.

#15

My vote for #1. Hands down. Too soon?

#14

Sorry, I've seen Skid Row Joe. He does NOT look like that. And he can't sign his name. On account of he's dead.

#13

Hey, fuck you. I like this cover. It has rainbow-punching, a sportscaster, and a monster guy. What more do you want, you pricks? Next you'll be telling me Sesame Street Disco is bad.

#12

You want to know where Kankakee, Illinois is? It's right here, my friend. It's all right here.

#11

Proof that not every Sears portrait should be an album cover. Dad sure looks happy to be here, though.

#10

I don't know, Cody. You still haven't returned the last one you borrowed. Remember, when you came by last week for a cup of retarded?

#9

Ah, who could forget the Scottish Liberace? Certainly not the poor souls it ate.

#8

Nothing about this could really be described as "live."

#7

This is fucking gangster, bitches. You see that crack in his hand? Roger would KILL for some o' that shit.

#6

Organ does not, in this case, refer to the musical instrument.

#5

Dammit! I already blew my organ joke.

#4

This is the kind of happiness that Merrill seeks. The blood red kind.

#3

Before Rush Limbaugh was king of the airwaves, he was king of all the taverns. And of the retarded laugh. And of being a fat sweaty pig. Jesus.

#2

Ron experimented with many methods for navigating his home-built "go-buggy-dune-kart" before finally settling on the simplest: an anthropomorphic female robot with an opening in the back of its head. This created a "look ma, no hands" effect, while the actual steering was done by Ron's penis. What Ron did NOT account for was that his "boner-pilot" system required an erection from the driver, which Ron was unable to maintain. The whole thing ended very badly shortly after this photo was taken.

And finally...

#1

I just....I don't...William Butler Yeats would not possibly have the words.

50 Worst Album Covers of All Time - Part 1

2008-08-26T14:25:00.000-07:00

My friend sent me this list from Redeye, a free daily edition of the Chicago Tribune. There, now I've given them credit, which is fine because these are pretty good. However, as they declined to provide any commentary on the photos, I figured I'd add my own. So here we go...

#50
It's as if Meathead's family was in Sears shopping for matching outfits when they realized you could get a portrait done in front of a barn mural! Incidentally, this album came with a bucket of fried chicken, and a tire.

#49

I have so very many questions. Is that Dickie? Does she really have that many arms? And what does an inhibited drum rhythm sound like?

#48
This is an obvious fake. First of all, Russians don't smile. Second, there has never been a balloon in or around Russia, ever. Third, this guy in the front, if he were really Russian, would have eaten that thing instead of wearing it on his head.

#47

Thank God he told us it was him, Orion, reborn! I never would have recognized him behind that mask. I might have known, though, since the original Orion wore more than one color. And a belt. Well played, sir.

#46

Your guess is as good as mine. Let me just tell you that one of them bites the guitar for most of the act.

#45
Apparently, Tucker was plagued by horrible nightmares. Huh? It says trucker? Oh God, that's even worse.

#44

The first thing to understand about your Swede is where to put the apostrophe, and any extra "e's" you might have layin around. The second is where to hide if he's carrying an axe and a sack.

#43

C'mon, this is kind of clever. Especially considering the mule thought of it.

#42

If this were a list of the fifty BEST album covers of all time, this would take number one hands down. Somebody fucked up here.

#41

Incomparable. Talk about "le mot juste." When it takes FIVE masters to present you, and your name is in chrome, you are truly incomparable. Look how close he is to that mirror. Magnifique! That is a mirror, right?

#40

The Julcia clan tried to cash in on the new "love and peace" era that had made their kind of folk music obsolete. They started by offering "lots of it." They even convinced Papa Louie to have his first and last names appear in pink and blue. It wasn't easy. Papa Louie hated coloreds.

The point was moot, however, as the entire family was killed in their sleep by "Little Jackie," who insisted he was NOT "one of the boys."

#39

Sadly, Ken didn't get many requests. But he wouldn't have been able to hear them anyway. Ken was catatonic.

#38

For one brief, shining moment each morning, Rick really was free. Free from his shadow. Free indeed. The goddamn file folder was another story.

#37

You know Les originally wanted to call this space boners or some shit. Fuckin Les. He was like that.

#36

You do not EVER want to know what it takes to make Merrill happy again. Seriously, right now you have about four minutes to get out of the room.

#35

Yep, that's right. He has a "best." I wonder who would win in a death fight between him, Merrill, and...

#34

Tony was like a God. King of all he saw. Looking down on his world. Of insanity.

#33

One member of this "band" has murder in her eyes. Another one has the weapon in her hair. Those McKeithen boys never stood a chance.

#32

I don't see what's so wrong about this.

#31

And grows up to be Leatherface.

#30

A) Nothing is dead here except your eyes, Weela. B) What kind of a name is Weela? Is that supposed to be like Phil McKracken or something? Because I don't get it. C) Your "adult comedy laugh-in" features clowns, monkeys, and straw hats. D) You used the phrase "an hysterical." I sentence you to death before you kill the monkey, too, you fat bitch.

#29

I'm not gonna lie. I want to hear this album.

#28

That's nice. Dress up some poor blind girls in terrible clown outfits and do their hair like it's Halloween, then take their picture and sell it. Why don't you set some cats on fire while you're at it?

#27

C'mon, now. This is at least a little bit clever. It's a play on that Herb Alpert cover, but with old ladies. They have to know that they're....oh dear God you're right, it's disgusting.

#26

Everything that needs to be said is already there. Joyce. Fifty Cents.

Next time: #25 to #1!

Rare Praise: The Dark Knight

2008-07-29T03:42:00.001-07:00

WARNING: If you’re one of the six people left in the world that hasn’t seen The Dark Knight yet, there may be spoilers below. If, like me, you’ve already seen it three times, then read on.

I hate hype. Rarely, if ever, does a big summer movie live up to the hype that inescapably accompanies it. The recent Indiana Jones and Star Wars poop-farms come to mind, although as far as I’m concerned, those franchises are still only trilogies. Let’s just pretend those other four “films” never happened, shall we? Oh, sorry; five “films”—someone keeps letting George Lucas make Star Wars movies, only now they’re fully computer-animated instead of being only 95% computer-animated. Don’t you have enough goddamned money yet, George? FUCK!

But I digress. I’m not here to chastise Hollywood for butt-fucking yet another good idea to death. I’m actually here to praise them for somehow managing to churn out what is arguably the best piece of summer entertainment I’ve ever seen. The Dark Knight’s hype was grandiose, yet the movie itself still managed to deliver more than any ad campaign could have ever promised. Try swallowing this: from the same studio that brought you Batman and Robin comes yet another comic book sequel…but with a dark and complex story, featuring stand-out performances by an all-star cast, one of whom posthumously gives us one of the best villains in movie history. Sounds like total bullshit, right? Nay, good readers. It be the gospel.

Now I’m not saying this film is flawless. Even after three viewings, I still can’t figure out why Batman doesn’t just send Gordon to save Dent and rescue his beloved damsel in distress himself (aside from the fact that blowing up your love interest is fucking NAILS, Brothers Nolan!) And I just can’t shake how forced Heath Ledger’s laugh seems to me throughout the film. (In the dead man’s defense, that shit ain’t easy to pull off, and it’s the only chink in an otherwise masterful performance.) AND, in a movie filled with Batmen and Jokers and Eric Roberts of all people, my disbelief only became unsuspended when not one of those ferryboat passengers was able to blow his condemned counterparts straight to hell. (But perhaps that’s more telling of my own lack of faith in mankind than any glaring misstep by the filmmakers.)

Which brings me to the point of this little column, dear readers: the fact that a Batman movie can make me question such things as my faith in mankind is nothing short of extraordinary. The mere notion that an escapist popcorn fantasy could elicit such thought and emotion from even one its viewers is simply astounding. If for no other reason than that, this movie has raised the bar for me. Not just for action movies or comic book movies, but for movies in general. The Dark Knight showed me that movies don’t have to be just 90 minutes worth of mindless, useless drivel aimed at temporarily satiating an increasingly apathetic, idiotic public. Movies can make you feel, they can make you THINK. Hell, they can inspire you to write blogs about how inspired you are to finally be inspired again by this medium that once so inspired you! In short, movies are still everything I hoped they could be.

So I add my voice to the hype for The Dark Knight. But now I’ve probably built it up too much. Maybe you should go see The Clone Wars instead. I hear George Lucas needs the money. Douchebag.

Tales From Dodger Stadium: Ejected

2008-07-23T14:31:00.000-07:00

My buddy Ian is the biggest Dodger fan I know. I live right across the street from the
stadium, and we often go to games together. A couple months ago we went to a game, and for
the first time (for me at least), got kicked out.

Most of the time when I go see the Dodgers it's to sit in the nosebleed section. The tickets
are cheap and the view is decent if you can get seats somewhere between 3rd and 1st base (and
you usually can). The only problem with that section is that sometimes it gets rowdy. Now
don't get me wrong, I ain't scurred. I'd just rather not leave the game having actually
joined a gang. I'll do my jumping in on the streets, thank you very much. I should clarify
that if you're wearing Dodger blue you're pretty much in the clear. If you have a Dodgers
tattoo you're even better off. I saw a fan once with the Dodgers script logo tattooed across
his chest diagonally, and the same thing in reverse across his back. These are fans.

A few times, though, I've made the mistake of going to games with my friends, who are pretty
much all Arizona fans. And I made the added mistake of bringing them to a Dodgers/Dbacks
game. My buddies got a little, how shall we say, shit-hammered and started supporting their
team vociferously. We got pelted with limes and garlic fries, but made it out with our hides.

On another occasion, one of my friends was wearing a red U of A shirt that said "Don't tell me to
sit down" on the back. The Dodgers were playing the Angels, so he wasn't wearing the
opposition's gear (he wasn't, in fact, wearing any pro team's gear). None of that mattered to
the four GIANT cholos behind us. They saw red, and that was all they needed to see. It got
so bad I put my Dodger hat on my buddy's head. That didn't help. Things were starting to get
out of control, and I felt we had a legitimate reason to fear for his safety, and by reason of
association, ours. A few seconds later this was confirmed by two security guards who showed
up and told my friend "Sir, we have to move you now. For your own safety." Much easier to do
that then face multiple thugs I guess. They moved him down about 6 rows. Wow, thanks. That
just made the objects hurled at him hit a bit harder. A full beer got dumped on him, and he
took off his red shirt (and not because it was wet). He put on a sweatshirt and tried to make
himself small. Luckily, right at that moment, a girl in an Angels hat stood up, turned around, and gave the double middle finger to everyone behind her. She was joined by a middle aged guy in Angels gear, and the crowd turned its rage on them. After several minutes more, the actual cops showed up and arrested all four thugs.

So on to my own experience of being ejected. Ian and I walked over to the park. We had field
level seats, but way out by the foul pole on the first base side. One thing I've learned is that you can get those seats fairly cheap, and then move to field level seats closer to home plate. You've got your access to the field level, and that's all you need. So many people don't show up or leave early, that you can always watch at least half the game from a pretty excellent vantage point. So about the 6th inning, we moved. Things were going fine until we spotted some open seats further in and in the FRONT ROW. Now THAT'S field level. We mosied on over. About five seats away from our target I noticed that a security guard on the field was watching us. She let us take the seats though. I knew that if we behaved ourselves, we'd be fine. Unfortunately I didn't know that behaving yourself in this part of the ballpark now means not swearing.

Something happened at second base, and Jeff Kent, the Dodgers' second baseman, didn't like it.
He started arguing with the umpire and the Joe Torre came running out. I didn't see the play
because we were too busy taking our fake seats. Anyway, it got heated and resulted in both
Kent and Torre being ejected. So whatever it was, there was probably a legitimate beef there,
right? Ian yelled "aw, that's BULLSHIT!" to the field, and the security guard had what she'd
been waiting for. She immediately came up to the wall and asked to see our tickets. "Alright, alright, we'll go back to our seats. I'm sorry," Ian said. We went about 8 rows up to some other seats we could pretend were ours, not near anyone by about 4 rows, and sat down. Play resumed. Ian soon found another thing to bitch about, or maybe it was the same thing, I don't remember. But he was just being a fan. Anyway, a morbidly obese member of AARP in front of us turned around and told us (Ian) not to swear, because there were "womenfolk" around. "Did you just say womenfolk?" I asked. He neither responded to or looked at me, but proceeded to get up and come up to the row in front of us and walk in until he was right in front of Ian. He started arguing with Ian about being polite, which quickly turned into threats to take Ian out into the parking lot and fight him!

It should be noted here that Ian was handling the situation very well. He didn't stand up, he didn't raise his voice once, and he didn't even swear. Meanwhile, this fat old tub o'lard was calling him every name in the book and spitting when he talked. He wouldn't look at me once, despite my repeated declarations of "Sir, you are spitting on us. Sir. You are spitting on us, sir." I was determined to be the polite one. Finally Ian had had enough, and told the old man that if he really wanted, he'd meet him in the parking lot and slug him. He actually used the word "slug." I was amused by that.

Finally the guy goes and sits down. Way to represent civility and chivalry, asshole. Next,
an entire row of women who, I kid you not, actually had sweaters tied around their necks 80s
yuppie style, proceeded to argue with Ian. He had suggested that all he was doing was being a
fan, and that if they were fans they should have been outraged at the play like he was. The
first one said "Um, excuse me, we have season tickets here. Do you know how much those cost?
We ARE fans." "Oh yeah?" Ian replied. "What division are the Dodgers in?" She had nothing.
"What LEAGUE are they in?" he asked. She snorted and turned around. Could it have been a
"I'm not going to dignify that with an answer" snort? Maybe. But I tend to think she just didn't know.

The next thing we knew, four police officers and 2 security guards were standing over us. I
naively thought they were there to find the big fat old guy who was spitting all over,
threatening violence on people and moving several rows to do it. But no. It was for us. We
were instructed to get up and come with them. For what? I asked. For swearing, came the
reply. Are you serious? Yes, apparently they were. We got up and slowly followed them out,
to a chorus of boos from the crowd. I enjoyed that quite a bit.

When I asked if we were really being kicked out for swearing, I was told that yes, we were,
because it is against the fan conduct policy. When I asked why the old man who swore, spit,
and committed assault on us according to the legal definition wasn't being kicked out, they
said they would "look into it."

The fact is that baseball is now primarily a rich man's game. People are paying hundreds of
dollars for field level seats, and the owner of the team is catering to them. Bars, club boxes with waitstaff, private bathrooms, and all sorts of amenities are being added, and Frank McCourt has plans to do another $500 Million worth of "renovating" to the place. It mostly consists of a mall and restaurants (you still won't be able to take public transportation to the stadium). And these wealthy people don't want a real, gritty, baseball experience. They want to watch it like it's on tv in their beige livingrooms. If they could bring their overpriced couches with them they probably would. It's more about being seen, and the presige that comes with being able to afford expensive season tickets than it is about the team or the game. Never mind what division the Dodgers are in. They are called the Dodgers, right?

Long gone are the days when the iron worker or carpet salesman sat next to the wall street
broker in a cramped Brooklyn shithole on a hot summer day. Now the working class sits in the
bleachers or the upper deck. I despise the violence I see sometimes in the cheap seats, but
the elitism down on the field is just as bad. Contrary to popular belief, baseball is NOT a family affair. It isn't cricket or golf, people. Those guys out there? They take steroids. They chew tobacco. They spit and scratch their balls on tv, and they kick and punch the shit out of each other when they get mad, which because of the steroids, is all the time. They say the F word. They cheat on their wives. They drink, smoke, and eat like pigs. And they don't get kicked out just for swearing.

Crapping on My Childhood: Robocop 3

2008-07-11T11:52:00.000-07:00

Forgive me. I know I'm 15 years late on this. I don't care. Allow me to set the stage.

Back in the late 1980s before I had a driver's license or a car, my best friend and I would ride our bikes up to the movie theater every Friday. We did not care what we saw as long as it was a) violent, b) ultraviolent, or c) hyperviolent and preferably starred one of the holy trinity of Schwarzenegger, Van Damme, or Seagal. The list of bad movies I paid to see as a teenager is perhaps only exceeded by the number of bad movies those 3 actors have combined to make in the intervening decades.

So in July 1987 when Paul Verhoeven unleashed Robocop on an unsuspecting American audience, my mind was, as the kids say, BLOWN. It was a perfect storm of dystopia, hyperviolence, adult content and dark, dark humor. Peter Weller, who I'm pretty sure is just barely human as it is, was perfect as the titular cyborg police officer. And Kurtwood Smith may still be my gold standard for screen villains. Ain't nobody been written yet that can fuck with Clarence Boddiker*. Outside of Robocop and his fellow officers, the rest of New Detroit was inhabited by horrifically unlikeable and compelling douchebags, whether they were the alpha male bottom-liners from OCP, Clarence's posse of felonious freaks (most notably Paul McCrane as Emil), or the random weirdos that dotted the Blade-Runner-Gone-Wild landscape (a hostage-taking mayor and the absurd "I'd buy that for a dollar!" guy).

I could write several thousand words about how completely awesome the original RoboCop is. But that's not what I came here to do today. I came here to heap scorn and vitriol upon the back-alley abortion that is RoboCop 3. I avoided watching this movie for 15 years because I knew in my heart of hearts that it would kill a little bit of my soul. From the trailer alone, it had 3 strikes against it: 1) No Peter Weller, 2) Rated PG-13, 3) Robocop could now fucking fly. If only the reasons I hated this move stopped at those three. What else could possibly go wrong? How about Robocop's nemesis in this film being a samurai robot THAT ONLY LOOKS LIKE A ROBOT WHEN YOU DISLOCATE ITS JAW? The rest of the time, it's just a buff Japanese dude wielding a sword. Geigh. Despite this, he somehow gives a very well-armored and armed Robocop a run for his money. If there's anything I've learned from movies (particularly Raiders of the Lost Ark), when you bring a knife to a gunfight, it is going to be a very short fight unless your name is Morpheus or Neo.

And then there's this stupid kid running around. I don't hate kids or kids movies, but this is fucking Robocop. If there are going to be kids in this movie, they need to either be murderous drug-dealing anklebiters or marauding pillaging Little Leaguers like the were in RoboCop 2. Not moppet programming geniuses who, I shit you not, make an ED-209 "loyal as a puppy." If I need to explain what an ED-209 is to you, you are not my audience and I hate you for not being angered by the fact that Robocop STROKED A KID'S FUCKING HAIR WHILE MUTTERING SOME MUMBO-JUMBO ABOUT LOVE. I would quote the line, but I wasn't paying attention because I was too busy cutting myself. I get the whole machine-with-feeling routine, but that, simply, is not how Robocop rolls.

Oddly, the one place where this movie scores, its casting, it completely squanders any opportunity to be cool. Only Rip Torn salvages his dignity, but I'm pretty sure that's because he doesn't have much, and he always plays "Rip Torn." But seriously, look at the illustrious group of character actors that litter the credits: Bradley Whitford (The West Wing), CCH Pounder (The Shield), Stephen Root (News Radio, Office Space), Daniel Von Bargen (Malcolm in the Middle, Oh Brother Where Art Thou?), and ubiquitous Japanese old guy Mako (every movie that needed a Japanese old guy). And to a person, they chewed scenery like Red Man at a gun show.

And I blame it all on Fred Dekker. This is his last listed directing credit and let us all thank Christ for that. It pains me to type that. Mr. Dekker wrote and directed one of my favorite horror movies, Night of the Creeps. But he took one of the greatest action heroes in cinema history and turned him into a flying (with visible fucking effects wires, natch) joke. Oh and did I mention that Robocop doesn't even show up for the first 15 minutes of the movie? That's not suspense, Mr. Dekker, that's hating on the audience.

So, yeah. RoboCop 3 = ass nastiness. Because I can't find a clip of the stupid wires when RoboCop flies at the end, here's a lame fight sequence between Robo and robot samurai guy. Keeping in line with the abyss of suck that surrounds this film, it of course ends 2 seconds before the aforementioned visible wire sequence which I wanted you to hate in the first place.

*Geek note: My buddy was working on a show with Kurtwood Smith and they were alone together in a trailer where my buddy was cuing Kurt's action. for the scene. So my buddy starts asking him about good directors and Kurtwood starts talking about Paul Verhoeven and how he gave him so much freedom to run with his character in Robocop and then proceeds to re-enact EVERY COOL SCENE FROM ROBOCOP with commentary on how and why he came up with his lines and actions. Geek fucking heaven.

A Likely Scenario: Lee Majors vs. Andre the Giant

2008-06-23T14:46:00.000-07:00

First of all, I have to give credit to the fine folk over at Basketbawful who dug up this gem. Sometimes you have to stretch to find A Likely Scenario; other times they just drop in your lap. Here's the set-up, per Basketbawful:

That random mention of the Six Million Dollar Man -- not to mention seeing Big Baby's beastly physique -- reminded me of the awesomest episode of any TV series ever: The one where Steve Austin fought Bigfoot. But before all you hippies start getting your panties in a bunch, don't worry. No actual Bigfoots were harmed in the making of this video. It was actually a robot Bigfoot created by space aliens to protect their secret mountain lair. And no, I'm not making that up.

It's an astounding piece of footage. First of all, I remember loving this show as a kid. Can someone please tell me why? Was I (and the rest of America) naive enough to believe that Sound Effect + Slow Motion = Bionic? Apparently, yes. Watching it with my 2008 eyes, the effects actually combine to make Lee Majors look perilously unathletic, and a tad dumb. (Note: I question neither the physical nor mental capabilities of Mr. Majors as he both married and divorced an in-her-prime Farrah Fawcett, so he obviously had the physique to capture her and the good sense to release her back into the wild where she could go crazy all by her lonesome, in front of millions.)

On the flip side, Andre the Giant as Bigfoot (take that, John C. Reilly!) looks positively spry in this clip for those of us who only remember his arthritic and oafish (yet, brilliant) performance in The Princess Bride. I like the fact that for the Sasquatch roars, they actually used his unmistakeable Dread Pirate Roberts growl.

And the dialogue! Despite the hilarity of Colonel Austin's attempts to communicate with Bigfoot, the cake-taker for best line has to be:

No, I'll still bet on the Sasaquatch.

Because what oppresive alien regime wouldn't allow wagering on mythical robot-beasts? And the actor says it with such smugness that we know it's only a matter of time before Andre the Giant Robot gets his arm torn off. Thanks for the foreshadowing, pal-o-mine!

Which brings me to the actual fight. This is as good as "so bad it's good" gets. There really aren't enough bongos or piccolos in action scores anymore. And, man, those sound effects! In addition to the trademark "Bionic Noise", we get awesome bomb sounds every time someone hits the ground. And how quaint is it that once little Stevie Austin has dismembered Sass, he lets him have his arm back. You know, instead of beating him to death with it? It's enough to make my head explode to think that at one point in our televisual history, the sight of two men, one in a Bigfoot costume, mind you, fighting in slow motion could command seven minutes of prime-time network television. SEVEN FREAKING MINUTES. That's basically a sixth of the show's running time once commercials are accounted for. And people watched this. Apparently everyone really was doing drugs in the 70s.

I love this video and only regret that I can't find the sequel: "The Bionic Man vs. A Solid Wall of Rock." (Note to alien gamblers: Don't bet on the wall.)

On Notice: The NBA

2008-06-12T16:23:00.000-07:00

Tonight is Game 4 of The NBA Finals. I can’t really say I give much of a shit anymore, aside from the fact that I love to watch a good Laker-beating. What I can’t bear to watch, however, is the beating the NBA continues to dish out with this latest wrinkle in the Tim Donaghy scandal. His Holiness David Stern would like to dismiss it as the last act of a desperate man, but I don’t care if it’s the first act of Henry V. Something is definitely rotten in the state of professional basketball. (That’s right, I’m quoting both Shakespeare and Mel Brooks in a sports blog. Peach Basket, bitches.)

The debacle that was last year’s playoffs nearly put me off the NBA entirely. I even went so far as to publicly renounce the game several times, not unlike my repeated vows to move to Australia back in 2004 if Bush were to win “another” election. Needless to say, I’m still here, and I still watched the NBA this season. But now I think I may have been pushed too far.

Sure, this is a convicted felon who’s singing like a bird for a little leniency on his impending prison sentence. But don’t they lean on criminals to get them to sing? Hasn’t this been a law enforcement tactic since the advent of the good cop/bad cop routine? Why, all of a sudden, and apparently just because the Commish says so, should we not take anything he says seriously? Don’t get me wrong, I hate Donaghy’s guts. He can piss blood and crap piss the rest of his life for all I care. But since that life is already a shambles—divorced, unemployable and mere weeks away from incarceration and an ass-pounding he so richly deserves—the poor bastard really has little left to lose. Why lie now? Donaghy probably sees himself as a whistleblower (no pun intended); Stern's portraying him as the only criminal in an otherwise just league. My guess is that, as with most extremes, the truth lies somewhere in the middle.

Whatever that truth may be, I’m betting that referee corruption is a league-wide problem, not just a Donaghy problem. Ol’ Timmy seems less and less like the rogue bad apple Stern wants him to be (a claim that reeked of stubbornly defiant horseshit from the start) and more and more like the stool pigeon he most likely is. At least that’s the pill I find easier to swallow right now, even though I still don’t like the taste. After all, I’ve loved/hated this game for more than 20 years; the last thing I want is to turn my back on it. Like a battered wife, I want to believe that the injustices I’ve suffered were only isolated incidents of poor judgment, not calculated patterns of abuse. But every year I just get more reasons to leave and fewer reasons to stay. So throw me a bone, NBA. I can only tell people I fell down the stairs for one more season.

A Likely Scenario: ZZ Top Goes Goth

2008-06-04T15:37:00.000-07:00

ZZ Top and vampires. What could possibly go wrong?

Yes, that's Fairuza Balk as the goth hottie and yes again that's worst-Bond-movie-assassin-ever Vincent Schiavelli as her... Um, I'm not sure exactly. Whatever. He's creepy.

This was about the last time we saw the longbeards on the network that killed the radio star. Some might blame this video. I might blame a 7-minute long bluesy meditation on being stuck in a relationship from the guys who gave you "Pearl Necklace", "Tube Snake Boogie", and "Legs." That might be overestimating your audience a bit.

Crapping on My Childhood: Indiana Jones and the Kingdom of the Crystal Skull

2008-05-29T15:58:00.000-07:00

WARNING: SPOILERS ABOUND BELOW. YOU'VE BEEN WARNED. THAT'S WHY IT'S CALLED A WARNING.

Indiana Jones and the Kingdom of the ~~Crystal Skull~~ Plastic Head, as it shall be referred to heretofore, is an awful, awful movie. It peaks during the opening credits (an Elvis-scored drag race) and begins a long slow spiral downward thereafter. Peach Basketeers, consider your childhood crapped on. How so? Let me count the ways:

1) Harrison Ford sucks. Maybe it’s not his fault. His performance after all resembles that of an actor forced to read every line of execrable dialogue at gunpoint. This would not surprise me, if he had not been paid something along the lines of 30 million dignity-sapping dollars to star in this flaming bag of poo. It’s not even that he’s too old to play the character of Dr. Henry Jones, Jr., anymore (he’s not). It’s that he’s too poor an actor.

2) The ~~Crystal Skull~~ Plastic Head sucks. The rumored budget for this movie was approximately $185 million. Of that, about $3.99 went towards the ARTIFACT MENTIONED IN THE TITLE. It’s a plastic bubble stuffed with cellophane. I would say it probably has a “MADE IN CHINA” label on it somewhere, but that would unfairly insult Chinese craftsmanship.

3) David Koepp sucks. It might surprise you to discover that I don’t have a big issue with the film’s underlying alien premise. In theory, I could have bought it… if Koepp had bothered to put together a remotely plausible or entertaining framework around which to build said premise. Instead, it’s a slapped-together cause-effect-plotpoint bouillabaisse. They waited 20 years to make a sequel and this is the script they approved? I hate Hollywood.

4) Steven Spielberg sucks. Remember Raiders of the Lost Ark? (If you don’t, he will hit you over your plastic head with it several times during the current installment.) If you’ll recall, Spielberg took his time unspooling the story for you. Yes, it was far-fetched. Yes, it was action-packed. But the time was taken to create a universe in which a) you believed said action was possible, and b) said action appeared to have motivated and tangible consequences. This “film” jumps – nay! – teleports from CGI action sequence to CGI action sequence with Ford and Shia LaBeouf yammering some gibberish about oxen and cities of gold in between. It’s the worst parts of Indiana Jones and the Temple of Doom crossed with the worst parts of Artificial Intelligence: AI. (That would be all of them, Stevie. You thought we’d forgotten, didn’t you? Never forget, my friend. Never forget.)

5) Cate Blanchett sucks. Just kidding. She’s actually the only thing that’s watchable for the entire running time. And hey, look, we’re hating Commies again! Awesome!

6) George Lucas sucks. Mutt, Jar-Jar. Jar-Jar, Mutt. Even Short Round thinks he’s annoying.

7) Shia LaBeouf sucks. This is not entirely his fault, anymore than it’s Warwick Davis’ fault the Ewoks sucked. He’s just entirely miscast as an unlikable 50s greaser rebel. Even Homer Simpson’s formidable powers couldn’t make Poochie a beloved character.

8) The first three movies suck. OK, not really, but believe me, you liked them all much better the first time you saw them. This is not a new movie. It is the cinematic equivalent of a clip show retrospective, complete with expository “Unfortunately, Sean Connery and Denholm Eliot couldn’t be with us tonight, but ladies and gentlemen, give a warm welcome to…”

9) “…Karen Allen” sucks. Not Karen Allen so much as her character. If this is a clip show, she’s sort of around as a “Where are they now and Jesus do they look old?” interview. (And where the fuck is John Rhys-Davies? Apparently, Sallah has moved on to greener cinematic pastures.) By she and Indy’s third fight, you’ll be rooting for the fire ants or the Commies or the deadly natives or anything on earth to kill either you or them and put you/the film out of your/its misery.

10) Aliens suck. Chris Carter can sleep well knowing that he can now only release the 2nd worst why-the-fuck-are-they-doing-this-sequel-now alien movie of the summer.

Oh, and, just because I can, whatever you do, do not click on the following very offensive (NSFW, big time) pun-based image of how you'll feel after the movie. Seriously, don't.

L.A. Story - In The Public Domain: One Bum To Rule Them All

2008-05-24T21:32:00.001-07:00

Reminder: All of these things happened in public and most of the time in broad daylight.

As a native Southern-Californian, I have seen my share of bums, hobos, vagrants and tramps. But a few weeks ago, I witnessed one of the greatest things I have ever seen. Unable to truly comprehend what I was seeing, I quickly dialed up one of my Fellow Peach Basketeers.

The following is an exact transcript:

John Waters on Safari: Dude... what is the largest number of shopping carts that you've ever seen one bum with?
Fellow Peach Basketeer: Uh, I don't know. Maybe one or two. I think I remember hearing from someone who saw a guy with four carts once. Why?
JWS: Because I am in my car right now looking at a bum with EIGHT shopping carts! This fuckin' guy has EIGHT carts! He has so much stuff it's unbelievable. I think he has more shoes than Imelda Marcos.
FPB: Whoa, whoa whoa.... first of all, bums don't have things. And secondly, you're lying. What you're describing is not possible.

(There is a short silence as I am horrified that an alleged friend and Fellow Basketeer would question my integrity while I simultaneously question my own existence.)

JWS: You're questioning me?
FPB: I am not only questioning you... I am calling you out. You're full of shit.

(Stunned, I quickly gather my thoughts. How can I possibly prove myself and earn back the trust of said Fellow Peach Basketeer?)

JWS: Wait a minute! I have a camera! I'll take some pictures and I'll email them to you as soon as I get to a computer.
FPB: You're going to take pictures of the bum?
JWS: Is visual evidence the only way that you're going to believe me?
FPB: Yes.
JWS: Then absolutely.

Behold, the greatest bum of them all:

Taken in the side-mirror of my car while driving, I captured the henceforth-dubbed Super Bum dragging five of his eight shopping carts full of goodies across traffic. Not only was each cart full, there were multiple bags full of detritus hanging outside of every cart.

It has been suggested that much like the Highlander, this Super Bum gains others bums' powers after he steals their carts. This is not a man to be crossed. In fact, he may not be a man at all. Perhaps explaining how he came to have eight shopping carts, I believe the Super Bum to be more like The Kurgan.

There can be only one!

The Gentleman Bachelor: Shallots

2008-05-22T12:40:00.000-07:00

We here at the Peach Basket all have been down the lonely road of bachelorhood. Some of us still tread it. As a service to our bachelor brethren, we would like to offer some tips on how to channel your inner Felix Unger. Much of the advice we offer here may sound gay to the uninitiated. It probably is. You know why? WOMEN LOVE GAY MEN. We promise that none of our advice will lead you down a leather-clad path of assless chaps, full body waxing or Will and Grace box sets. We just think every hombre needs a little homo in him. (OK, that was gay.)

I’m assuming a lot here, bachelor pal o’ mine. Like that you can cook. If you can’t, stop reading, learn, then come back. Need a reason? Here are three:

Cooking for the ladies is a lot cheaper than taking them out to dinner. Even Red Lobster.
Cooking for the ladies puts them in your house, or, just as good, it puts you at her house. Either way, you are much closer to a bedroom by several orders of magnitude.
If you know how to cook, you can use shallots, Mother Nature's oniontastic aphrodisiac.

What is a shallot? According to the Random House Dictionary, a shallot is:

a plant, Allium cepa aggregatum (or A. ascalonicum), related to the onion, having a divided bulb used for flavoring in cookery.

Knowing this will not help you. It has been at least one millennium since Latin helped anyone advance his carnal cause (original Romantic language, my ass). Allow me to edumucate you as to the true meaning of the shallot.

The shallot is a classy onion. The shallot is to the onion as the Aston Martin DBS is to the Chrysler Sebring. Softer, sweeter, and mellower than it’s larger cousin, the shallot turns any run-of-the-mill recipe into four-star fare. If you have a dish that you normally like to prepare with onions, substituting shallots is an acceptable way to introduce them to your culinary arsenal. More practical and more impressive, though, is to seek out a simple recipe that shows off the shallot in all its savory glory. You can find them by the bushel at Food.com, the food network’s official site, and the bachelor chef’s best friend. Bookmark it. Now!

Whether used as an ingredient or a garnish (thinly sliced and fried to a crisp, they can top just about any main course), I guarantee the shallot will impress any diner of the opposite sex. It also won’t give either of you lingering breath problems that might interfere with whatever you have planned for after dessert. (You did remember dessert, right?)

Here is a typical exchange between a Gentleman Bachelor and his date as he starts to slice shallots for their meal.

Date: What are those? They look like rosy onions.

GB: Oh, these? They’re shallots. I cook with them all the time. I had them at {insert trendy restaurant you can't afford} and thought I’d give them a shot at home. Now, I can’t believe I ever cooked without them.

Date: Wow! Fancy!

GB: Not any fancier than the champagne and strawberries I have for dessert.

Date giggles, swoons, and calls her roommate to tell her not to wait up.

The next morning, when you wake up, impress your now-overnight guest with sautéed shallots and eggs. Just don’t blame us when she asks you what’s for lunch.

Movie City Blues, Part II: Waking Up From Reality

2008-05-20T17:22:00.000-07:00

I'm in Los Angeles now. With gas money and a dream. The trappings of success are painfully visible all around me. Now I just have to help myself to a job as a...

...valet. Yup. My first 6 months in LA were spent parking rich people's cars at a fancy hotel. I was so broke at the time that I regarded a keyless remote as a status symbol (still don't have one as a matter of fact). In a town that runs on who-you-know, my uncle’s colleague’s daughter got me my first break in the biz.

The gig was as a runner for a post-production/trailer house in Burbank, an excellent entry-level job. I spent most of the day driving around the city and got to know the geography of movie industry Los Angeles pretty well. I also learned that being an office monkey is not my thing. Lunch orders, filing, tape labeling... ugh. I hated it. And, working in post was not my idea of a good time. I wanted to be on set.

Looking for the next gig wasn't any easier. At this point, I had a very tiny circle of friends. Fortunately, a couple former roommates from Tucson had moved out and they too had tiny circles of friends. One of these friends worked for a show called Paradise Hotel. I almost got hired as a "talent handler" for them. Bullet dodged. Another friend worked for a little show called Extreme Makeover: Home Edition. And at the time it was a little show. It hadn’t aired yet and no one knew what huge hit it was going to be. After a ton of pestering, I convinced them to hire me as a Production Assistant.

“Congratulations, self,” I thought, “you’re on a real live TV show.” And I was. It was a great experience. I stayed on for three full seasons, getting promoted first to Assistant Production Coordinator and then to Production Coordinator. I got paid to travel the country. I worked some hellacious hours in some even more hellacious weather. I got to be a defender of the faith for reality TV since I was on one of the "good" shows. It was a gig I could be proud of. And it got me nowhere closer to the aforementioned dream.

Neither did The Girls Next Door (awesome in its own right in that I got paid to hang out at the Playboy Mansion), Star Tomorrow (don't remember it? Neither does anybody else), or Armed and Famous (8 freezing, miserable weeks in Muncie, IN that I will never get back).

Here's why. Reality TV is its own beast. While there are some similarities between the production of a reality show and a traditional one, there's one big difference: a script, and and the shooting thereof. I wasn't learning that on reality shows, and I'm kind of a writer, so that would be a good thing to learn, no?

And so, I left behind the comfort and (sigh) comfortable paychecks of reality and struck out for the scripted world. Again, I had a very limited number of contacts there. But I got lucky, one of my former PAs was PAing all over the place and got me my first gig.

I won't recount them all here. If you want to know what I worked on you can go here for the complete list. I worked on some great shows like Weeds, and some not-so-great ones like Cavemen. I learned a shit-ton about how shows get made. The nice thing about being a PA is that you really do get to see everything. The not-so-nice thing is that you get paid minimum wage or just above it. But you can afford to live on that because you're working 75 hours a week and they're providing your meals (most of the time).

Being a production assistant also puts you on the road to becoming an assistant director. “I can make a living doing that,” I thought. I had a goal. And it was a fantastic learning experience. Being a PA, you get to see and hear it all on a set. I was in first and out last. I took pride in my long hours and dedication to the job.

Time went by. The novelty wore off.

A year and a half later, I was still looking at a good 300 days to reach the magic number of 600 to qualify for membership in the Director's Guild of America. At 24, this would not be a problem. At 34, it was troubling to think of another year and a half of brutal hours at just above minimum wage pay for the right to work another 150 days in commercials and out-of-town productions in order to become a full-fledged 2nd AD. I’d had enough of being labor in someone else’s dream.

Which brings me to the here and now and the business of getting on with the dream. Here is the dream: to make good movies, even great ones. What I realize – what I’ve learned – is that the only way to make my own movies and tell my own stories is to simply start telling those stories. And I simply did not have the time to tell those stories while accruing all my valuable industry experience. I have stepped out at the bottom hoping at some point to step back in closer to the top.

My goal is to land a 40-hour work week making enough money to pay the bills writing during in the other 35 hours I gain by leaving the industry. It’s going to be tough. A temporary agency at which I’d scheduled an appointment this morning called me to cancel the appointment. They told me my “expectations for work were too high” given my resume.

Of course, the dream doesn’t live at the temp agency. It lives in me. I just need someone to pay me while I live it.

Movie City Blues, Part I: The Dream Deferred

2008-05-19T19:55:00.000-07:00

“How are you doing today?”
“Living the dream, man, living the dream.”

It’s a pretty common exchange on most sets. Depending on inflection, it’s either a hopelessly ironic dismissal or a sincere appreciation of life in the most fabulous business on earth. Despite the misery of any given shoot day, it’s impossible to refute the fact that making movies is pretty damn cool industry to be in. I was halfway through my 3rd hour of locking up a pretty desolate parking garage in Culver City when I realized I was not, in fact, living the dream.

Here's where the dream began: some time around my birthday in 1992, I saw David Cronenberg's Naked Lunch. I had been a fan of movies prior to this point, but after seeing that film, I was a true believer. Do not ask me to defend, explain, or justify why this movie was the one that convinced me to go into the pictures (because, as Bart Simpson acutely noted, there are two things wrong with that title). Just accept it as one of those unnatural miracles like Rob Schneider's career or Cheesus. I was hooked. So, naturally, for the next 5 years, I did nothing to follow the dream, besides watch a copious number of films both big and small.

In 1997, I babystepped toward the dream. I enrolled in the Media Arts program at the University of Arizona. Let me tell you this about school: studying the dream is not following the dream. And only taking 1 course out of 50 or so that actually puts a camera in your hands is definitely not following the dream. So, let's say the dream is deferred for another 4 years. (Those 4 years weren't a complete waste of time, but suffice to say the only "vision" I realized in that time was a dubious and illegal feature-length adaptation of a science fiction bestseller and an even more dubious original horror film, neither of which I had a lot of creative input into. Like binge drinking and anonymous sex, both are fun yet woefully unfulfilling.)

I finally got a degree in 2001. Lest you think I was a good doobie and hung that "Mission Accomplished" banner on schedule, know that there were several false collegiate starts prior this go-round of academia, and if I had simply done what I was supposed to do, I could have been in and out of the U of A in less than 3 years. I am nobody's academic role model.

Next up, another furtive and misguided step toward the dream, right? Well, no. I spent the next 2 years awash in cheap wages and cheaper booze in Tucson. I had a job that afforded me just enough to pay rent and bask in the smoky comfort of any of the 15 bars I lived within walking distance of. Fuckin' sweet, dude. Not a total waste of time: I shared a wall of my duplex with a writerly type, from whom by osmosis I learned some of the discipline of what it takes to be an actual writer (not that I actually applied it. That would have been following the dream.) Also, in addition to the relationships of the typical barroom disaster variety that accumulate when one spends that much time in taverns, I managed to find a woman who not only has shared a bed with me for the last 6 years, but actually loves me, too. Not a bad haul.

It was my good fortune to get laid off in the summer of 2003. I was working at a nightclub as a sort of assistant manager/office bitch, and the Tucson leisure economy being the fickle beast it is in the hotter months, I was a cost that had to be cut. One phone call to my sister in LA was all it took to get me out of Tucson after that. I packed everything that would fit into my 1980 BMW 320i, sold the rest, and headed to Los Angeles with gas money and a dream.

Once I got to Los Angeles, I would learn the very difficult difference between living the dream and being a part of someone else's.

To be continued...

Heavy Rotation: Evan Almighty

2008-05-19T08:43:00.000-07:00

Director: Tom Shadyac, Cast: Steve Carell, Morgan Freeman, Lauren Graham, John Goodman

Ouch. This, friends, is a bad movie. My girlfriend called it “the worst movie ever”, but I’m pretty sure she hasn’t seen Toys, Jack Frost, or Shark Attack 3: Megalodon. That said, it is an amazingly bad sequel to an original that didn’t set the bar too high.

In fact, it’s not so much a less-funny sequel to Bruce Almighty than it is a less funny re-make of The Santa Clause. Same theme, same white-hair-and-a-beard gag, same spirit-withering emptiness as the final credits roll. Actually, that’s not fair. The Santa Clause had its moments, where as Evan Almighty never does. I didn’t think anyone could put Steve Carell on a screen for two hours and not inspire at least one belly laugh. Congratulations, Tom Shadyac, you proved me wrong. Not only did you prove me wrong, but you made me die a little bit inside, too. You took a cast of very funny people and made them as unfunny as possible.

Waste the two hours on this movie only if any of the following apply to you: You like Tyler Perry’s message, but not the black people he uses to deliver it; you thought the disaster effects in The Day After Tomorrow were a little too realistic for your taste; or you are a John Michael Higgins completist. Currently in rotation on HBO.

Heavy Rotation: Nowhere to Hide

2008-05-16T16:11:00.000-07:00

We here at the Peach Basket don't get out to the movies too often. We are tragically and hopelessly behind the cinematic times. However, when we do see something of note, and particularly something of note that's being shown in heavy rotation on cable, we need to share that with you. Let the Basket be your guide.

Nowhere to Hide (1999)
Director: Myung-se Lee, Cast: Joong-Hoon Park, Sung-kee Ahn, Dong-Kun Jang, Ji-Woo Choi

I don’t understand Korean films, but I’m finding out I love watching them. I caught this action oddity on TMC or Showtime the other night, about a half an hour into it. And after watching the final 2 acts, I had to go back and watch it from the beginning.

Between The Host and Nowhere to Hide, I’m beginning to think that all Korean directors are either schizophrenic or horribly indecisive. It’s as if, when deciding upon what kind of movie to make, they pull three random directors’ names out of a hat and decide to channel them. In this case, Myung-se Lee drew John Woo, Mack Sennett, and Jean-Luc Godard. Ostensibly, an action movie and police procedural, it plays more like a silly and earnest deconstruction of both. The plot is standard fare (cops chase murderer), but the execution involves the most virtuoso gear-shifting this side of Michael Schumacher.

Myung-se Lee fills every scene with genre-bending acrobatics. Fight scenes, while stylish and deliriously chaotic, are also almost pretentiously reflexive. A rooftop brawl morphs into a shadowy waltz. Jump cuts and Impressionist freeze frames accentuate, frustrate, and mock the pugilistic flow. Exciting music plays over inconsequential and tension-free bridge sequences. Station house beatings and home invasions are played for laughs (as is a footrace between a couple of chubs, in a shot that I fully intend to steal one day).

Joong Hoon-Park delivers his performance as Detective Woo as a cross between Chow Yun-Fat and John Belushi. Woo is as charismatic as violent oafs get (think Shrek crossed with Russell Crowe’s character from LA Confidential). He is simultaneously neither quite as smart as he thinks nor as dumb as he looks. He does, however, get his ass kicked an awful lot. He leads a merry band of bat, lead pipe and sword-wielding* Keystone Kops in pursuit of a fugitive killer (Sung-kee Ahn, exuding professional menace).

Despite Lee’s genre-bending acrobatics, a palpable urgency is maintained throughout the film. Joong-Hoon Park’s sly genius plays a large part in this. Like the constantly churning conventions of the film around him, his Detective Woo is defiantly unpredictable and compulsively watchable.

I’m not sure if Nowhere to Hide is an art film for action fans or an action film for the arthouse crowd. It appealed to both viewers inside me, so if you’re a fan of either, queue up the Netflix and embrace the subtitles. It’s also currently in rotation on Showtime. (You can watch the trailer here, but it doesn't really do the movie justice. The movie's a lot more fun than this lets on.)

*Apparently gun control extends even to police in South Korea. There are only two guns in the whole movie: an actual bullet-firing revolver and another that fires mace. The bullet gun is fired once in the entire film (and causes all kind of pained soul-searching by the shooter) and the mace gun gets fired willy-nilly into the eyes of criminals and their henchman. It wasn’t until my second viewing that I understood the lack of brain-splatter from all those point-blank headshots.

L.A. Story - In The Public Domain: Part One

2008-05-15T11:54:00.001-07:00

As I make my Peach Basket debut, I feel compelled to live up to the quality of the posts that precede this one.

Over the last eight years, I have worked in the television industry so I have had plenty of free time on my hands. During that time, here is just a sampling of the unique and exciting things I have been witness to on the streets of Los Angeles and Hollywood.

Reminder: All of these things happened in public and most of the time in broad daylight.

Saw a man taking a crap standing up - On the corner of Kinglsey and De Longpre in Hollywood, this man decided that he had to go and that it would not wait. Good for him. I don't think I can possibly overstate how shocking this was to watch. Why did I not avert my gaze you ask? Well, for some reason seeing a man with his pants down kinda grabs your attention. And when that man has what you think to be a tail but then it turns out to be just a really long shit coming out of his ass, that image just gets seared into your mind's eye.

Multiple instances of bums lunging at/striking random passers-by - Every time I witness a confrontation between a bum and a non-bum, it just reinforces by belief that whenever you're accosted by a bum just give him some damn change and keep walking. I don't need my obituary to read: "He was having a day just like any other day... until he ran into Hobo Joe." Just ask yourself, do you really need that dollar? The most recent instance happened on Hollywood Blvd. right in front of the Pig'n Whistle. The innocent bystander was some douchebag in a corduroy sportcoat. He probably had it coming.

Smoking hot chick picks her nose and eats it - OK, I know what you're thinking. I just finished telling you about some guy taking a dump in the middle of the street. How is picking your nose and eating it even close? Well, I'll tell you. I was driving to work one afternoon on the 101 and just as I passed the Vermont off-ramp, I spotted a gorgeous brunette in the car next to mine. Think Jessica Alba-hot. I mean, she was unbelievable. But, I was sitting down in my car and she in hers. How could I possibly tell? Dude, sometimes you just know. Anyways, I digress. We kept driving along for a few minutes as I stole occasional glances her way. She then proceeded to pick her right nostril, the one facing me. After digging out whatever was ailing her, she fucking stuck her finger in her mouth! I almost crashed my car.

I hope I have lived up to the lofty standards set by my fellow bloggers. Part Two coming soon.

Crapping On My Childhood, Part II

2008-05-14T10:23:00.000-07:00

I have really mixed feelings about this one. And it looks like it's going to happen:

Movie: Red Sonja
Director: Robert Rodriguez
Star: Rose McGowan

Now don't get me wrong. I like Robert Rodriguez. I don't even mind if he goes over the top a little. Just not Grindhouse over the top, or Sin City over the top. Ok, Sin City over the top might be cool for Red Sonja.

But Rose McGowan? She's attractive and all, but she's not Red Sonja. RS needs to be really tall, for starters. And tan. And ripped. And never have dated Marilyn Manson. She's too....pasty. I just don't see it.

Still, it's an improvement over the original casting idea. Are you ready for this? Lindsay Lohan. And yes, I am completely serious. The only reason they didn't go with her? She gets in too much trouble. That's it! Otherwise, she would have been perfect for the role.

This company could fuck up a soup sandwich.

Crapping On My Childhood, Part 1

2008-05-12T15:16:00.000-07:00

I may or may not know of a company that is planning a Conan movie. They may or may not have interviewed an actor the other day for the lead. That actor may or may not have been from AMERICAN GLADIATORS.

He was.

Please, God, Book II

2008-04-25T15:41:00.000-07:00

Now that two of my esteemed colleagues have broken the world wide ice on this e-shrine to all things whatever the hell we feel like, I feel compelled to add my own two cents. And being that it's April and I'm in Phoenix, my inaugural Basketblog shall belong to none other than my beloved/endlessly frustrating Phoenix Suns.

Let me preface this rant by saying that, much like my good friend and fellow Cubs fan Senator Bandercrombie, I too remain hopeful in the face of adversity. As it stands right now, the Suns are down 2-0 to the Godless cowfuckers known as the San Antonio Spurs, a position that is neither enviable nor encouraging. Lesser fans may fold under this kind of intense pressure-by-association, but I remain confident that my team's first NBA championship in their storied 40-year history is not lost. At least not yet.

Okay, let's start with the bad news. That Game 1 was a heartbreaker. We had a slew of opportunities to put the defending champs on their asses right out of the gate, but thanks to some critical mistakes down the stretch and more than a few Texas-sized miracles (Timmy D for 3? I feel like I'm taking crazy pills!), we blew it. My newfound optimism kept my head held high, though; it took 40 points from Duncan and 2 overtimes just to edge us out by two. As my viewing partner said after apologizing to the family I'd been offending for the last 3+ hours, nobody won that game. The Spurs just happened to be ahead when time ran out. That's bullshit, of course, because somebody did win that game, and it wasn't Phoenix. But the sentiment was nice.

Game 2 was a much different, much more infuriating story. I'll start with Boris Diaw. On any other team (like, say, a hockey one) Boris would be a great first option in critical late-game situations. But the last time I checked, Steve Nash, Amare Stoudemire and Shaquille O'Neal are all still members of the Phoenix Suns. Eligible members no less; Stat & Shaq combined for a scant 7 fouls, a virtual cause for celebration unto itself. So why the hell did we run four consecutive plays late in the fourth quarter for 3-D? To piss me off, that's why. Memo to the Suns' coaching staff: height is only an advantage if the player in question isn't a pussy. Write that down.

I'll give B-Diddy a pass on this one, though, as he was somehow out-mediocred by two--TWO!--much more integral puzzle pieces: Grant Hill and Leandro Barbosa. Going a combined 0 for 8 in 44 minutes, Mr. Glass and the Brazilian BitchTit managed to make Boris Diaw look like Wilt Chamberlain. If they continue to pull no-shows the rest of this series, we're effed. The Grant Hill injury was inevitable; the guy hasn't played a full season since he left Duke, where I'm pretty sure he pulled a calf muscle during his Psych final. But LB putting up a goose egg? Totally unexpected. And completely unacceptable.

But that's all overwith now. Tonight's a new night. And in 72 hours, this series will be all tied up, and I'll be chomping at the bit for Game 5's tip-off in San Antone. Or I'll be sobbing uncontrollably. One of the two.

Please, God

2008-04-23T16:53:00.000-07:00

My esteemed colleagues and I (originally there were four of us, but now it appears as if posting duties will be done by two) created this site to talk about L.A. life, the entertainment industry, movies, and last but certainly not least - sports. That last consisting mainly of Phoenix and Chicago sports. I will probably never post about Phoenix sports because although my friends have made me a Suns fan, my fellow contributors, er...contributor is much more highly qualified to do so. I'll stick to Chicago sports. And between February and September that means one thing: Cubs baseball. Which brings me to something divine. Something that thrills my soul. While I'm guessing most sports posts (and many other kinds as well) on this site will be for kvetching, bemoaning, ranting, and generally spouting vitriol, this one is for something else - praise.

The Cubs are rolling. If you're a Cubs fan, please don't shoot me. You must understand the trepidation with which I wrote that last sentence. My hand is shaking. I'm a Cubs fan, after all. We've spent the last 100 seasons waiting for the other shoe to drop. And why? Because for the last 100 seasons it has, that's why. You know the drill. The goat, the black cat, the...shitty playing. Something will inevitably happen to ruin it. We take this on ourselves, that's how pathetically superstitious we are. God! If I just hadn't gotten those vanity plates a couple years ago, their season wouldn't have tanked! If only I'd watched/not watched/gone to/not gone to that game! Damnit, why did I have to leave the room/continuing watching that play/wear socks today! I jinxed it! (I seriously did get some Cubs vanity plates a couple years ago about midseason and they went into a tailspin. The next year I got Dodgers plates instead and the same thing happened to them - I'm from Chicagoland but I now live across the street from Dodger stadium - it's a long story; we have all summer).

I'm just as guilty of this as anybody else. Why else would I actually change my license plates? But this year is different. No, no, not in the way we've been saying "this year is different" for the last 100 years. I mean in my attitude. I've decided to let go of my superstitious ways. I've realized the Cubs are gonna have to do it no matter what license plates I have on my car, dammit. That's just how it's got to be. Admittedly, this thinking falls short of completely letting go of superstition - I'm saying they'll have to do it in spite of my plates, not that my plates have nothing to do with it. Baby steps, ok? I'll get there.

I have reached a certain zen-like state about it this year. I don't know what it is. Maybe I got tired of stressing. Maybe it's just time. Maybe it's because 100 is a good, round number. But so far so good. The Cubs are causing people to say their team name and utter the phrase "high powered offense" in the same sentence! They're 7-1 at home, and have won 5 in a row. In that last home stand they've averaged over 8 runs per game. I don't want to get ahead of myself, but this feels really, really good. I've asked a beautiful girl to go to the prom with me, and she said yes! Normally the Cubs fan in me would start thinking about when she's gonna dump me. I'm not doing that this year. I deserve to go to the prom. She likes me....she likes me....she likes me....

Of course, if I post this and they get their asses handed to them in Colorado tonight, it may be a minor setback to my optimism. I may have to rethink starting a frequent blog this particular year. NO! That's the old way. We're not doing that anymore. Like Beck says in Loser, "Things are gonna change, I can feel it."

So thank you, Cubs. Thank you for playing well thus far.

Thank you Ronny Cedeno, who I badmouthed all last year and all of 2008 spring training, and asked my television screen repeatedly why in God's name you were on this team. Thank you for your RBI double yesterday and your first (of many) grand slams. And please accept my most humble apologies.

Thank you Ted Lilly who I called a choke artist up until yesterday. You're 1-3 so I'm not going to apologize yet. But you've taken a step in the right direction.

Thank you Big Z for not going 0-4 this April.

And most of all, thank you all for giving me

Wildly Popular "Iron Man" Trailer To Be Adapted

2008-04-22T15:25:00.000-07:00

I work in the film industry. I grew up watching movies and tv, and as such I've never had an original thought in my life. In celebration of that, I thought I'd make my first contribution to PB something directly ripped off from the Onion. I didn't say I didn't have good taste.

Wildly Popular 'Iron Man' Trailer To Be Adapted Into Full-Length Film

An Unlikely Scenario - Rio Bravo: My Rifle, My Pony, and Me

2008-04-11T16:55:00.000-07:00

I was never a big fan of the singing cowboy. I've always liked my Westerns lean and relatively mean a la Clint Eastwood, Sergio Leone, or The Gunfighter. But when that singing cowboy is Dean Martin? In a Howard Hawks film? Well, that's downright sublime.

Unemployment Benefits: The AM BM

2008-04-09T12:18:00.000-07:00

I work freelance in film and television as a production assistant. As such, I tend to spend vast swaths of the year (8 weeks or so) gainfully unemployed. Since I’m not drawing a paycheck during these times, it’s best to take what solace I can from the free time it affords me.

I am a morning shitter. My best dumps are routinely taken about an hour after I get out of bed, after my first cigarette and between my first and second cups of coffee. They are generally large deposits, made quickly and healthily.

Unemployment grants me the freedom to take my morning constitutional in the privacy and comfort of my own home. The importance and joy of this occasion cannot be spoken of highly enough. While on a set, such business is relegated to confines of porta-Johns, cramped stalls at the back of a trailer, or in the hustle and bustle of studio restrooms that see more traffic than the 101 at rush hour. Out of necessity I have overcome any public shit shame I may have had, but I believe that defecating, particularly at the start of one’s day, is akin to meditation or a morning prayer, and best done in solitude.

At home, in the quiet, friendly confines of our cozy lavatory, I can relax. The deuces dropped in public restrooms tend to be hurried affairs, messy and unkempt, unlike their much more solid and comely home-brewed brethren. They are hopelessly interrupted by squawks on the radio, noises from the next stall, or the knowledge that that one annoying grip saw me enter the stall, and if I don’t hold it in until he leaves, he will share with the crew that, yes as a matter of fact, something did crawl up my ass and die. There is no judgment in the privacy of one’s own water closet.

And what of reading material? At home, novels and subscriptions abound to pass the time till my legs go tingly. Out there, I have only my mobile phone’s occasionally tenuous connection to the internet to keep me entertained, and the erratic load times and data network availability do not jibe with the metronomic rhythms of my sphincter.

Ah, yes, the sphincter. During a good AM BM, the colon’s governor should be as lithe and powerful as a well-yogaed abdomen: firmly holding everything in place, yet flexible enough to allow one’s waste to pass unobstructed. When deprived of the tranquility required for a diurnal defecation, it is common to experience fits and starts in the anal region, as if somehow one’s ass has contracted anal-expressive Tourette syndrome.

Finally, at shit’s end, one is sadly forced to take potluck with the elements of post-excretal rites. I myself am a 2-ply man. I appreciate the dry familiar abrasion of well-constructed bathroom tissue against my soiled derriere (You can keep your moist wipes, thank you very much!). I simply cannot abide the shoddily crafted roughness or fragility of the single ply garbage so often found on the rolls of the public restroom. And, for the love of God, is warm water and a freshly stocked paper towel roll too much to ask for? The only thing worse than an unsatisfying crap is capping the trip to the crapper with cold hands that must be forced to drip-dry afterwards due to a lack of aforementioned drying material.

So it is with bated breath that I await these stretches of fiscal drought. For though I know my coffers may soon be empty, so will my bowels, and I will start my days feeling as clean and vacuous as the bowl I have just defiled.