Thursday, July 31, 2008

Rock Me Sexy Jesus

Let's start planning the drunken opening night screening of Hamlet 2 right now. Me and Black Nathan wasted. And you. Early August, people. Steve Coogan's crotch grab is inspired.

Wednesday, July 30, 2008

On this Tween Mormon Vampire Bullshit Fad

I really hope Stephanie Meyers gets cancer. No, that is not a joke. There is no punchline there. I wish nothing but ill fate on the bitch and hope her and her shitty teen fiction lame ass writings (note: before I ever call another writer out, I at least graze their shit to see if there is any potential. I've been more than fair with this cunt and she is worse than James Frey) will go away forever.
But, that exposes the fallacy of hope. It's nothing more than a penny dropped in the mall fountain and will remain in that state until some bum scoops it up or nature takes its course.
When I first started slinging self help and bestseller novels about 9 months ago, I still had some bit of faith in the reading habits of America. I can't figure out why but I always thought that human beings would actually read, in general, for substance or understanding instead of just trash novel reads on vacation. Sure, those would obviously be included in the diet but I had naively believed that avid readers balanced out the bacon with spinach. I was so fucking wrong.
I could continue that tangent well into eternity (if you even ask me to look at The Last Lecture, fuck you. The inevitability of death is not a unique experience. Even when it is premature. There has to be some heavy narcissim dwelling deep inside you to feel the need to tell everyone else who doesn't know when they'll shove off how to live and what to prioritize. Fuck you for feeling like the only expert on the subject. And for profiting off of the damaged human beings clinging to the last thread of hope that their dreams will come true if they only pursue them. They probably won't and "living everyday to the fullest" and other such Hallmark dribble is only going to hinder their enjoyment of existence with blind faith in miracles) but instead will lend my current frustrations to the teen lit resurgance that has even adult authors like James Patterson and Nick Hornby (et tu, music nazi?) joining the frey. Fuck, even Dr. Frank from the Mr. T. Experience is horning in on the racket.
It's easy to say that Harry Potter was the first big bang in this universe. And it's probably right. College students at Ivy League universities fucking pretend to play Quidditch for christ's sakes. It's not like the genre had ever been without depth or merit (The Outsiders, The Wave, Roal Dahl, etc.), rather, it had just never been the sure shot it has now become. There will always be sales for Louise Sachar books but no one past 10 will be reading them. That is what J.K. Rowling accomplished. And now, the genre is pot-bellied with authors who generally work in adult realms (et tu, music nazi?) simply because it is a fucking goldmine. Enter Stephanie Meyers who is now being hailed as the next Rowling.
There are multiple problems with this assesment. First, Rowling was a struggling single mom who was living off the government before she got uber-rich. Meyers daddy was a fucking CFO. And, hey, I'm no Potter fan or anything, but there is actual depth and real life implications to the series of novels. Rowling wrote from personal, jubilliant and painful experiences whereas the Tween Mormon Vamp Queen had a dream and decided to type it all out. While she was a stay at home mom in a palacial estate. And while Rowling has a tendency to become very distracted at times, at least she can write. Meyer can barely punch out vacant teen dialogue into her iMac. Seriously, the bitch is that bad.
Now, I can excuse and ignore bad writers. Have you ever heard me rant about Clive Cussler or Danielle Steele? My problem is with PRETENTIOUS bad writers. Those who feel they have actually contributed something valuable to the world by doling out trash. Lisi Harrison's Clique series is pretty much Sex and the City for girls who just got their period but you never hear her talk about the struggle to create, the intense depth of her stories (probably, because she knows there is none) and the unique ability to type shit out and have it printed on paper. Meyer does all that and so much more. My favorite quote, "If you say, 'I"m gonna write a novel,' you never will. You just have to sit down and write it." Great insight, cunt. However, some of us can't stay at home all day and dream up high school fantasies out of boredom and have the time and financial resources to devote to finding some schmuck to publish the fucking thing. Celine was never offered that luxury, neither was Kerouac or Bukowski. They all had to balance art with meticulous, soul crushing brain dead work and while they may have pissed away their considerable talents on booze and excess, they were still able to write circles around your overprivelaged ass.
The video interviews we play on TV at work are so mind numbingly dull, self-infatuated bullshit, over explained horse shit it makes me wonder how people don't pick up on how lame her whole scene really is. After all, it is nothing but a Harlequin romance novel for 14 year old girls without the fucking. It just so happens to factor in vampires and werewolves to spice it up, and make seem not so bland, is my guess.
And the most frustrating thing about it all is Meyer's lack of respect for the mythology of the creatures she is writing about. Look, vamps are a sad, tired sub-genre on the horror scene (zombies are next) but if you're going to utilize the group at least follow the rules. In the Twilight universe, vampires can walk around in the sun and only glisten. What the fuck? Oh, and the good ones eat animals not people and blah blah blah. It's just too retarded to type out.
Pop culture fads come and go and this one might head into the realm of the forgotten as well, but something tells me that just ain't so. Aside from the undeserving celbrity, wealth and accolades handed to a talentless hack it serves another blow to people actually trying to make art or literature mean something. Or at least offer a little more insight into the human condition away from youthful lustings. I'm more angered and disgusted with the whole Twilight phenomenom that Miley Cyrus (oh yeah, that rant is coming) thing because tween music is an obvious sell. Getting kids to read for fun is a lot more difficult. Well, the whole teen lit shabang has changed that but just because a kid is reading is not enough to justify the trash they consume. We offer our kids McDonald's, they get addicted, become obese and die early. Introduce something like lobster or even fucking a quiche from La Maddeline and their tounge gets curious. It wants to experience more of the awesome flavors coating the receptors. It yearns for and experience like the first that awakened their dormant senses. The kid learns to try more, experience all it can in order to replicate that initial, awesome encounter. The brain, and moreover, literature have the same impact. All Meyer has done is force more health threatening, non-nutritional, grade-Z circus meat down our throats.
Will the next Joyce, Acker or Hemmingway be spawned from the Twilight series? Likely not. And we are all the worse off because of it.

Saturday, July 26, 2008

8Bit Knocked My Sister Up. REJOICE!

First off, I would've posted this info a few days ago but a power surger fucked my motherboard and I've been disconnected from the online world since Wednesday. I actually read a book and jerked off using only my imagination!
Anyhoo, I get off work and head to my locker to grab my backpack and clock out, check my phone and see a text message from my sister in my inbox and open it. It reads: "Be sure to tell the Dead Kennedy he can come on Saturday. Oh, and I'm pregnant!"
My instincts allow me to do one thing. Yell, "HOLY SHIT!" at the top of my lungs resulting in my fellow employees rushing to the break room to see if I am alright. Oh yes, I am.
I'm gonna be an uncle but more important, 8Bit is gonna be a dad. And A. Bitch (Chris, this was to be her pen name when she was gonna write for the zine so don't get raw) is gonna be a mom. Black Nathan has already said he will write a plea to 8Bit to not allow myself or my father to turn the kid into a Yanks or Sox fan. I could really care less right now since I'm so stoked to be an uncle. Even more stoked that my family will be welcoming another life into the clan.
This rules even more than A-Rod getting drilled in the wrist by the Red Sox today.
I wish the kid and the parents all the best and can only promise one thing for the still developing fetus:
1. You will not share my sister's musical taste. 8Bit will probably back me on this. The Indigo Girls fucking suck. We're gonna pump some Flogging Molly and Dropkick Murphys via headphone over my sis's gut!
Congratulations to two of the most important people in my life. Now when the grandparents start beefing on who gets to lavish attention on the kid the most, I'm stepping back. It's gonna be like the wedding trip and the near arm-wrestling challenge duels over who was picking up the bill except a child is involved this time. To quote Will Smith, "Shit just got real."

Monday, July 7, 2008

Oh, Lord, No! The Children Will Never Get to Experience the SUCK in Person!

There are times when you know Hollywood is really bankrupt for ideas. Don't look to latching onto the manga craze, graphic novel hype or even the horror remake train for signs of the creative apocalypse. Shit those two dushbags (see earlier Clemens post for clarification) who churn out the (Blank) Movie debacles every few months don't even begin to scratch the surface.
Nope, my friends, it's ABBA. Yes, that ABBA. And while I would like to blame Sweden as a whole for this one, my undying love for the Hellacopters precludes that. So, awhile back these Eurovision pop star contest winners (think 70's disco American Idol) penned a musical called "Mamma Mia!" and the coked up pre-Patrick Bateman's of the world ate it up. And then Robert Palmer happened and ABBA faded away only to (fuck, I'm just speculating here because I step back from this whole piece I realize the utter ridiculousness of it all) ride the nostalgia wave when Ace of Base taught a new generation that Swedish dance music sucked balls.
Now, we have a cinematic adaptation of the musical on the horizon and it looks like The Killers have finally gotten their wish: disco shall roar back. Wow.
You have to realize how fucking long and insane of a process it is to not just get a film made but to get off the ground at all, no matter what the existing fanbase or rights statuses are. Pitch meetings, director meetings, screenwriter meetings, script drafts, approvals, re-writes, casting, territorial pissings, more re-writes, casting shuffles, pre-marketing hype, and scores of other tasks before there is even a fucking start date for principal photography. Let's forget about post, and filming...a motherfucking ABBA musical got through all that bureaucratic bullshit with a massive budget over...fuck...I dunno, ANYTHING!
It's not like an error this egregious hasn't happened before. Remember Xanadu? If you didn't have an older sister obsessed with Olivia Newton John after Grease then I will refresh. OLJ as a Greek muse sent to inspire Swan from the Warriors at a roller disco, with Gene Kelly presumably making a pre-death cash grab for this estate set to some of the most horrendous 80's music known to man. Hey, if you're a sadist there's a deluxe DVD of the fucker out there now. Just knowing that haunts my dreams.
Still, we get a silver lining in this tomb filled with shit.
From the UK Telegraph:
In an interview with the Sunday Telegraph Bjorn Ulvaeus and Benny Andersson, who wrote most of the group’s hits, said there was nothing that could entice them back on stage.
“We will never appear on stage again,” says Ulvaeus. “There is simply no motivation to re-group. Money is not a factor and we would like people to remember us as we were."
I'd like to remeber that Lester Bangs never wore an ABBA shirt. Oh, and "Waterloo."

Thursday, July 3, 2008

On the Eve Before July 4th, THIS Will Make You Proud to Be an American

Look, I've got nothing against middle-aged cross-dressing pop stars. I, for one, think Gary Glitter doing a tour with Hannah Montana would be nothing short of exhilirating. But, Boy George? Really, people? Has our nostalgia for the shitty pop anthemns of our youth led us to actually caring about experiencing "Do You Really Want to Hurt Me?" with similar, disaffected, mired in mid-life crisis, losers? Thankfully, good ol' Uncle Sam stepped in to save you all from blowing 100 bucks at the local mid-level venue.
The Culture Club singer, whose given name is George O'Dowd, has canceled his summer plans after U.S. authorities denied him a visa to enter the country.
O'Dowd, 47, had planned to officially kick off his 25-city tour in Aspen, Colo., on July 10, and was to throw in a free concert at the New York City Department of Sanitation's Family Day in August. He worked for the department in 2006 while performing court-ordered community service in a drug case.
That didn't appear possible, though, when last week O'Dowd's managers issued a statement saying he had been refused a visa because he's awaiting trial in London on charges that he falsely imprisoned a man. The Sun newspaper reported in April that a 28-year-old man claimed he was chained and threatened at O'Dowd's London flat, where he had gone to work as a photo model.

America! FUCK YEAH! Wait, what the fuck was that? He chained some dude up in a (assumedly) S & M torture dungeon? Whoah! Maybe he and Gary need to hit the road together instead! The chronicles of that debauchery would be epic. And maybe, just for old times sake, Boy George could stop by to fuck Gavin Rossdale in front of Gwen Steffani while "Holla Back Girl" is playing in the background. Sweet titty fucking christ, I think I just wrote David Lynch's next movie! Shit. I just gotta figure out how to wedge in a midget and a Kyle MacLachlan ass shot in there.
Seriously, if there is anyone who was from the UK, came to prominence in the 80's and like crossing genders I could give two shits about if they toured again, it would be Genesis P. Orridge. That shit needs to happen.

Jay Debauchery Finally Has Career Ambitions

Yeah, I've delivered pizzas, booked shows, worked security, tended bar, ran a deli, served food to ungratefull fat fucks, schlepped beer up and down stairways, occasionally have been paid to write, sold snacks at a swim club, sold books and cd's to Euro-trash douchebags along with scores of other meaningless, menial jobs. I like to think if I had saved every piece of apparrel from my jobs I'd have a nice little bulletin board like Wanye Campbell.
But, now, I have realized what I truly want to commit my life to. Help me reach this dream, brothers and sisters!

Maybe It's Time for the Roidcket to Give Up the Ghost

Yeesh, what a clusterfuck this has become for Roger Clemens. He uses all his celebrity, professional respect and political connects to maintain his status as the greatest pitcher of his generation, sure fire first ballot hall of famer and a respectable family man and he ends up grasping nothing but air.
First there was the whole Grimsley debacle, then the Mitchell Report, and then his bro-mantic relationship with McNamee became forever tarnished. Then it all died down for a bit only to have the story about his prediliction for tween country singers fire it all up again. And now this.
Tests of syringes and other steroid paraphernalia that trainer Brian McNamee submitted to federal agents will test positive for Roger Clemens' DNA, according to a brief filed in court by McNamee's lawyers.
Do you think Rusty Hardin gives refunds? You have to believe that Clemens went to the old blow-hard with the utmost confidence that he could get him off the hook. However, the client calls the shots and I'm starting to wonder if Hardin hadn't tried to talk 22 off the ledge. Maybe if Clemens had listened to him or pulled a Pettitte this shit would've been glossed over real quick. I wonder if this is now the most dramatic thing Suzyn Waldman has EVAH seen?
This has gone from a "just fucking admit it and take your lickings you fucking dolt" to a hysterically absurd near farce of stupidity to watching a man's life crumble before your eyes.
If it were anyone else but Clemens, I might feel the slight twang of sympathy but, fuck him. What's really interesting is how sports stars can commit the most horrible acts and boucne back, more or less, unscathed. You think O.J. Simpsons has been sans pussy since he killed his ex-wife? Michael Vick is sure to play in the NFL again, Julio Lugo still has employment after beating his wife and odds are that Shawn Chacone will end up getting signed post All-Star break after choke-slamming his boss.
But, you let another guy stick something in your ass to save your rapidly waning career and you are instantly a pariah. It's funny how we want purity from our atheletes only on the field. Just think about how many racist motherfuckers are in the Hall of Fame to date (Jeff Kent probably won't make it, but let's not rule anything out, oh, and Bonds? That's a negatory, Ghost Writer) and ask yourself if Clemens really deserves the Pete Rose treatment.
Well, just like Rose, the Roidcket did it to himself. Tried to blame everyone else (even his fucking wife for christsakes!) but himself and figured his legendary stature in the game would carry him through the fire. Didn't work out that way, did it, sport? Maybe you should've listened to your momma and never "gotten in a pissing contest with a skunk."
Enjoy the Mark McGwire Sad Seclusion Lifestyle, dickhead.