Molly Ivins 1944-2007

First Ann Richards and now Molly Ivans.... The landscape of Texas Liberals (i.e. The Good 'Uns) is looking mighty sparse these days. Proud to say I got to hear her speak once; it was as funny, as fiery and as full of wonderfully right-headed ideas as one would imagine. Rest in peace, Ms. Ivins. You made my state a better place.

Plugging For Friends

See more work from Braden Walker, my nominee for The President of Comics, at Lazer Canyon. He turned the world on with a smile! And some comics!

Over My Meh

I'm officially over wallowing in self-pity. I'm still not thrilled with my financial status, of course, but I'm no longer letting it weigh me down with it's excess baggage of sad frowns and "poor me" declarations.

Now it's on to phase two: Fixin' My Broke-Assedness!

Yep. Gonna turn this whole mess around.

Probably going to do it pretty soon.

Well, you know, soonish.

Eh, maybe later.

Oh the bright side, while applying for some paid medical research trials, I discovered that neither my insomnia nor my acid reflux are bad enough to warrant my inclusion in their studies. Sure, it won't make me any money, but it's nice to know I'm not physically broken on top of everything else.

Meh

I got paid today and, somehow, I'm still totally broke. Not particularly thrilled about that fact and, at the moment, not really in the mood to do anything other than wallow in a large trough of self-pity while pretending to work. It will pass, sooner or later (the self-pity, not the pretending to work; that's eternal), but for right now... I'm feeling very, very meh.

That doesn't mean you have to be, of course. Here's a peppy song to make you feel awesome:



Oh, and if anyone knows a quick way to make a few bucks that doesn't involve selling either rock or my sweet, sweet ass, feel free to let me know. I've reached the "Probably going to start looking for a part-time job" stage of my financial woes and anything I can do to stave off that inevitability would be most appreciated. I'm thinking here about product testing, medical research, that sort of thing... nothing too labor intensive (I'm weak) and nothing that's outside of the 5 burroughs (I don't travel well).

Gift Idea

If anyone is thinking of getting a Valentine's Day present for a loved one or for their favorite blogger (ahem...), I think I might be able to point you in the right direction:

Kangaroo-Scrotum Bottle Opener



Yep, it's kangaroo balls that can open up a frosty bottle of beer. Honestly, I wasn't even aware that I was in the market for such a thing. And yet here we are. Oh, and if you find this morally repugnant or offensive in any way, I understand. However, I think I can clear it up for you: It's balls. That open beer.

There. I knew you'd see it my way.

The full story behind the invention of this ingenious product, plus how to order one for yourself or your favorite blogger (ahem...) can be found here, via Liquor Snob.

Contrived On The Sunset Strip

I have, up until now, been firmly in the "Fan" camp of Aaron Sorkin's Studio 60 on the Sunset Strip. I even dropped some of my Award-Winning Critique on the pilot, which, should you care to read, can be found here. Through the preachiness, through the smugness, through the pretending that sketch comedy was the most important thing in the entire world ever, I've remained a true and faithful viewer.

Last night, my faith was tested. Big. Time. For the first time in my history as an Aaron Sorkin fan (and it's been a long and storied history, to be sure), I was confronted by something that, before last night, I'd have never thought could possibly spring forth from the man's keyboard. It's name: Lazy Writing. We're talking 80's sitcom levels of Lazy Writing here. Family Matters and Perfect Strangers, that type of stuff.

The Evidence:

-Two characters accidentally locked themselves outside on the studio's roof. They were, of course, having a bit of a spat beforehand, so now it's all awkward.

-A snake was accidentally let loose in the studio. And wouldn't you know it, one of the characters is afraid of snakes! Zoinks! Not a s-s-s-snaaaake!!!

-A character has to back out of a first date for a perfectly logical reason. So, naturally, instead of just... you know... explaining the situation to her, he lies about his plans and gets busted. And there's Drama!

And these weren't background stories to the main plot; these were the main plot (or at least big chunks of it)! Now, granted, this was one episode in a string of top-notch television and one bad show does not a crappy series make, no matter what. Still, it was disillusioning, to say the least; kind of like watching your minister fuck up the Lord's Prayer and start swearing. Or like accidentally walking in on a supermodel taking a dump.

That unimpeachable guise of perfection is shattered. And now I'm sad.

"Kiss Me Deadly" by Lita Ford

I'm working the "West Coast" shift at the office tonight, so I'm going to back to sleep for a couple of hours (I got up at 7am to see my girlfriend off to work with a kiss and a "Your outfit looks awesome" because I'm in the running for Best Boyfriend Ever and I'm trying to shore up votes). While I sleep, I hope you don't mind, and it's not that I don't think you're old enough, but I've hired a babysitter. A hot babysitter. The kind of babysitter that's so hot, she influences your sexual preferences for the rest of your life, whether you're aware of it or not. Her name's Lita and you need to be on your best behavior. Remember who you are...



See if she'll let you take a sip of her beer. I bet she totally will.

I Should Be On Television

I came to a pretty momentous decision this weekend and I want to share it with all of you, my pleasant-smelling and almost unfairly attractive readers. After much soul-searching, a fair stretch of meditation and a long bout of drinking Bushmill's straight from the bottle while curled up in the bathtub, I have decided that I, Clinton Davis, need to be on television. "But C-Dog, you're lumpy and coarse, with a face like whiskery pizza dough. How can you be on the tube without making America's collective gorge rise in its throat?" Well, the fact of the matter is, you don't have to be all that attractive to star in your own program. Two words: Dennis Franz. That guy looked like a plumber and he won Emmys. Besides, clearly I've got the required chops. Here's me conveying an emotion:



If you guessed that I was being "coquettish," you're correct! I'd also have accepted "dying from the Typhoid."

At any rate, with this idea in mind, I've decided to get proactive. I know how hard it is to break into the biz, so I'm going to use this space to point out which shows I should be a part of and, of course, provide some helpful casting suggestions with regards to the roles for which I'd be perfect. Because who knows an actor better than himself? Nobody, that's who. So, to it then:

Shows That I Would Be Excellent On

Lost - I know they've got a pretty tight cast dynamic right now, which is one of the reasons we love the show so much, but what they don't have is a wisecracking kid from the streets who's been around the block a few times and knows which side his bread is buttered on. I'd play T.J. McSweet and I'd be discovered among the wreckage of another plane crash where I was the only survivor, along with a bunch of professional bikini models. My knowledge of unique slang and my ability to "hustle" would prove invaluable; I foresee a gripping story arc where I attempt to sell The Others a boosted car stereo while simultaneously keeping a floating craps game up and running right under the noses of Locke and Jack.

Desperate Housewives - Easy. I'd be the first Desperate HouseHUSBAND!!! I'd have an air of mystery around me, naturally, and eventually my secret past as a millionaire playboy would be uncovered by Eva Longoria's character after we had a steamy, passionate affair that came with a parental advisory warning. I imagine the producers would want a lot of long, lingering shots of me on the front lawn, all sweaty from mowing, taking my shirt off in slow-motion. I'd be happy to oblige, of course.

ER - I'd be a perfect for this show if for no other reason than I'm often told that I look exactly like George Clooney if he were hit repeatedly in the face with an aluminum baseball bat. I could be the newest hotshot, super-doc who's a bit of a bad boy but really has a heart of solid gold. Because he was an orphan. They'll probably want to write in a showy drug problem for me, which would be awesome; I can already envision the episode that'll win me the Emmy: I've just finished shooting up heroin between my toes when a thirty-car pile up forces me into action. Can you even fathom how bad ass my acting will be as I save a bunch of school kids from being blown up in a bus while I'm riding the dragon known as Sweet Lady H? Man, that Emmy's going to look tight on my bookshelf.

House - I'm not really familiar with this show, but I do know it's popular, which means that it'd be perfect for my particular brand of acting skills. I'd play bright-eyed idealist Jimmy, an up-and-comer in the real estate game. I'd help the lead guy, the British one, sell houses and basically be Robin to his Batman. In a non-gay way, of course. No, actually, "gay" is in right now. I'd be his sidekick/lover and he teach me all he knows about how to sell a house in this crazy renters-market world. I don't know how much mileage this show's going to be able to get out of this whole real estate-drama thing, so I should probably have a drug problem on this show too, just to keep it lively.

CSI - I'd be a pretty spectacular corpse, got to say.

Law & Order: SVU - I can also play a molested corpse. I'm way versatile.

24 - Jack Bauer walks into CTU and gets the attention of everyone. He speaks: "I'd like to introduce you all to my new partner, Special Agent Radly McCool. He's an expert in martial arts, he knows how to kill a man forty different ways with a ballpoint pen, and he's one hell of a ladies man. He's already had lots of edgy, boundary-pushing sex with my daughter, who's just smokin' hot. Anyway, here he is, parachuting in through the skylight while fist fighting a Nazi or whoever we're fighting this go around!!! Agent McCool, you're better than me!!!"

Heroes - Do they already have a Superman on that show? Because if not, I'd be an awesome Superman. As a bonus, I already own the tights.

Lost Weekend

I was going to post this weekend but... meh. Never before, and hopefully never again, has one man been cut down by lethargy and nappishness as I was these last couple of days.

Here's what I did this weekend, en toto:

1. Ate cheese dip
2. Drank a large quantity of cheapo Hollandia beer
3. Had lunch with my friend Lisa
3. Watched Clerks 2 (suprisingly funny!)
4. Watched endless reruns of Dirty Jobs
5. Watched television, a lot of it, in general
6. Showered, once, I think
7. Went "meh" 6,492 times

And there you have it. Don't you wish you had an exciting, go-go life like mine? Of course you do. Anyway... meh.

A Funny For Your Friday

This has been floating around for a while now but, whatever, I just discovered it and it's hilarious:



Happy Weekend, kids! Time to start a-drinkin'!

Sad Kid

I went shopping yesterday with a friend of mine, Amy, because it was our lunch hour and I didn't have anything in particular to do with my allotted time. I hate shopping normally, but, as the alternative was sitting at my desk and clicking the refresh button on my Inbox while feeling overwhelmingly unpopular, I opted to tag along in the interest of my own mental health. So we headed down from Midtown to the Union Square area; she bought shirts, and I skulked around the store scowling at the hipster clerks and trying to puzzle out why anyone would pay 80$ for a pair of jeans with holes in them.

After her stuff had been appropriately paid for and bagged, we made our way back to the subway, down to the platform, and that's where we met him: Sad Kid.

As we stood there, waiting on the F train and discussing how Norbit (who's poster was right behind us) might be the worst movie ever made outside of a Malaysian snuff film, I was tapped on the shoulder. I turned, muscles tensed, fists clenched, ready to defend Amy and I from a mugger's attack or, if he were larger than I, ready to shove Amy into whatever shiv he might be clutching so that I had a few minutes head start. But it wasn't a mugger. It was a short, roly-poly kid, no more than eighteen or nineteen, in a beat-up windbreaker and wire-rimmed glasses. He looked embarrassed in that "just shat myself" kind of way and the conversation we had went exactly like this:

Sad Kid: (meekly) Does the F train stop at 53rd street?
Me: Oh, no... just wait here for the V train.
Sad Kid: Okay... cool... thanks.
Me: No problem.
Sad Kid: That's kind of what I thought.
Me: Okay then.
(I began to turn back to Amy because I'd just thought of some particularly cutting remarks to make about Norbit, when...)
Sad Kid: Boy, it sure is a lot different from Tampa.
(I turn back)
Me: Hmm?
Sad Kid: I said it's sure different here from Tampa. That's where I'm from. Tampa.
Me: (sensing what's coming and trying to end it before I get sucked in) Yeah.
(I quickly turn back to Amy, my eyes screaming)
Sad Kid: (this is delivered almost entirely to the back of my head) I'm here to pursue my acting career. Yeah... I want to be actor. I know it's cliched but I'm really good. I think. It sure is hard getting used to a city like New York when you're from a place like Tampa. Really cold here. I sure wish I could move back to Tampa for the winter. I bet it's warm there right now. Warmer than here.
(At this point, Amy joins the fray)
Amy: I used to live in Florida. It's warm there.
Sad Kid: It sure is, man, I miss it so much. But you gotta be in New York if you want to be an actor. Gotta follow your dream, you know.
Amy: Yep.
(I'm glaring into the tunnel, trying to will the F train to come with my mind. Miraculously, or because I have heretofore unknown special powers, it does)
Sad Kid: Oh is this the train I need? Are you guys getting on this one?
Me: (a near-yelp) No! This is our... this isn't the train you need. Wait here. Wait. Here.
Sad Kid: (a heart-breaking amount of dejection in his voice) Oh. Okay. Thanks for your help.
(The train pulls in and it's doors open)
Sad Kid: See you guys around.
Amy: (sincerely, because she's a better person than me) Take care.
(I say nothing and don't look at him. Amy hits me and tells me I'm awful.)

Well what would you do? I'm not a mean person by any stretch; a little thoughtless sometimes, and a case could certainly be made that I've got the Only-Child syndrome known as AAM (All About Me), but otherwise I'm a total softy. I felt for Sad Kid. Really. I have walked more than my fair share of miles in Sad Kid's scuffed Nikes and know what it's like to be somewhere imposing all alone. Remember, within a span of two years, I moved to New York and to Los Angeles by myself, not knowing a soul in either city. There were a lot of nights spent in still-unfamiliar apartments, drinking alone, watching Comedy Central and eating McDonalds because they were at least things that I knew. And maybe that's the reason that I couldn't look him in the eye; why I literally turned my back on him. It's kind of like a guy who's dieted for years, beaten his body into shape with exercise and discipline, being stuck in an elevator with a morbidly obese person who's eating a jumbo meatball hoagie. That glimpse of your own past is terrifying; that tight-chested feeling of "God, don't let it get that bad for me again."

Now, yes, I didn't have to be such a dickwad to him. Recognized. And I, naturally, feel like crap about it. But also, I'm kind of mad at Sad Kid. I want to shake him hard, tell him that while it's okay to move to a strange city and follow your dreams (hello, that's 60% of NYC's population), it's most decidedly not okay to start telling your life story to strangers on subway platforms. A lack of street smarts like that is enough to get you talked out of your wallet, or worse. I want to tell him to wise the fuck up, kid, because it may hurt like hell to be only with yourself in this intimidating place, but that it won't last forever. It just won't. But you can't force it. You don't make friends while waiting for a train in this town. Just the way it goes.

Anyway, I hope that he does all right for himself. I really do. I hope that Sad Kid turns around one day and suddenly is Happy Kid. And I swear I won't be such a chickenshit next time, should our paths happen to cross again. That means I'll at least look at him; I'm not going to take him under my admittedly meager wing, or anything. Let's not get crazy.

Valentine's Day Just Got Classy

Words fail me. Just... look.

I can't decide if this is the most hilarious thing in the world, or if it's the saddest thing that's ever happened to the idea of romance since we all had to start asking "Have you been tested?" before we'll even consider buying a cute girl or guy a drink.

I'd really like to think that the only people that would actually take part in this would be hipsters doing it ironically, just for a laugh, but... were I to actually go there myself... if there were people there doing it sincerely... I'm pretty sure I'd just cry and cry and cry. The other thing to consider is that it says they're going to have "waiters" there; I'm assuming they're just going to make the White Castle employees come out from behind the counter. I don't know how it is in the rest of the world but, when I think of the New York White Castle employees, the words "a romantic evening" don't exactly spring to mind. The word "sullen," however, does.

What's On My Mind

NOTE: This isn't by any stretch of the imagination an interesting post. It's more along the lines of, to paraphrase Mean Girls, "word vomit." Just a heads up if you've got more important things you could be doing; don't change your plans for me, to paraphrase Ben Folds. I'll stop paraphrasing stuff now.

"So let me get this straight... it has snowed in Ari-fucking-zona and not here in New York? How is that supposed to make me feel? And is it possible to tell the weather to go fuck it's self for not providing the winter wonderland that I've come to expect and love from living in the Northeast?"

"I've got a really skanky taste in my mouth right now. I guess it's from all the coffee I drank this morning but... gag. It's kind of like I just inhaled in a mouthful of exhaust-pipe emissions, but it's also kind of coppery, like I've been sucking on pennies. Not pleasant. I wonder who here in the office would be kind enough to lend me gum."

"The Postal Service's 'Give Up' is the best listening-to-music-at-work album I've come across in like a million years. Or at least since I've been holding down this cubicle. It has usurped both Death Cab for Cutie's 'Transatlanticism' and Fleetwood Mac's 'Rumours' as most played and most annoying to my fellow office-mates, respectively; a rare double victory. "

"I'm surprised at how emotionally invested I've gotten in this season's Top Chef competition on Bravo. Maybe it's that I hate seeing bullies pick on a socially inept weirdo, or maybe it's just that I have way too much time on my hands (that's more likely). Anyway, I really hope that Marcel wins and I'm pretty sure that if he doesn't, I'll be sadder about that than I'll ever be about, say, stuff that's happening in the Middle East. I am a shallow, shallow man."

"Update: No one had gum, so I had to buy my own. Orbit Peppermint. It is appropriately minty and my mouth no longer tastes like the air around the 405 freeway at 5pm."

"It's been decided upon already that my girlfriend and I will be dining on burritos for dinner this evening and I'm looking forward to that way more than any normal person should. See, the burritos from our local burritory are really, really good. They've got a heavy hand with the guac and they're not stingy with the salsa either. I'm a regular there, too, which is sweet because they start preparing my order as soon as I walk in. It makes me feel like I'm a powerful politician who's got subordinates scrambling to attend to my every need. Of course, the feeling fades when I have to pay the food but, still, it's always a nice moment for me."

"I'm getting a little burned out on irony. Also snark, cattiness, hating, and just being mean for the hell of it. Not that I'm calling for an Era of Sincerity or anything. Probably just reading too much Gawker. Still... "

"The Snack Wraps at McDonalds now come in a grilled chicken variety and, to me, that seems a lot like missing the point."

"Man, now that I've bought this pack of gum, I'm pretty sure that, even though I don't want to, I'm going to chew the whole of it before the day is through. What is wrong with me?"

"Don't answer that."

Good Songs From Bad Bands

Talking about music on the Internet, particularly about songs and/or bands you don't like, is like smoking while pumping gas; a potentially hazardous situation that could very well leave you engulfed in flames. In other words, this is a post in which I'm basically just askin' for it. But, nonetheless, I can't think of anything else to talk about this morning. So away we go:

Good Songs From Bad Bands

NOTE: When I say "bad," I mean bands that I don't, personally, care for. If they're your favorite band, well, I'm sure you've got your reasons and that's awesome. I learned long ago that I don't have what anyone would call impeccable taste in music, so who am I to judge?

"Walking With A Ghost" by Teagan & Sara

I actually saw them in concert a couple of years ago as an opening band and it was quite possibly the most somnambulant experience I've ever had while standing up. It's not that they sound bad, or that their songs suck or anything like that... they're just uninteresting. However, this song is damn catchy; the one shiny spot of color in a landscape of beige. It's about walking with a ghost or something.

"Talk Shows on Mute" by Incubus

Ugh. I hate that I like this song because Incubus represents everything that's wrong with the frat-rock genre of quasi-soulful, limp-dicked "rock." It's music to hoist a Solo cup of keg beer to and, while there was a time in my life where that would have been attractive enough, that time for me has past. Except for this goddamn song. Which I can't get out of my head after I hear it. And I have to hide that fact from my friends. But you won't tell anyone, will you? We're close like that.

"Touch of Grey" by The Grateful Dead

I never really got into the whole psychedelic, jam-band thing; I don't have the attention span for twenty minute-plus songs, for one thing, and most of their fans smell like patchouli oil, which is just gross. "Touch of Grey," though, is just too fun of a song to ignore. It's always sounded to me like the perfect song to play over a trailer for a romantic-comedy. Which may be missing the point of the song entirely. Well, whatever, I like it.

"High and Dry" by Radiohead

I tried for a long-ass time to like Radiohead. But, no. I don't like them for the same reason that I can't get into jam-bands; I have no patience for incessant noodling and musical wankery. Their second album, The Bends, was really the only one I could stand and, from it, the only song that to this day remains in my iTunes is "High and Dry." Thom Yorke's sweet, high vocals and the hooky chorus are just perfect here.

"Hey You" by Pink Floyd

I guess I missed that part of being a teenager where you're supposed to get really into Pink Floyd and blacklights and whatnot. I mean, everybody likes "Another Brick in the Wall," of course, but otherwise... eh... they were just a path that I never felt particularly compelled to walk down. "Hey You" was quite the other thing, though. It just seemed... creepy, I guess. Strange and obscure, like a Clive Barker story put to music. I had this on a mixtape in high school and I listened to it all the time, driving back from parties or my girlfriends house late at night. It was instant atmosphere for a horror movie-junkie high school kid and it still gives me the heebie-jeebies today.

Zombie Fights Oscars!

At 5:30AM, Pacific time, magic happened.

Having witnessed many an early morning during my brief entrenchment behind the county lines of Los Angeles, I can tell you that the addition of crisp dawn air and a pretty sunrise does nothing to abide the overall feelings of humiliation, creeping dread and quiet desperation that comes from waking up knowing that you're, unquestionably, living in Los Angeles. It chills the soul in much the same way walking through an internment camp will change you forever, but with a lot more fake bronzer. One day a year, however, things in Los Angeles are different. There's hope anew, life springs eternal, and even the smog seems to clear away, giving everyone a couple of hours of breathable air. That day is today, friends... it's Oscar Nomination Day! Bang a gong, get it on!!! Herewith, the noms, with a little bit of Award-Winning Analysis thrown in for funsies:

Best Actor

Leonardo DiCaprio - Blood Diamond
Ryan Gosling - Half Nelson
Peter O'Toole - Venus
Will Smith - The Pursuit of Happyness
Forrest Whitaker - The Last King of Scotland

They nominated DiCaprio for the wrong movie, plain and simple. He wasn't bad in Blood Diamond, but he was soooo good in The Departed. Like, freaky good. It just sucks because that's been the one performance of his that I could get behind, 100%, and they didn't even acknowledge it. Weak sauce. Ryan Gosling is supposedly amazing, so say all my peoples that have seen the movie, and I like him anyway, so I'm glad he's here. Peter O'Toole is the annual Here 'Cause I'm Old nomination. Will Smith was excellent in The Pursuit of Happyness, and in a weaker year he might have won, but it's just not going to happen this go around. Actually, none of the aforementioned are going to win. Because the fifth nominee is Forrest Whitaker, who's won something like 95% of all the lead-up awards and is so heavily favored in this category that people waking up from a 25-year coma are "pretty sure Forrest is the guy." But I'm okay with that, truthfully; Whitaker is one of those actors that's been around forever, is always good (Battlefield Earth excluded), and deserves any and all trophies that people want to huck at him.

Best Actress

Penelope Cruz - Volver
Judi Dench - Notes on a Scandal
Helen Mirren - The Queen
Meryl Streep - The Devil Wears Prada
Kate Winslet - Little Children

This is another category where four of the nominees really don't matter. Helen Mirren has won, I think, every single lead-up award this year and is, according to my mother who saw the film this weekend, "quite good." So I'll just have to go with that. For the sake of thoroughness: Penelope Cruz: Eh. Judi Dench: Eh. Meryl Streep: Love her, but... c'mon. The Devil Wears Prada? Kate Winslet: Is just disgustingly attractive and is always good, but Little Children wasn't her best work. I'm still holding out hope that one of these days she'll be given a retroactive Oscar for her work in Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind.

Best Supporting Actor

Alan Arkin - Little Miss Sunshine
Jackie Earle Haley - Little Children
Djimon Hounsou - Blood Diamond
Eddie Murphy - Dreamgirls
Mark Wahlberg - The Departed

This is easily the toughest race to call. It's also, oddly enough, the only race in which I've seen all five films that are represented. Go figure. Arkin was hilarious in LMS, but I don't know if he really deserves to win it. Same goes for Mark Wahlberg, who tore up the screen with the little time he had. I think, though, that his is more of a "We Recognize You're Not Marky Mark Anymore" nomination and he'll just have to be happy with that. Djimon Hounsou was excellent in Blood Diamond, but... I don't know... I just can't get that excited about his performance, especially since the movie it's self was lame. For me, it comes down to Eddie Murphy and Jackie Earle Haley. Murphy's the sentimental favorite, and he was very good in Dreamgirls, but I really don't like him as a person. Serious baby-mama drama. That leaves Haley, the former-child-star-makes-good, who was utterly convincing and creepy as a fairly unrepentant child molester in Little Children. I know Murphy's probably going to take this, but, what can I say... I love a long shot. Jackie Earle Haley gets my vote.

Best Supporting Actress

Adriana Barazza - Babel
Cate Blanchett - Notes on a Scandal
Abigail Breslin - Little Miss Sunshine
Jennifer Hudson - Dreamgirls
Rinko Kikuchi - Babel

I haven't seen Babel and I've never even heard of the two actresses nominated for it, so I'm just going to have to assume that they cancel each other out and they're both just honored to be here. Cate Blanchett is usually good, though she's never really knocked me out. Abigail Breslin was adorable and damn fearless, but who are we kidding... she's a distant fifth. Besides, if they give it to anyone other than Jennifer Hudson, I'm taking hostages. No matter what you think of Dreamgirls, Hudson's big number is quite simply on another plane of existence. I've never seen an audience absolutely lose their shit like the one I was with did when she hit the last note in "And I Am Telling You," and from what I understand, that wasn't a freak occurrence. Anyone that can inspire that in a movie-going crowd deserves a statue.

Original Screenplay

Babel
Letters From Iwo Jima
Little Miss Sunshine
Pan's Labrynth
The Queen

This is probably Little Miss Sunshine's best shot at an Oscar, even if it did win the Producers Guild Award (a notorious barometer of Best Picture winners; it's picked 11 of the last 17). Nice to see Pan's Labyrinth get a nom here; I'm told the screenplay is fantastic. The other three... meh all around.

Adapted Screenplay

Borat
Children of Men
The Departed
Little Children
Notes on a Scandal

As much as it'd be a hoot to see Borat win something, and as much as I loved Children of Men, this award really should go to The Departed. With it's knotty, convoluted storyline and it's multi-layered characters, it very well could have been an unfollowable, unwatchable mess. However, the screenplay was clear-eyed, darkly funny, and provided easily the most flat-out entertaining movie going experience of the year. I don't think it will win Best Picture, but if it wins this, there'll be a little bit of justice in the world. Oh, as for the other two: Little Children's adaptation was fine, but nothing special, and I don't care about Notes on a Scandal.

Best Director

Clint Eastwood - Letters From Iwo Jima
Stephen Frears - The Queen
Paul Greengrass - United 93
Alejandro Gonzalez Inarritu - Babel
Martin Scorsese - The Departed

The truth of the matter is this: If Martin Scorsese doesn't win this year for The Departed, the Academy needs to be disbanded and sold off for scrap. The guy's cranked out consistently top shelf work through the years and, while they were smart not to honor him for the mediocre The Aviator or the abysmal Gangs of New York, he's finally created another masterpiece on the level of his unforgivably overlooked Goodfellas. Seriously guys, it's time. Otherwheres, it's nice to see United 93 get a nomination, even though it should have been among the Best Picture candidates. With the exception of The Departed, it's just hands down a better movie than the others on the list. Oh, and enough with the Clint Eastwood. I like him too, but he doesn't need to get nominated every year. Just sayin'.

Best Picture

Babel
The Departed
Letters From Iwo Jima
Little Miss Sunshine
The Queen

Of this lot, The Departed is my choice and, trust me, it's an easy one to make. While I'm sure the other nominees are just fine, I find it really hard to believe that they're better than United 93, Children of Men or Pan's Labyrinth and I'm sure history will one day back me up on that. Now, to be absolutely fair, I've only seen The Departed and Little Miss Sunshine. However, I'm comfortable making baseless judgements, so it's all good. The interesting thing here is that Little Miss Sunshine, as I said earlier, won the Producer's Guild Award this year. That changes things; elevating it to a true contender. Really, the only odd man out, so to speak, is The Queen which everyone seems to like, but only because Helen Mirren is awesome. You can never count out a Clint Eastwood film because the Academy's got an everlasting hard-on for his wrinkly butt, and Babel has got "Important Film" stamped all over it, plus it won the Golden Globe. With four films in such a dead heat, this is by the far the most wide-open year I've ever seen at the Oscars. Going to be intersting, that's for sure.

Playing With Your Food

Did anyone else happen to catch this dude on Iron Chef last night:



If not, his name is Homaro Cantu and his shtick is that he's the "Chef of the Future!" which means that he uses a lot of otherwise useless technology to make food weird. Or weirder than it is normally on Iron Chef, at any rate. He's a part of this whole molecular gastronomy craze that, starting with El Bulli in Spain, has swept through the kitchens of chefs that have an apparently endless amount of money and a bottomless reserve of time to fuck around in the kitchen. Cases in point from Cantu's Iron Chefery:

-He used some sort of fancypants printer that spits out blurry, not-very-appetizing pictures on edible paper. It's all very "cute;" example: he took a picture of he and his sous-chefs drinking horchata cocktails, then, using the printer, he made edible pictures that tasted like the horchata cocktail that he and his crew were drinking. And didn't he just blow your mind this time!!! That sort of preciousness makes me want to eat a steak with my bare hands.

-He filled balloons up with beet juice (beets were the secret ingredient), then rolled the balloons around in liquid nitrogen so they froze inside the balloons into these hollow, beet-juice domes. Which, by the way... beets = gross. Anyway, he then peeled off the balloons and that was like one whole dish. A frozen dome of beet juice and some beet yogurt. Seriously, gag.

-He used a class-4 laser... that's right, a fucking laser... to toast wontons. Wh... bu... how does that make any goddamn sense? Why do that? Why uses a piece of hardware that's got to cost somewhere in the high five figures to do a task that could easily be accomplished with a Bic lighter? If you've got a laser on you hands, for crap's sake at least shoot a chicken with it or something.

There was some other stuff too, but those were the big what-the-fucks of the evening. The kicker to all of this, and not to be Spoiler Boy or anything, is that he won!!! Against Morimoto, no less, who's been on Iron Chef since it was in Japan and is, by all rights, a total bad ass. Anyway, I guess my point is this: Can we try to keep all this bullshit futzing around with food to a minimum, please? Fresh ingredients, simply prepared with care, should be the high bar that all chefs should attempt to clear, in my estimation, and all this science lab-y stuff just distracts from all the good things about fine dining. Especially because fine dining is way to expensive as is, even before you add lasers to the mix.

P.S. Before anyone asks, the answer is: I am wildly unqualified to make any of the above claims. I have no formal background in the chefly arts, nor do I have, technically, any idea what I'm talking about. I'm basing any and all opinions on a lifetime spent watching the Food Network and the year's worth of experience that I have working as a pizza maker for Whole Foods. So, you know... just so that's out there. Honesty and all that. I may be an idiot, but I'm an idiot who's up-front about it.

Awesome Old Men 2

Hey, remember that one time where we talked about Awesome Old Men? Wasn't that the best time you've ever had sitting in front of your computer that didn't directly involve websites that are illegal in Bible Belt? Hopefully, the answer to both of those questions is a hearty, from-the-gut, "Yes sir, by God!" because here we go again:

Elmer



Elmer is a retired police captain from East Texas who caught the fat bastard you see pictured above while whacked out of his mind on Old Crow and a secret blend of herbs that he learned how to make from an old Navajo medicine man, who's his best friend. His wife kicked him out of the house after he refused to stop comparing her face to that of the fish. He was quoted as saying, "Like I give a shit about that worthless old whore" before he climbed into his boat and headed back out onto the lake. Elmer was last spotted pissing into the wind and laughing his ass off.

Silvio



Silvio used to be a war correspondent for Radio Free Europe, back before "all the pussies showed up and wrecked all the fun with their vegan farts and goddamn music that sounds like a hippie fucking a guitar." He stole a lot of money from the French government in a byzantine banking scheme and he once kicked Hemingway in the balls for no reason other than to prove that he could have written "The Sun Also Rises" if he'd wanted to. He lives in a small town in Mexico and has three wives, all of whom recently became pregnant. Silvio celebrated the news by fist-fighting an entire platoon of the Mexican National Army. He won.

Lester



Lester can take a car apart to the point where it's just a big pile of screws, steel and rubber, and then put the whole thing back together again so it gets better gas mileage than it did before and could pass inspection to race in a NASCAR event. His customers pay him in steak dinners and martial arts DVDs and when he shows up at the VFW Hall on "Senior Dance Night," he lays down old-school breakdancing moves like he invented them. Which he did.

The Colonel



It's widely believed by those who know him that he served in some sort of Black Ops organization in Vietnam and that it was the happiest time of his life. When he's been drinking, he creeps the fuck out of everyone by rambling on about "that little fruit Oswald" and how "he couldn't shoot worth a crap, which is why I had to show up in Dallas on my goddamn birthday to handle the situation." He never sleeps, he smells like diesel fuel and Old Spice, and he eats a package of bacon a day. Then he goes for a three mile run and comes back barely winded.

Ping



Has operated a dollar store in Brooklyn for thirty years and hates every ethnicity except his own. Married a tranny he met in Chinatown and when he found out that she was a guy, said "well, that's one more reason to just stay drunk." True to his word, Ping hasn't been sober in so long, his sweat is bottled and sold as the finest Sake in the Northeast. He claims to have beaten up Jet Li, though nobody believes him because every time there's a scuffle between school kids in his shop, he shrieks and hides behind his hulking, tranny wife until it's all clear. Then he changes his pants, pours himself another round and gives the stink-eye to whoever is in the vicinity.

Embargo

I reviewed a movie yesterday afternoon that won't be released in the USA until the Spring. Because of that, there's a review "embargo," which basically means that we're not allowed to talk about the movie until it comes out. This is absolutely killing me. I feel like the guy in Alien with the thing bursting out of his chest, except that instead of an alien, it's effusive, ebullient praise for a fantastic movie.

What I can tell you is this:

-It will be released first in England, then here.

-It's been mentioned in one of my Movie Poster A Go-Go posts.

-It's as good as we all hoped it would be.

You can probably figure it out with a little detective work, should you feel the need. Otherwise, check back here for the full review sometime about mid-April. If my head hasn't exploded by then.

Friday's Hero: Tattooed Star Wars Nerds

You win every trivia contest that's even remotely related to Star Wars and it's surrounding mythology. You've shaken hands with Mark Hamill, Kenny Baker and Peter Mayhew and have the photographic evidence to prove it. Once, you built a Death Star out of paper mache and chicken wire and it looked friggin' awesome. So what do you do now? What's next for you? Well, that depends. Are you really a Star Wars fan? Really? Because if you were, you'd have marked your skin permenantly with visages of Darths Vader and Maul, Boba Fett and Jabba the Hutt by now. So put up or shut up, my cloaked friend. Let the ink be with you.

Redefining Tedium

I humbly submit my new definition of the word "tedium." Actually, it could be the new definition for "pointless," "misguided," "lame" and "crap-tacular" as well.

These Are Not The Pants You're Looking For

There's funny, and then there's funny involving the word "pants." It's been proved by science that adding the word "pants" to any sentence increases it's humor value at least 33%, if not more. Especially when Star Wars is concerned:

232 Star Wars Lines Improved By Substituting The Word Pants

Thanks be to Joel, for the tip.

American Idol Rejects

Bob Dylan - We can't understand what you're saying? Look, you just don't have the stage presence to really, you know, captivate the audience.

Prince - You're very short and, all that wiggling around...? Very distracting. Plus, you look ridiculous singing all high-pitched like that since you're such a little guy.

Mama Cass - Too fat.

Van Morrison - Are you having a seizure? Plus, you're premature hair-loss won't translate into gold records.

Paul McCartney - You should have tried out for the show when it was in England. We don't really "do" British here.

Aretha Franklin - Too fat.

Michael Stipe - You act like you're afraid of the microphone. Also, the studio lights are bouncing off your head.

Elvis Presley - We're going for less of a "country" vibe this year.

Johnny Rotten - Next.

Iggy Pop - Next.

Lou Reed - Next. Also, take a shower.

Madonna - We're on at 8pm, so could you tone it down a little?

Eric Clapton - Could you stop playing the guitar? Please?

Me - You write fairly obvious, trite comedy pieces about American Idol as if anyone took that show seriously after 2002. Also, your singing is like butt.

The Conjugal Visit

It's kind of a long story, and truthfully it's a story that's not technically any of my business, but it's brought up a point I'd like to throw out for discussion, so here's what you need to know:

-A friend of a friend has a boyfriend that's in prison.

-This friend of a friend is loyal to her boyfriend, is convinced of his innocence, and is therefore remaining true while he serves his undeserved time.

-They've got a conjugal visit coming up.

Now, there's been a bit of talk amongst my little social circle regarding this upcoming event. The general feeling is that it's going to be the best sex either of them has ever had, what with the longing and the loneliness and the pent-up sexual aggression and so on and so forth. This, to me, rings false. Maybe I'm not looking at this in the proper romantic context but, seems to me, that there are few situations on the planet that would be less conducive to good, passionate sex (however you define it) than a conjugal visit. The evidence:

1. The Build Up - Both of them have been thinking about this day for a long time; fantasizing about it, undoubtedly. When the day arrives, when they get into that room, how can it possibly live up to their collective expectations?

2. The Room - Okay, granted, I've never been inside a conjugal visit room, and, no, I don't actually think it looks anything like the picture I've got up there in the corner. Still, how can a room that's in any way connected to a prison be intimate enough for a sexual tryst? You can throw a nice blanket on the bed and slap a coat of paint on the walls that isn't the uniform prison-grey, but, in the end, you're still having sex in an institutionalized environment. Not a thought that gets the juices flowing. Unless that's your particular kink, of course, but let's assume that it isn't for the sake of argument.

3. The Pressure - You've got one shot at this; it'll be at least six months before the next conjugal visit rolls around. If it's bad, you've got a dejected man being sent back to prison disappointed and, on the other side, you've got a lonely, unfulfilled woman being sent out into a world full of other men who aren't currently incarcerated. Also, there's a time limit. Have fun, kids! How is anyone supposed to get anything accomplished with those sorts of impositions hanging over their heads?

Maybe I'm over-thinking this. Maybe I'm not giving two people who love each other, who've got only one chance in a long while to physically express that love, enough credit. Maybe I'm being entirely too negative. Maybe. But I don't think so.

For their sake, I hope I'm wrong, though. Don't want to be "that guy."

Questions About Music

-Do I get credit for trying to like Sufjan Stevens? Because I'm trying very hard and I do, for real, feel like it's me missing something and not that he's just overrated.

-I listen to the new Scissor Sisters album at least three times a week. How gay does that make me?

-Is my generation allowed to like Fleetwood Mac unironically now?

-I listened to Ben Folds all through high school and into college, but now I'm kind of over him. Who's with me?

-Why am I the only one who seems to be able to understand Bob Dylan when he sings?

-What in the hell happened to Elvis Costello?

-The fact that so many people are still so "into" The Doors stems from a Candid Camera prank on Jim Morrison that somehow got out of hand and never ended, right?

-Have they proven yet that listening to Mates of State makes you more sexually attractive to the gender of your choice?

-Does anyone have any evidence they can send my way that proves Jack Johnson, Dave Mathews and John Mayer are all the same, lame guy wearing different wigs?

-Isn't gangsta rap gone yet? Why not? Because we're all very, very tired of it.

Junk Food (Golden Globes Edition)

Chewy Chips Ahoy!



Scarfing down a box of Chewy Chips Ahoy is like turning your back on the purity of nature; it's saying that you've chosen science over religion and that while there may be a theoretical God in a theoretical place called Heaven, you certainly aren't on speaking terms with him and you seem to have lost his address. Why? Because they're so soft. Ridiculously soft; crumbly as Caribbean sand. They're the kind of soft that can only be created in a lab; a Brave New Softness that will one day usurp our national ideas of "what is soft" and install it's dogma as our Document of Rule. There is, however, a flaw. Something for the underground resistance to exploit. The chocolate... you see, it's sub-par. While the softness may drive you mad, you're snapped back to reality by the mealy, too-sweetness of the chocolate chips. They are the chink in the armor in to which we must thrust our sword, freeing us from the Soft Oppression and allowing us to sample other cookies of varying textures and mouth-feels. Perhaps some Oreos.

Nacho Cheese Doritos



They've always been there. When you were a kid, they were on your plate next to the crustless PB&J that your loving Mother made for you after you'd had a hard day on the jungle gym (not a metaphorical jungle gym; the actual jungle gym at the playground). As a teen, when you cried alone in your room on a Saturday night, despondent that you couldn't get a date for the winter formal, or some such, they, along with R.E.M's "Automatic for the People" and some stolen wine coolers, kept you company, wiping your eyes and giving you strength as only a seasoned corn chip can. And when you went off to college, you practically lived on them... you're an adult now and you can eat whatever you goddamn well please. They understanding that soon the day would come when you'd leave your orange-fingered past behind, moving on to a life spent with Salt & Vinegar or, perhaps, simply Original. They were just happy to be with you. Because they know. They know that one day, years later, you'll see them in a deli and think, "Yes... Nacho Cheese Doritos... they're exactly the right size to fill the empty space in my soul. I've missed them and they've missed me." And as you take them to the counter, you'll see, if you're lucky, a single tear fall from the bag. Because they knew you'd come back. They always knew. Because they were always there.

Haagen-Dazs Mint and Dark Chocolate Ice Cream Bar



The combination of mint and chocolate is to the casual snacker like that first sip of fine whiskey to a burgeoning drunk. Intoxicating, heady, a door kicked down that revels the world for what it really is: A pleasure garden for the debauched and indulgent, should that be the path you're inclined to take. To take these flavors... the cool, brainy mint and the slutty, rich chocolate... and wrap them around a pillow of decadent ice cream is an outrage; an excess of sin tantamount to an orgy in an opium den after a dinner of foie gras and truffles. Sure, adults will know better than to tempt themselves with such immoral confections, but what of the children? The idea of mint and chocolate and ice cream will seem like the perfect thrill, blissfully unaware, them, of the moral corruption that unquestionably lay before them. And they sell these openly! In supermarkets and convenience stores! They should be behind the counter, under lock and key, the shopkeep requiring an ID before a purchase can be made. But people will never learn. Not until it's too late. Not until little Jimmy or precious Susie start experimenting with caramel or strawberry filling or, God forbid, a thick layer of Chocolate Ganache. Only then will our folly be brought into the light. And we'll curse the Haagen-Dazs name as we weep bitter tears for our country's lost youth.

1141 Pages Later...

Mountains crumbled and reformed, the Presidency changed hands twice, the human race developed and lost a vestigial tail, a new continent sprang up from the ocean (it's a lot like Asia except that everyone speaks Dutch), wearing a monocle went in and out of fashion in the rap community, The US threatened to drop the bomb on the Middle East, the Middle East said, "yeah, but we've got oil," the US said, "Oh, never mind. Can we have some oil?" The Gap Band proclaimed, "You dropped a bomb on me!" but no one listened, and a bunch of other crap happened too from the time I started reading Stephen King's "The Stand" until last night, when I finished it.

Because "The Stand" is the longest friggin' book ever in the history of big-ass books. But I read every last word.* I am awesome.


*This is an accomplishment because I have the attention span of a four year-old child who's just eaten a box of Pixie Sticks and also has a head injury.

A Look Inside My Mind; or "Spider Bitin'!"

I'd like to let you into my brain for a bit; give you a glimpse of exactly how my mind works. Scary thought? Oh, it's not so bad. Sure, it smells like a brewery in there and, yes, those are Cheeze-Its all over the floor, but, by and large, there's nothing going on inside this ol' noggin that you wouldn't see on any late-nite cable channel or at the county fair of your choice. You'll be fine. Just don't try to steal my PIN number or anything.

Anyway, let me set this up... This morning, I rolled over on, and was bitten by, a small, glassy-brownish spider. Right on the part of my back where the torso meets the shoulder; near the armpit, but not in it. It didn't hurt and my girlfriend told me, after a cursory glance at the bite and the spider it's self, that it was nothing to worry about.

Which is of course when I started worrying. Big time. So, here now, as promised, the glimpse into my brain:

Thought Process After A Spider Bite

"I've been bitten by a spider."

"It was brown."

"It was a Brown Recluse"

"Oh god, let's look those up!"

"Shit! Their bites can cause a rotting of the flesh around the wound."

"Wait, they don't live in this part of the country. Whew!"

"Hang on, didn't a scorpion just get found on a plane? If a scorpion could do it, couldn't a Brown Recluse? We're not that far from the airport [ed. note: yes we are]."

"I can feel the wound getting larger; swelling up. It must be the size of a cue ball now!"

"Okay, it's still the same size. That's good. And it doesn't really hurt. That's good too. Maybe my girlfriend was right. Maybe it's okay and I'm just overreacting? I should take a deep breath."

"HOLY FUCK WHAT IF IT LAID EGGS INSIDE ME!!!"

"That's ridiculous; an old urban legend. I'm a rational, reasonably intelligent man and therefore I don't believe 'everything I read,' as it were."

"JESUS I CAN FEEL THE BABY SPIDERS MOVING UNDER MY SKIN!!!"

"Hey, wouldn't it be cool if it was a radioactive spider and I became a superhero, not unlike a certain popular character of comic book myth and legend? Yeah, Batman was awesome."

"I'm dying. I accept my mortality and I will walk down that long, sad highway with my head held high. Dignity is the order of the day."

"SWEET GOD I'VE PISSED MYSELF AND I CAN'T STOP CRYING!!!"

And... scene! I eventually calmed myself down by taking a shower hot enough to slough off the a couple of layers of skin and I think that, maybe, probably, I'll be able to sleep in our bed tonight without hyperventilating. Especially since I'm going douse myself in Raid.

I hope you've enjoyed this little glimpse into the unquiet mind I call my own. If nightmares persist, contact a therapist immediately.

Best Laugh I've Had Today

Butch chick: I kissed George last night.
Sorority chick: Oh, no -- did you drink yourself straight again?
Butch chick, hands over face: Yes!

--14th St

via Overheard in New York, Jan 12, 2007

Scary / Not Scary

Frankenstein's Monster - NOT SCARY

No disrespect to Shelley's original tale, which I'm sure raised quite a few goosebumps in it's day, but in the year 2007, the whole "mad scientist-created dude on a rampage" just doesn't have that much oomph. Even when the original Karloff-played monster came out, I don't think people were ever that scared of him; it's a classic because it's a good movie, not because it made people wet their era-appropriate slacks. The tide really turned on Frankie's kid when Peter Boyle (may he rest in peace) lampooned him in Young Frankenstein; after that, nobody could take the bolt-necked bastard seriously. There have been a few attempts to breath fresh life into the idea... that one movie with DeNiro as the Monster (which sucked) and I think there was a Buffy episode in the first season that was kind of the same story, to name two... but they all ended up in a big pile of stitched-on body parts and apathetic yawns. There's just nothing scary about lumbering half-wits.

Zombies - SCARY

The living dead, with their mass numbers and insatiable craving for human flesh, scare the crap out of me. Hell, this very site is an homage to their presence (albeit by way of an admittedly shit-tastic movie). Romero's original Night of the Living Dead, the one that's in black and white and doesn't have that bullshit added footage in it, was one of the first horror movies I saw during my formative years and it fucked me up right proper. The images of the walking dead emerging from the woods, swarming around the farmhouse, constantly chewing, are forever burned on my brain. And while the modern take on zombies might be a bit more adrenaline-jacked and "extreme" (the Dawn of the Dead remake, for example), it still hits the same panic button in my brain, big time. To me, there is nothing more terrifying than an enemy that isn't afraid of anything, that only gets larger with time, that is basically an endless, sucking wall of teeth and hands that wants nothing more than simply to consume you. Yeesh... and I've creeped myself out. Wonderful.

Vampires - NOT SCARY

Vampires used to be scary. They used to be mysterious and weird and full of a hot menace that was all their own. Then Anne Rice came along. Her psycho-sexual take on the genre drained them of their mojo; made the thing that vampirism was always about (i.e. sex) too obvious. And, worse, she opened the floodgates for a generation of lonely men and women to over-romanticize the genre's mythology, to blend it with their own Gothic tendencies, and finally, to turn into something that's just... well... a bit silly. Even the brilliant Buffy the Vampire Slayer, which (at least at first) was nominally about vampires, couldn't do all that much with the creatures themselves over the long haul. If you're a fan of the show, you'll know what I mean; all of the scariest moments came from other creatures, almost never from the vamps; by the last couple of seasons, they'd pretty much disappeared altogether, save for the main characters that already were vampires to begin with. It's too bad, really. There was and, probably, still is a lot of potential in the idea of vampires. And occasionally a movie or a TV show will come along that does something interesting with the concept (Near Dark and the BBC's Ultraviolet, respectively). But by and large, I'm going to have to label this a dead genre. Oh, and the less said about Lestat: The Musical, the better.

Cannibals - SCARY

It all goes back to that whole "consuming human flesh" thing. Some of the old adventure movies from the 30's and 40's mentioned cannibals as a general concept, but it was the gore-lovin' Italians that blew up the concept first, making a lot of movies in the 70's about jungle tribes eating explorers, all of them full of explicit torture and most of them being nearly unwatchable (should you be curious, a few titles of note: Cannibal Holocaust, Cannibal Ferox and Cannibal Apocalypse). Off hand, the only title worth watching from that era was the recently released Man From Deep River, which had a certain class to it, even when they start cutting out peoples tongues and whatnot. Anyway, the idea made it to American soil eventually, most notably with Wes Craven's original The Hills Have Eyes. Since we're a little light on the jungle in these parts, the action has been transplanted to the deserts in the aforementioned movie, and to the back woods of various Southern states for other films. Really, and this is probably why it's scary, it's just a permutation of the whole zombie idea. It's tempered with a bit of survialistic humanism, and it relies much more on the isolation of the locale to instill it's fear, but the essentials are still there. There's still the "we're going to eat you" thing, the "terror in numbers" thing (rarely is there ever just one cannibal; it's usually a clan), and the "we won't stop until there's nothing left" thing. Otherwise known as the perfect equation to scare the shit out of me.

I Am Smarter Than Fortune Magazine

That venerable institution of business news, Fortune Magazine, released today their annual 100 Best Companies To Work For list. Simply perusing said list reveals, however, that they are dead wrong. Clearly they've neglected their fact-checking duties regarding the employee's day-to-day lives at these companies, choosing instead to look at things like "health plans" and "annual salaries" and other things that I "don't understand." But that's okay; luckily, I'm here to straighten things out (that's what she said!!!):

Top Five Companies To Work For, According to Fortune Magazine

1. Google - You can talk all you want about how good the benefits are and about how everyone gets a free Google t-shirt (or whatever), but the fact remains: These poor people have to spend their entire day looking up crap for people. And quickly, too; the internet's known for speed and they have to keep up. "What's that one song where the singer goes, 'Do-do-do-DOO, AAAAHHHHHHH' all high like that?" "Where can I find midgets to fuck in my area?" "What's the deal with football? It's not a foot, it's not a ball; balls are round!" They have to answer shit like that all damn day. Also, Google doesn't have indoor plumbing.

2. Genetech - These are the guys that build mutant robots. I'm sorry but that is just not a safe environment to work in. What if one of the mutant robots breaks loose of it's moorings and goes on a rampage? What then, Genetech? Some of those bastards shoot laser beams, for real, and guess what: there's not a single HMO that covers "Laser Beam Wounds." Also, Genetech kills you if quit because they don't want the secrets of their mutant robots to get out.

3. Wegman's Food Markets - Would you want to spend your days making sure the lettuce isn't brown? Even with a vision plan, that's a pretty suck-ass job. And what if you don't even need the vision plan? Then it's even worse. Those assholes never think about this stuff. Also, Wegman's lets homeless guys poop in the aisles and then makes the employees clean it up. With their hands!!!

4. The Container Store - But C-Dog, it's just the Container Store. They've got boxes there, and stuff to hang in your closets so your shoes aren't all over the goddamn place. What could possibly be bad about that? Well I'll tell you, smart ass: In a word, snipers. That's right. Every single Container Store in America has at least one sniper in the rafters, just waiting to cut your ass down, man, at the slightest provocation. No wonder they made the list; the employees are scared shitless to talk bad about their masters. Also, the snipers smell bad and the employees can smell it and it's gross.

5. Whole Foods - I happen to have a little bit of "insider" knowledge here because I, once upon a time, was employed by Whole Foods as a pizza maker. I can attest that, yes, they do give full benefits and, yes, they pay better than other places. But what you don't know is this: All that organic food they sell? Made of illegal immigrants. Yep. They have border patrols working 24/7, rounding up Immies (code word) for their Tuscan Pasta Salads and Fresh Corn Chowders. Also, you have to get up really friggin' early for the day shift; like 5am early. I was not cool with that. To retaliate, I licked all the pizzas.

Now, you may be asking yourself, what are the best companies to work for if not these. Well, that's easy:

The Actual Top Five Companies To Work For

1. Playboy - Boobies everywhere.

2. Taco Bell - You want a burrito? They got burritos.

3. Six Flags - WHHHHHEEEEEEEEE!!!!!!!!

4. Budweiser - Being drunk at work is known as "product testing."

5. General Motors - New Car smell pumped through the air vents.