My friend Sarah just took a road trip through the Midwest. She put up some pictures up on Facebook, and because they're so great, I'm going to share some with you. The comments are all her own, by the way.
Now some photos from Roswell and the UFO museum:
What I have learned through these and other photos is that the Midwest, just as I thought, is still creepy, racist and sad.
Nevertheless, I want to take a road trip soon. I may just use money Playgirl is giving me to fund this adventure.
Checking Craiglist is a daily task for me. Brushing teeth, showering and checking Craigslist - the three most important things in my day. Today, in the New York Jobs sections, I probably stumbled upon the best possible job for a fledgling screenwriter.
"Nouveau celeb" Jimmy Lloyd needs someone to write a Roadhouse-esque script for his music video, "Cop Bar." When I first saw this listing, I thought, Copland with Sylvester Stallone! Hey, Sylvester Stallone would do this music video, since he's now the face of Russian vodka! He needs money! Much to my chagrin, "Cop Bar" has little to do with Copland. Sharing his name with a former British boxer (maybe he is the former British boxer?), the very humble, "nouveau celeb" Jimmy Lloyd's original song is about a non-cop who stumbles into a, yes, cop bar. Chairs will fly because you see, every time a non-cop enters a cop-bar, shit goes down. So apparently, different from other times, shit goes down because the non-cop gets the pretty lady, who I'm assuming has to be a cop. See, listening to "Cop Bar" on from self-proclaimed heir to Bruce Springsteen's throne, not only bought me to tears, but I discovered that cops go to cop bars. I dismissed the other two lines of repeating lyrics, but I'm assuming some more enlightening information about the police was revealed. With this song, listeners will learn someone is in a cop bar. And that Jimmy Lloyd (possible relative of famed DeLorean/time machine maker, Christopher Lloyd) wants to go to a cop bar with someone. I'm not sure if I want to enter any cop bars without the presence of Sylvester Stallone in a sheriff hat or Christopher Lloyd.
Look, Bruce needs to stop dancing in the dark. He needs to make room in the cop bar for Jimmy Lloyd.
Note to Jimmy Lloyd: You should consider getting a non-hotmail e-mail account.
A magical possibility was released upon my life and my other lives this week.
James Franco revealed that a Superbad/Pineapple Express crossover may occur. According to an interview with MTV News, he said that the studios wanted to do a Superbad sequel. One of the ideas was to do a crossover film with two directors and characters from both films meeting. I peed myself upon reading that statement. Since Seth Rogen plays different characters in both, one character would have to die, Franco suggested.
I say leave them both in. Lots of costume/facial hair changes, but Rogen could totally do it. It'd add an ounce of camp. Officer Michaels, his cop character from Superbad, wouldn't even have to play a big role in the film, but show up for a few scenes. They did this in an episode of Full House when Uncle Jessie's cousin, Stavros, shows up. The heavily-accented Stavros was hairier and had horrible teeth, which helped differentiate him from Uncle Jesse. [Aside: This episode taught me that visiting Greek cousins will take advantage of your kindness and hospitality. No more Greek guests, thank you very much].
Seth Rogen could take a cue from Full House and start writing this dream movie of mine. I formulated some possible ideas for the temporarily titled: Superbad 2: Riding the Pineapple Express.
It takes place during the summer after the first year of college. Seth, Evan and Fogel are back home with tales of promiscuous college hijinks. Evan didn't get much further with Becca and Seth never got much further with Jules. Don't worry - both girls are home for the summer! The first weekend back, the boys decide to throw a party at Fogel's house - much to his dismay. So what does a good party need? Beer, boobs and weed! Fogel still has his McLovin' license, and the boys plead with him to try again. So of course, he does. On his way to the liquor store, who should he run into but Officer Slater and Officer Michaels! They recognize McLovin', interrogate him a bit, but let him buy his booze. Fogel asks them who they could score weed from. With much apprehension, they reveal that they buy their weed from...Saul!
This all takes place in L.A. or somewhere in the area. They take a ride to visit Saul, and who should be there upon arrival but Dale Denton and Saul, who are bonding over The Jeffersons. Good chatter goes on about the Jeffersons and other 70s sitcoms, until the Superbad boys get their weed and invite the Pineapple Express guys to the party. Saul was supposed to give them the shabby stuff, but they get pineapple express instead.
I'm still weeding out the second half of the movie. I'll put the other half of the plot up this week, but some images for this upcoming movie:
I really wanted to write about this new Special Olympics-boycotting-Ben-Stiller's-Tropic-Thunder hoopla, but Amelie on AVClub beat me to it. I didn't see her article until I started writing about Ben Stiller. Sometimes, I think Amelie and I the same person.
Then I wanted to address the rule of three (three deaths that is). First Bernie Mac (death by pneumonia) then Isaac Hayes (death by Xenu). Now scientists are suggesting that Samuel L. Jackson will be next to die because of this photographic evidence:
Scientists and others of the ilk (i.e. Devon Sawa and his predecessors from Final Destination 1-3) say that Samuel L. Jackson will be next. Experts unearthed this photo just yesterday. Even though it shows the three stars of the upcoming Soul Men, the red writing only appeared after Hayes's soul was taken by Xenu.
The scientists and this Samuel-L.-Jackson-dying-next theory are so wrong. You see, you've got a comedian/actor and singer dead. Another actor can't die - this just wouldn't follow the rules. At first, I thought artist, maybe the next to go is an artist. Basquiat could maybe be the missing link. Maybe we can find a time machine, bring him to today, and then he could die again. Unfortunately, this may be a bit difficult. Then it came to me.
Jesse Jackson!
He so is the next to go. Hardly revered and totally a hater of ice cream, Obama and all things good, Jesse Jackson's totally next.
See. Here he's scowling. He knows that death is after him. He's scowling death. He thinks he can beat it. Pssh, Devon Sawa didn't beat it.
Now he's on the phone. On the phone with Clinton? Nah, he's on the phone with death.
And here's final proof Jesse's next:
New Line Cinema is coming out with a new Final Destination.
On a completely different non-morbid note, we need to help this guy out. He's look for the best diarrhea stories. Of course, it's unpaid. So this dude may totally run with your great poop story and make a hit movie out of it starring Dave Arquette and Jason Biggs. Now that I think about this Craigslist posting, maybe not that great.
So JC Penny has put out an homage, in the form of commercial, to The Breakfast Club. I will be straightforward. I never liked the Breakfast Club. I could never sit through it. I'm sorry that I was raised on films like Fletch and Ghostbusters, and didn't have time for pop trash. It also, in my opinion, portrays a generation to which I maintain no ties. I was in high school in the late 90s, with no emotional attachment to these hooligans that occupied Shermer High School 15 years prior, regardless of how badly marketers want me to shed tears and cash for their products.
Furthermore, the film suffers from a common plague of 80s cinema: fabricated teen-dom. John Hughes wrote the movie when he was in his 30s, a far cry from understanding the ins & outs of high school melodrama/fashion. I don't think I could even write about high school today, at the ripe age of twenty-four. Most of 80s cinema dealing with high school is rife with this disease. Just today, while watching the John Candy comedy, Summer Rental, I realized this egregious commonality. Kerri Green a.k.a. Andy from the Goonies, meets up with a young man, who shares her affinity for giant headphones. Together they tune into the same radio station (WHAM 104) and chill out to the sweet tunes of Kenny Loggins "Footloose." Together as one gyrating musical abomination, they shimmy into the movie theater. Until somebody with a time machine comes straight from 1985 and shows me two teens actually doing this within earshot and eyesight of other human beings, I will consider this poor re-enactment of teen-dom as just that - fabricated teen-dom. Breakfast Club is as much a culprit of this same crime. I am sure that very few people ever broke out into dance during detention, or poured an entire pixie stick on their sandwich.
Anyway, just watch the clip. JC Penny is obviously trying to tap into some vestige of 80s nostalgia with this blatant, yet competently filmed, commercial. In fact, I would suggest that this commercial is as stimulating and well-plotted as all of Breakfast Club.
The only redeeming glimmer of hope I can possibly muster in my jaded spirit is that perhaps JC Penny is marketing it exactly as they want to - only people who appreciate this rip-off and feel nostalgia towards it would wear their clothing. But I think I would be giving them too much credit.
Post-script: What bothers me most about my condemnations is that I maintain secret delights and appreciation for the campy trash that my generation produced - American Pie, Road Trip, Scream, etc. Maybe the argument, "you just had to be there," is stronger than quality and taste.
Post Post-script: When fruitlessly attempting to find that scene with Kerri Green and her boy-toy dancing to "Footlose," I found this little gem:
Ahhh, I haven't blogged in forever. The whole blog is just a blur of Liz posts about Ghost Dads, Joose, and robots. With Liz covering the topics of technology, alcohol and the paranormal, what do I have left?
I just moved into a new apartment. I will use that as my excuse for not blogging in a while, plus I had left my laptop at home for about a week. Every afternoon has been a mad rush to get things done, which is really healthy for me, especially when I am usually much more sedentary. One afternoon, I espied a shirtless villain jumping in our driveway. I had to get sushi further up the street, so I kept driving, but that image was constant. A frumpy, thirty-something psychopath dancing and accomplishing tai chi with some kind of wooden stick. His jump kicks were fire in my very brain. I returned home, praying that my quixotic, downstairs neighbor didn't fight windmills and side mirrors daily. I hoped even more that he didn't accomplish these acts in eyesight of neighbors and poor, un-witting civilians, who need not the terrors of white lightning; burning off its second wind by playing with a wooden sword.
I was wrong. The honks and the yelps from passersby have only affirmed to me this past week that we live above a major weirdo. I got a closer look at the sword when returning home yesterday. He took time out from his regimen to explain to me why the hot water doesn't work, which of course he knows nothing about. The rigors of plumbing and heating are not eminent in the mind of a karate wizard/mystery man.
Liking Coldplay is a very normie (or normal people) thing. Listening to Coldplay, liking Dane Cook, hanging out at sports bars and liking What Dreams May Come - all things normies like. Outside of that normie circle, readily admitting to liking Coldplay isn't that easy of a thing. Most conversations that occur about the band usually involve one of the two following phrases: "Secretly, I kinda like them" or "It's a guilty pleasure." I've used both.
I'm ready to come out of the secretly-liking-Coldplay closet.
Coldplay, you're not that bad. In fact, I think I kinda, sorta like you.
Sure, Zach Braff (pretty annoying) used a song in his even more annoying movie. Yes, they sound a lot like Travis and every other band in that genre, but I still don't hate them.
Their songs - catchy, easy to sing along to, not all that deep or memorable at times. But their influences, pretty darn good. My Bloody Valentine, Johnny Cash and Arcade Fire. They sampled Kraftwerk!?! They have good taste in music.
They try to advocate for a cause. Chris Martin's all about Fair Trade and drawing that symbol on his hand all the time. Amnesty International is also a big favorite of theirs.
Finally, they haven't totally succumbed to the man. Gatorade, Coke and Gap have asked them for rights to their song, but they didn't sell. But, they managed to sell their newest song to Apple recently. Selling their song to Apple may not be a complete sellout. At least it's not a car commercial (which Spoon and Beulah have unfortunately done). Thanks for not selling out completely.
On a completely different note, my sister helped me think of a million dollar idea. One day, I'd like to own a bar. She suggested I open a bar where people blog. A blog bar.
[Writer's note: This post is completely half-assed. I apologize. See, I started with a great post in mind, but I started complaining. I complained to people on the Internetz then I complained to my sister irl. Now my sister's asleep on my couch. The lesson here is to not complain or siblings will fall asleep on your makeshift bed. Forgiveness lies in the clip below. Enjoy].
Tuesday, August 5, 2008
EEE! Succumbed to more technology. One step closer to becoming a total Internetz nerd.
Note:Ghostwriter actually appeared as a yellow streak, so it's not pee in the image but my meager rendition of Ghostwriter.
Everyday I see new posts for ghostwriters on Craigslist. Every ghostwriter position (or writing other people's memoirs/novels/etc. without the use of your name) requires that you have experience ghostwriting, but how do you get your foot in the ghost writing biz? Who do you approach to become a ghostwriter? Your mother, teacher, Clint Howard (Ron Howard's significantly more awkward sibling)? I'd like to ghostwrite an urban novel - take my skillz to the streetz. But if Ghost Dad needs a ghostwriter, I'm there.
Speaking of writing, living in the suburbs sometimes produces great ideas for movie material. I want to write either a short story or movie about the former alcoholic security guard who works at the pool. He lives with two cats, says crude things about women and leaves the air conditioning on for his cats. Once a former cop, he had his badge taken away before trying to drink and drive. Now he works as a part-time security guard at a development pool. Think Ed Harris. With cats. He lusts after the younger girls at the pool, but no Lolitaesque affair.
Friday, August 1, 2008
Love Goot's Cosby sweater. Funny that only 1/3 of the Goot's descriptive title applies today.
Old News: Playgirl will probably be folding in January. Funny that Mediabistro did a "How to Pitch to Playgirl" piece just yesterday.
Luckily, my article on first date sex will still be published.
I knew a few weeks ago that they'd probably be folding. But I wasn't sure if I could tell everyone about them possibly folding. Feels good knowing something before Gawker blogged about it.
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