Tag Archives: Obsession

My Movie Briefs – Take #1

My Movie Briefs – Take #1

That’s right, I hand wash my unmentionables.

It’s the holiday season again! Time to get out the big box of decorations, bake treats, dig out my clapboard and director’s chair and listen with a child-like sense of magic as the nominations start to roll in.

That’s right, it’s the start of award season and I, for one, need to change my pants because I AM SO DAMNED EXCITED.

Knowing how busy we all are preparing for that “other” holiday, I figured I’d do a mini-review of the movies that look to be award contenders during this, the holiest time of the year.

Sort of a Reader’s Digest version without the old people cartoons about prostate cancer and hearing loss.

So I present a niblet, a trace, a whisper, and a whiff of my opinion on some of the movies I’ve seen thus far, thereby reducing the essence of the gigantic human effort of creating an enduring piece of cinematic art to one or two snarky lines.

Here are my Movie Briefs. (Not to be confused with my actual lucky movie underwear I’m wearing right now.)

Nebraska – This is nothing short of a renaissance for pissy, stoic geriatric Midwesterners. It’s finally your time in the spotlight! And Will Forte, you adorable bastard, call me.

I’m freezing and it’s too damned loud in here.

Blue Is The Warmest Color – Finally, I can now go out in public to watch my foreign lesbian pornography under the guise of French art house noir! If real porn were one-tenth this good, well, I’d probably have to quit my job.

Dallas Buyers Club – Heroine-chic is so 90’s and so OVER. If you are not sporting retro HIV-chic then I simply cannot be seen with you.

12 Years A Slave – Terrific, fantastic, impactful movie that states what we all grudgingly know deep down inside – white people are just very bad.

Captain Phillips – Tom Hanks acts out exactly how I responded to the news I was having twins with his amazing portrayal of PTSD. Nailed it.

I don't accept this! Re-do the ultrasound now!

I don’t accept this! Re-do the ultrasound now!

Blue Jasmine – Mental illness has never been so exceptionally well dressed. I wanna get me some of that!

Gravity – Sandra Bullock is one badass chick, floating through space all perfectly toned yet “sciencey” at the same time. Only thing that would have made it better is if they threw Melissa McCarthy out there with her. Now that is a buddy movie I can get my arms around.

Enough Said – So adorable, heart-warming and moving that I am suddenly drawn to overweight, balding yet soulful middle-aged men. That’s right, I’m looking at you, Dennis Franz. Call me.

That’s it for now. Stay tuned for round #2 when I’ll give you the 411 on depressed folk singers, dysfunctional families, techno-erotica, corporate greed and Walt Disney. Deck those halls!

My Summer In a Women’s Prison

My Summer In a Women’s Prison

I think it’s time I came clean. I have been harboring this terrible secret for too long and the guilt and stress is eating at my very soul.

You see, while the rest of you have been out frolicking in the summer sunshine, I have hidden in dark corners, waiting until no one could see me and I was at last alone, to give into my dark, terrible addiction of…….online TV series.

Oh, it started innocently enough. I quite purposefully tried to spread out my True Blood binge this year, limiting myself to two episodes a week of vampires, werewolves, shape shifters, faeries and, of course, very tight Swedish buttocks.

I suppose I do more than my fair share of squats. Does that make me a naughty Swede?

I suppose I do more than my fair share of squats. Does that make me a naughty Swede?

But once my supply of True Blood ran out, I had to hit the seedy cyber streets to find more.

I kept it innocent enough at first, moving on to Hemlock Grove, which is like True Blood Lite. It even stars the younger brother of our naughty Swede, Bill Skarsgard.

Will I ever be as hot as big brother? Only time will tell, my little Nordic friend.

Will I ever be as hot as big brother? Only time will tell, my little Nordic friend.

This one came equipped with gypsy werewolves in high school, Famke Janssen as a Joan-Crawford-meets-Morticia matriarch, and something called a Upir, which is a Russian werewolf who can walk around during the day.

But when did walking around during the day become an issue for werewolves? Alcides does it all the time on True Blood…and, he rarely wears a shirt….and does household chores.

I’ll get right on that gutter once I’ve done something unimaginably sexy with this ax.

I’ll get right on that gutter once I’ve done something unimaginably sexy with this ax.

See, I was too early into my addiction to suspend disbelief. I still needed to wrap all that weird shit in logic.

Instead, I just ended up with feelings of confusion, emptiness and shame.

So, I decided to go for something of higher quality that wasn’t cut with junk.

I started to troll the Sundance Channel and found Top Of The Lake.

This one had no mythical creatures. But, it did have inbreeding, self-flagellation, teen pregnancy, meth labs and crazy face tattoos.

I had no self-control after the first episode and was back to my old ways, binging out and watching the whole thing within a week.

And I won’t lie.

It.

Felt.

Good.

From there it was a free fall into dark subject matter. I remember waking up on the couch after a jag of all 13 episodes of Orange Is The New Black. I think I had blacked out somewhere around the point where Piper is cornered in the shower by a bunch of hillbilly, born-again meth addicts with a homemade shiv.

That’s right, I was freebasing a women’s prison dramedy. But, I had blown my wad and had nothing to fall back on. I had no stash. No new season of anything for easily 6 months at best! How was this sudden detox going to play out?

But, there is always someone out there who will keep you hooked.

And along came Broadchurch. A tasty, dark, disturbing drug from those damned BBC Thugs-on-Thames. But, since it’s a current show, iTunes has become my very own mini-series methadone clinic, only allowing me to watch one episode per week.

I have five more episodes before I am once again left starved, shaking and on the street looking for my next fix.

If I can just hang on until the new season of New Girl, I may get through this yet. Yes, what I need is some lighthearted, innocent entertainment to soothe my darkened soul.

…..unless Jess becomes a Zombie coke whore.

....it could happen.

….it could happen.

The Shame of The Domesticated Human

The Shame of The Domesticated Human

Dogs are the leaders of the planet. If you see two life forms, one of them’s making a poop, the other one’s carrying it for him, who would you assume is in charge.
― Jerry Seinfeld

Let me begin by saying that I freaking love animals. Well, almost all animals. I’m not a huge fan of the hyena or the wolverine because they are just huge assholes.

That’s a scientific fact.

Seriously, look at these jackasses!

Seriously, look at these jackasses!

I’ll start over. I love all non-douchebag animals.

Now that we have that established…

I especially love dogs. I have a dog who is so awesome, it’s like if Jesus Christ and Spiderman had a dog baby. Yeah, that’s how god-damned off the hook my dog is.

However, I do sit and ponder at times, as I watch him go at his donkus like it’s his last meal, why we think it’s OK to have these beasts live INSIDE our houses and skulk among us.

(I know you may be wondering if this profound thought occurred to me after the inhalation of some organic substance but the answer is no. I don’t need weed to think like this. At least not this time.)

Most of us generally try to minimize the invasion of outside elements inside our cozy little human dens. We freak out and go all Charles Manson on spiders, flies, mice, rats, whatever living thing was not expressly invited into our Pottery Barn lives.

But, for some reason, we find it completely acceptable to have filthy canines and felines take over our entire home, shed skin and hair all over the place, upchuck anything from cat turds to hairballs to chicken bones on our new area rugs (a wipeable surface isn’t even open for discussion), and practically shoot fleas and ticks at you like one of those t-shirt guns.

Then they top it all off by mining their buttholes with their tongues and proceed to lick you all over the face.

They are totally flipping us off, you know that, right? They are all a pack of hairy grifters pulling the best scam ever.

It really is like we are in some sort of sado-masochistic relationship where we have not established a safe word.

They stink up our houses, lay around all day, don’t pay any rent, demand to be watered AND fed and crap all over our lawns.

It’s like your annoying unemployed brother-in-law has come for an extended visit.

But I don’t have opposable thumbs, dude….be reasonable! You cannot resist me! Now what’s for dinner? And, while you’re up, go get me another beer.

But, damn it, they are so soft and cute!!!

The entire human race has been glammered.  Like vampire glammered.

You will believe the fact that I poop in a box is adorable.

Has anyone even looked into other species to bring into our homes for….whatever the hell it is they do for us?

(Yeah, I know…love, companionship, acceptance. All the stuff we are supposed to get from other humans and don’t. Which is why the divorce rate is so high.)

For your consideration: the naked mole rat. Now here is an animal that can use a little love and acceptance.

Happy little mole rat eating a tuber.

Happy little mole rat eating a tuber.

Just think of the fun little outfits you could dress him in. And, this guy could really use a sweater.

Not so much?

OK, how about a sloth? From what I read in Us Magazine last time I was at the gynecologist, they are all the rage right now.

Yeah, baby. Let’s put on a little R&B, pour a snifter of Courvoisier and……..sorry! I nodded off!

Though, personally, owning one of the seven deadly sins feels a little risky.

OK, so now that I have googled as many weird animals as I can to avoid work, I suppose dogs and cats do have a bit of a case. They’ve learned to adapt to us and we’ve not only adapted to them, we worship them like deities.

What’s that you say, man’s best friend? You need me to express your anal glands?

My pleasure!

Personal Space Invaders

Personal Space Invaders

At one time or another we have all come across one. Some of you may even be one. What I speak of is the Close Talker, the all-too-frequent person who just loves to get all up in your space.

It seems like, and this may just be me and my pile of neurosis, but the universally agreed-upon personal space boundary of 18 inches to 4 feet seems to be in jeopardy. I’d love to think it’s simply my exceptional magnetism that is causing people to stick to me like flies on shit, but I believe it may be a wider spread problem.

It seems to crop up all over the place. At work, social events, standing in lines. Who hasn’t had that  person behind you in line seeming to climb up on your back while waiting to buy their Hot Pockets and Tab?

No one will take your crappy food products, honey. Back off and relax. Do NOT make me mark my territory….because I will. In fact, it’s one of the few times when I sort of wish I had a penis, as marking off that distance would be much more effective with that tool at my disposal.

We are not in China, people! We have wide open prairies here.

We are not in China, people! We have wide open prairies here.

Then, there are those who get up in your junk because they are simply liquored up. These people live in the “negative-space” world where they actually seem to try to crawl inside of you.

Now, I understand situational space limitations when one needs a drink at a crowded bar. I’m not an animal, people. I have feelings.

Barkeep! Another Gin Fizz for the little lady!!

But, if you are pushing your way in for, let’s say, your 10th drink, I no longer have the empathy I would have had for your 1st or 2nd.

I had an experience just recently with this exact situation. While standing at the bar of a groovy new hotspot I started to feel a strange pressure against my back that slowly turned into a full-body press. When I turned around to see who my assailant was, I realized it was a famous person who I will refer to as “Sam” because that is his name.

This fine establishment was obviously not his first stop of the night as he was doing that squinty-eyed swaying sort of thing that indicates either an astigmatism and vertigo or being tanked. Me thinks it was the latter.

So, instead of swaying and toppling over, why not just lean up against someone and hope they don’t make any sudden moves. Find a human lamp post, as it were. And if said lamp post is a woman, and I am a drunk dude, all the better.

I was a human lamp post to the stars. A very proud moment for me. Though not so much for him as he was soon escorted out of the place.

So, the moral of  the story is simply this:

Back the hell off!!!!

I will leave you all with this educational film. Watch it and learn. And, by God, stand your ground!

 

The Good, The Bad, The Ugly of Fashion

The Good, The Bad, The Ugly of Fashion

“If you wore a trend the first time around, you don’t get to wear it the second time around.”
― Stacey London

Oh, Stacey London, you are the Socrates of Style. If only people listened.

Like death and taxes, one can always take comfort in the consistency of bad fashion making a return appearance in our culture. It is a testament to the creative limitations of the fashion industry.

And proof that we are a planet of lemmings.

I’ve often wondered where fashion trends are born. I know where they all die – in the back of my closet. But what sort of demented mastermind came up with the idea to resurrect culottes (which first came into fashion as knee-breeches commonly worn by gentlemen of the European upper-classes from the late Middle Ages or Renaissance).

Yeah, I read shit.

I picture a room full of these guys huffing hairspray and coming up with the Summer line.

I have been unfortunate enough to have been the willing victim of several hideous fashion trends. Just like the rest of you, I have happily worn shoulder pads so big I had to step sideways through doorways. I’ve worn neon mini skirts with suspenders and sang “Oh Mickey You’re So Fine” whilst kicking up my sparkly tennis shoes.

Let’s take a moment to walk down memory lane. Well, not so much memory lane, since most of this crap is back or on it’s way back into the fashion focus. Maybe more of a walk of shame.

Hammer Pants (or the “I’ve taken a dump and you can’t tell” pant)

Then:

A bit of street pimp with a dash of Ali Baba.

Now:

Jesus, Chris Brown, did you beat Rihanna with that thing?

The One-piece Jumper

Then:

Just because you could make it in you hobby room, does not mean you should.

Now:

I want to wrap him in a blanket and put him down for a nap.

I want to wrap him in a blanket and put him down for a nap.

 Overalls

Then:

The item of clothing that knew no racial, gender or economic boundaries.

The item of clothing that knew no racial, gender or economic boundaries.

Now:

Here, let me just put on my jaunty chapeau before I hit the fields, Pa Joad.

 Bonus Now:

I…wha?....huh??? I am a business man. No, I am a blue collar man. No, I am a bookish hipster. How about just NO!

I…wha?….huh??? I am a business man. No, I am a blue collar man. No, I am a bookish hipster. How about just NO!

Double Bonus Now:

What do we love more than a hillbilly? A BRILLIANT hillbilly!

What do we love more than a hillbilly? A BRILLIANT hillbilly!

I could go on for many pages about neon, ripped up t-shirts, Varnais sunglasses, mock turtlenecks and platform tennis shoes. But, I think we all get the rather sordid picture here. So, I will leave you with a quote from my favorite famous gay, who is NEVER wrong.

“Fashion is a form of ugliness so intolerable that we have to alter it every six months.”
― Oscar Wilde

A Bunch Of Words About Aging

A Bunch Of Words About Aging

I am 35 years old.

Oh, shut up! I know I’m not 35 – let me explain!!

I seem to have frozen in time at that age. I have not advanced one second past that age. I would say I will die at the age of 35 even though most people will argue that I will be more like 95 (and a HUGE pain in everyone’s ass).

I felt my best at that age and decided I’d hang out there indefinitely. At 35, I was in good physical shape, blazing trails in a successful career, had disposable income and was under the misguided impression that I was in control of my destiny.

I was not too young, nor was I considered old. I was in my sweet spot.

But, my body clearly did not get that memo.

So, this being the case, I feel I’ve become somewhat bi-polar with my insides and my outsides not matching up. I have a good angel/bad angel on each shoulder giving me opposing views.

Sitting on one shoulder sits the woman who will stop at nothing to remain young and beautiful. Let’s call her Carrot Top.

I know!!! I totally look like a woman!!

I know!!! I totally look like a woman!!

On my other sloping  shoulder sits the gnarled and bent figure of the aged and self-possessed woman. We will call her Kathy Bates.

Yep, I’m naked and I’m OK with that, goddamnit.

Yep, I’m naked and I’m OK with that, goddamnit! Get over it!

It doesn’t help that I live in the land of happy, shiny, perky breasts. The buying public, and no matter what my Visa statement says, it does NOT include me, has set the standard for what beauty is all about. The buying public is named Stassi, Shauna, Brandeeeee or some other made-up name.

Do I, like, have something in my teeth?

Do I, like, have something in my teeth?

So, back to Carrot Top and Kathy. Let’s start with Carrot. He sits there with his plump lips, surprising eyebrows and permanent eyeliner. He is telling me that all I need to do is a lift here (to help those falling butt cheeks),  a tuck there (to shore up the jowls that make me look a little more like Nixon every year), a tweeze (because what is it that makes you turn into the Fly after 35?), and a few good shots of some unnatural material to plump you up in just the right spots.

All this for the special package cost of your soul.

But there is Kathy sitting there, a little stooped and a bit androgynous in her look. She wears no makeup or adornments because, well, what the hell’s the point?

She whispers into my ear in a raspy voice “We’ve worked at this beauty thing for decades. We’ve bought every lip plumper, push up bra, gut-sucking underwear, and spent the national debt on anti-aging everything like good little soldier.

Aren’t you just weary of all that work and wasted energy? You could have written several novels, found a cure for the common cold AND found Bin Laden way earlier with the time and brainpower put toward “beauty”….which is a subjective word, by the way.”

(We will pause here while Shauna looks up the word “subjective.”)

So I ask, is there a happy middle ground? Aren’t we supposed to learn moderation as we get older (along with where interest rates are and how our 401K is performing)? Can we learn to love ourselves enough to allow our bodies to age gracefully, as intended?

I see you getting all indignant, shaking your fist at the sky and bellowing “But it’s not us, its MEN who make us this way! It’s MEN who expect perfection!” This may well be at least part of the problem. I don’t know of any men who hang posters of Madeleine Albright in their rooms because she has a really big brain.

And, yes, most men would take a killer rack over a sagging one any day of the week. Who wouldn’t?

I know we’d like to think of ourselves as highly evolved creatures, but the bottom line is, we’ve been doing this little dance since we crawled out of the primordial slime. The vision of a healthy, big-breasted cave woman with childbearing hips sent all the knuckle draggers into a frenzy…just like today.

Oh, our foreheads have come in a bit (except for James VanDerBeek), we’ve discovered bathing (except for Joaquin Phoenix), and now we can talk (often, this is NOT a good thing), but those pesky little DNA strands are still calling the shots.

Don’t you give me the stink-eye young man, you get in that shower NOW!

Don’t you give me the stink-eye young man, you get in that shower NOW!

Women still want to look attractive to men and men still want them to look attractive.

So, do we go against our very nature? Do we thumb out nose at our chemical make up? Why are you asking me? I have no freakin’ idea!

But, it would be nice to think that our intellect would have exceeded this need by now. It does seem like we should know better and would be able to hold other deeper traits in higher regard.

So, it may seem obvious that the Kathy Bates has won the fight. She has triumphed over shallowness and has driven her point down our turkey-like throats. We will be happy with who we are. We will find healthy, graceful, and proud examples to follow. We will love ourselves, cellulite and all.

And, only the evolved, forward-thinking men will be allowed in our sacred presence.

Only the men who, themselves have reached that inner peace. You know, the ones with the “love handles” because somehow that makes fat cute. The ones with arms that jiggle like your grandmother’s…

Gotta go now, Carrot Top is driving me to my Liposuction appointment.

Ode To A Naked Gold Man

Ode To A Naked Gold Man

 

The big event arrives on Sunday

our hearts are all aflame

Daniel, Sally, Helen, Ben

MacFarlane, don’t be lame

 

The glitz and glamour of red carpet style

The men all handsome and lean

With yards and yards of wardrobe tape

Nary a nip will be seen

 

Who will be the big winner this night?

Could it be Zero Dark Thirty?

Or maybe Silver Linings will win

Bradley Cooper makes me feel dirty

 

Lincoln, Django, Life of Pi

All wonderful movies, surely

But with runtimes over 2 hours long

Our bladders were starting to get surly

 

Bradley, Daniel and Joaquin

Denzel and Jackman, Hugh

Thespians every one of them

But which one would you screw? (you know you’ve thought about it….)

 

Who will be the lucky presenter

For Beasts of the Southern Wild

To say the name Quvenzhane Wallis

Big name for such a small child

 

Chastain, Lawrence, Riva, Watts

Each one is the one to beat

Their acting chops are unsurpassed

Honey, please get something to eat

 

Adele will sweep the Best Song prize

And I for one could hug her

I only hope she drinks lot’s o’ plonk

So I can ‘ear ‘er say bollocks and bugger

 

So prepare your snarky comments, all

Let’s judge and rip and tear

Which awkward speech will get played off

Who will trip on a stair

 

You may all wonder why it is

Oscar makes me weak in the knees

The simple, honest, truth is this

I  f**king love movies!

Fact: Zombies Don’t Floss

Fact: Zombies Don’t Floss

Some of you may have gathered by now that I have a tendency to get a little obsessive about some odd little thing. Ya think?

So, in keeping with that, I’d like to take just a moment to discuss our nations disturbing tolerance, nay acceptance, of bad oral hygiene.

Let’s start with two of my favorite movies this year – Django Unchained  and Les Miserables. Is there an award for best dental makeup? If so, it would be a dead heat.

I think the attention to detail is fantastic but the quantity of sheer gore in Django did nothing to turn my stomach like Leonardo Dicaprio’s mouth.

Though, I do posit this question: How could his teeth be so nasty while his skin is still so….luminous?

Why did I still find him repugnantly attractive?

Why did I still find him repugnantly attractive?

It was a similar experience with visiting early 1800’s France. There wasn’t a pearly white in that country, evidently.

Not only could I feel the winds of revolutionary change, I could smell the thick fog of halitosis wash over me along with the national pride.

Thank God John Waters didn’t take this one on and add Smell-O-Rama to the experience.

I think tooth decay is the new terminal disease with actors and a sure-fire road to an Oscar nod.

You have Alzheimer’s, Cancer, Irritable Bowel Syndrome? You acting hack! Smear some green gunk on your teeth and look odiferous and you are a THESPIAN!

So, now on to the smaller screen and some actual, real people who clearly do not have a dental staff.

**Disclaimer: I have seen a combined 90 seconds of all the hillbilly TV shows that are on right now. So, yes, I am making a leap of judgment. But, I feel OK with that. I can be judgey, don’t judge me for that.

Not sure there is much to say, really, with titles like Hillbilly Handfishin’ (one must always remember to drop the “g” to be authentic), Duck Dynasty (I actually thought this was some sort of homage to Daffy Duck but I was very wrong), and Swamp People (obvious),  I think we can safely surmise that Hillbilly Dentist is not doing a gangbuster business.

Which brings me to my idea for an awesome new show called….you guessed it….Hillbilly Dentist, where a Doctor’s Without Borders type group of dentists travel the Bayou in search of the most disgusting maw.

Look Mama, I’m on the television box!

Look Mama, I’m on the television box!

I think our tolerance for watching icky things has run amuck. I can watch people do unspeakable things that are usually reserved for the privacy of ones home (or are deemed illegal by the health department in many states) and not blink an eye.

I make one exception for Zombies. It is a fact that they do not floss so I give them a pass on the whole dental thing.

Brains! Sonicare! Brains! This is so hard!!

Brains! Sonicare! Brains! This is so hard!!

None the less, I sit squarely in the shallowness of simply not liking to look at non-Zombie rotting bridgework.

And, remember kids, in the words of the prophet, Dr. Seuss:

“Don’t gobble junk like Billy Billings, they say his teeth have fifty fillings.”

The Golden Globes – My Lady Parts Are All Tingly

The Golden Globes – My Lady Parts Are All Tingly
Darcy St. Fudge and Damian Francisco of "Dog President"

Darcy St. Fudge and Damian Francisco of “Dog President”

I know there is a glut of Golden Globes commentary floating about the web-o-sphere. I also know that I couldn’t pass any opportunity to barf out my opinion if I tried.

I had a lady boner all night for Tina Fey and Amy Poehler.

(I will give credit where it is due right now – I got the term “lady boner” from the fabulous Jen at http://jeneralinsanity.com. I want it put on my gravestone when I die.)

I believe they are two of the funniest most talented women who ever walked on this crazy blue marble we call earth.

I am in awe of how many amazingly funny women we get to watch these days. Add in Kristen Wiig, Melissa McCarthy, Zoe Deschanel, Leslie Mann, Rebel Wilson, Lucy Punch….I could go on and on, which makes me…well, get a lady boner all over again! Happy day!

Though, some observations did tend to kill my lady buzz, one of which was Mel Gibson. He appeared to either be highly medicated or just stricken. I believe he was paralyzed with fear being surrounded by a room full of Jews, women, African Americans, and any other group he has abused in the past.

Mel Gibson

There’s one behind me right now, isn’t there? Right…behind….me…..

Along with Mel, I’m going to give another thumbs down to Robert Downey Jr. As talented as he may be, he acts like such a giant self-obsessed tool that I can’t bear to watch him.

Which brings me to our friend Jodie Foster, who, in addition to choosing some odd friends, gave one of the most rambling WTF speeches since Mariah Carey at the Palm Springs Film Festival.

My two main thoughts around this are as follows:

Jodie, it is no longer 1985. You seem to think that any of us are sitting around our groovy condos wildly speculating about your personal life while drinking our micro-brews and wearing our hipster knitted caps. Unless we do it ironically, which is highly possible.

We knew you were gay when you were 10. So, either there is a parallel world were tabloids still care about this or maybe Ms. Foster is under the misguided impression that her sexual orientation is more interesting than Lindsay Lohan’s most recent arrest or the sex (and species) of the Kanye West/Kim Kardashian offspring.

BUT, my polar opposite second thought was that the piece about her mother was so beautifully delivered, so graceful and authentic, it made me cry.  Thanks for the emotional rollercosater J-Fost! Like I need more of those in my life.

Then there was Arnold and Sly. Wow. If someone made candles in the likeness of each of them, then burned it for 30 minutes or so, they would be the actual live them. I think their wicks were hidden under their toupees along with their little horns.

Then, just when I thought my buzz was forever rendered useless and sad, along came Will Farrell and Kristen Wiig. They did a take on Garth and Kat from SNL that was crazy funny! If the space-time continuum didn’t exist, I would want to be their love-child

I thought Sacha Baron Cohen’s sarcastic slam on Russell Crow in Le Miserable was pure brilliance: “Russell Crowe had three months of voice training. Money well-spent!”

If I could just….remove this sword from my thigh…I will plunge it into the chest of my agent.

If I could just….remove this sword from my thigh…I will plunge it into the chest of my agent.

And, as much as I want Danel Day-Lewis to be some sort of a freaky asshole, he just isn’t. He’s an eloquent and humble bastard, damn it!

Though, he has to be a challenge to live with what with all the Method acting. Imagine asking Lincoln to take the garbage out or have Bill the Butcher from Gangs of New York mow the lawn.

Is that a gopher hole I see? I will defeat my enemies! Vengeance shall be mine you son of a whore!

Is that a gopher hole I see? I will defeat my enemies! Vengeance shall be mine you son of a whore!

I’m just saying that Mrs. Day-Lewis is a hell of a trooper.

There were many more noteworthy tidbits from the night but I don’t think any of us need me to ramble on and on. We had enough of that on Sunday.

(Though, Leah Michelle needs a spray-tan intervention, Lena Dunham needs to throw a couple of Dr. Scholls inserts into her shoes, Jennifer Lawrence was a little bit of a shit about Meryl but I love her anyway, and Anne Hathaway, can we all just agree to not say “blerg” anymore?)

Suffice it to say that I’m more than ready for the Oscars.

Seth McFarlane, do us all a solid and slip Ben Affleck in for Best Director, will ya? It’s the stand-up thing to do.

I Am An Oscar Whore

I Am An Oscar Whore

You see, I am a whore for the Oscars. I am. And, yes, I feel a level of shame in this fact. I’m not necessarily a beautiful, shorn, singing, consumptive whore like Anne Hathaway in Les Miserables. But a whore none the less.

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Wow, my life sucks.

I know, it’s all fixed, political, not about art, blah blah blah. I get that but, not unlike Lucha Libre and my body fat percentage, I choose to ignore the truth.

Chicken man is totally going to take down Skeleton guy.

Chicken man is totally going to take down Skeleton guy.

I won’t claim to be above loving all the pretty stars, their designer gowns or all the pomp and circumstance. I do love me a red carpet.

But beyond that, it’s one of the rare times that the dirty, crazed, slovenly writers finally get a little love and attention.

Ever since Matt Damon and Ben Affleck, a couple of unknown upstarts, won for Best Original Screenplay for Good Will Hunting, I’ve gotten very choked up when the writers have their moment.

A really smart screenplay with awesome dialog makes me weep. So, either I’m hormonally unbalanced or there aren’t nearly enough good screenplays. My suspicion is it’s both.

As for the actual viewing of the awards ceremony, I’m an Oscar Nazi. I’m not necessarily a steely-eyed, milk-drinking, psychopath like Christoph Waltz in Inglourious Basterds (yes, that’s spelled right). But a Nazi none the less.

Now, vat did vee say about noise? You disappoint me.

Now, vat did vee say about noise? You disappoint me.

I will abide NO chatting, visiting, commenting or mumbling during the actual show. Any Chatty Cathy’s will be throat punched. And, I don’t give a shit if it’s during the best Lithuanian Foley Artist acceptance speech. This is a fucking huge night for Jurgi and by God, let the man have his moment in the sun!

I haven’t seen everything yet but plan on it before the Big Show. In the meantime, here are some of my impressions thus far.

And, don’t worry, I WILL NEVER BE A SPOILER! If I lack integrity everywhere else in my life, I solidly maintain it in this one thing.

Les Miserables  If Anne Hathaway doesn’t reduce you to a quivering jellyfish of tears, you sir, are made of stone and I wash my hands of you! However, a word of warning – they actually SING everything in this movie. Just be prepared. And, if you are even partially  human, bring a gross ton of tissue to sop up your eye juice because you will be dehydrated by the time this thing is done.

I will ask though, what the hell were they thinking with Russell Crow? He was clearly as uncomfortable in that movie as a nun with an STD.

Argo  A friend of mine put it perfectly – “It’s like Jaws without sharks.” It’s true, the tension is stroke-inducing before the opening credits have even begun.

Wonderful to see Ben Affleck getting his shit together post Gigli. It was an awesome movie – loved it!

While it did get a best picture nod, I’m annoyed Ben was passed up for Best Director. But, again, I will turn a blind eye to this slight and be dazzled by whatever Halle Berry is wearing.

Silver Lining Playbook   Great movie. Finally seeing Robert De Niro act again instead of phoning in crap like Meet The Fockers was refreshing. He plays OCD lunatic with a heart like no one ever could.

He’s married to a perfectly quivery and uncomfortable Jacki Weaver.

Bradley Cooper is awesome but looks like he smells like wet feet.

And Katniss Everdeen is even more sulky than during the reaping.

Lincoln  Oh, Danny Day, what planet are you from? The planet of insanely good actors who are probably impossible to deal with in real life? Mr. Method nails everything he does but can you imagine being married to him and asking Mr. Lincoln to take the garbage out or burn a damned match in here when you’re done?

I bet a dead Civil War-era president can really stink up a bathroom.

Life of Pi  Light up a spliff and see this thing with a gallon of popcorn. It’s the prettiest damned movie I’ve seen. And, if you see it in 3-D I think you may see God.

Beasts of the Southern Wild   The little girl in this movie, Quvenzhané Wallis, cannot be for real.  She acted the crap out of everyone on the Best Actress list. And she’s like 5!! And this is her first real movie role!

My kids are double that age and can barely function like a human so I choose to believe she is a 30-year-old midget and my parenting skills go unchallenged.

So, to wrap this thing up, I am a hormonal Nazi whore who has a fondness for good writing. Sounds like the start of a fantastic screenplay!