2 Dollar Productions

There's no better feeling than going into something with high expectations and then having the actual experience raise the bar to astronomical heights of greatness.

And so it went with our trip to St. Johns.

St. Johns is a tiny U.S. Virgin Island less than 9 miles long and can only be reached by a 20 minute ferry ride from the Red Hook dock on St. Thomas; a much bigger island that looked nice but also one that we never felt compelled to visit during our stay.

After a brutal travel day that started at 4:30 a.m., we stepped off the ferry and met our Villa representative, who like most of the people working on the island was nice but vaguely flighty, somewhat slow and yet she still got the job done.

She took us to our rental car, a Grand Vitara SUV with the emasculating name of "Lady Lisa" painted on the side in prominent lettering. I was hoping for the "Red Robin" vehicle, but "Lisa" turned out to be the way to go and taking the sage advice that Tom Jones has been espousing for years - we treated her like a lady all week long.

Our villa, "Plumeria," was a 10 minute drive from the ferry dock, and situated on Gift Hill.

The outside gate was painted white and we were surrounded by colorful flowers that the owner cultivates year-round at the villa. The inside was even better as we had a large wooden sundeck with 4 great lounging chairs, a swimming pool, 2 air-conditioned bedrooms, 2 1/2 bathrooms, a large modern kitchen, a huge sitting room with satelite TV, a stash of boardgames, comfortable couches, more flowers that grew in small patches along the walkways, and an outside dining table that sat beneath a shaded gazebo.

Not too shabby.

But the view from the deck trumped the lodging as every morning, afternoon and evening we were staring at crystal-blue water and the neighboring island of St. Thomas.

The first night was saw the most spectacular sunset that I have ever seen anywhere in the world, and I knew that was a good sign that the rest of the week would follow along a course of sloth and beauty or beautiful slothfullness as the case may be.

A typical day went like this:

8:30 a.m. - Rise and cook a big breakfast at the villa and eat under the gazebo while watching St. Thomas wake up and come to life.

9:00 a.m. - Stumble to a deckchair and drink multiple cups of coffee while alternately reading a book or slathering on suntan lotion.

11:00 a.m. - Pack sandwiches, snacks, water, snorkeling gear, books, towels, and drive "Lady Lisa" to a gorgeous beach that you didn't have to share with thousands of other tourists.

3:00 p.m. - Return to villa and lounge on deckchairs and drink a few Dos Equis while the day starts to cool off.

6:00 p.m. - Drive into the heart of town, Cruz Bay, or along the coast to Coral Bay to find a resturaunt for dinner and watch the sunset.

9 p.m. - Play scrabble or watch a movie at the villa.

11 p.m. - Go to sleep.

Rinse and repeat this process nearly every day for a week and you understand the inherently lazy but perfect nature of the trip.

The beaches of St. Johns were as great as they had been advertised with Trunk Bay being the crown jewel. Although you have to pay $4 to get in, the beach was easily worth it as the sand was soft and fine and white and the water was so clear and blue that it almost looked fake.

But it wasn't and the excellent snorkeling solidified that fact as we saw exotic and colorful fish, a giant tuna and possibly a barracuda (sp?).

Cinnamon Bay and Hawksnest were right behind Trunk for overrall beauty, and then Maho and Salt Pond Bay were also very nice.

The only problem with the beaches was getting there, however, as the road system on the island was sometimes challenging and always windy and steep.

They also drive on the left-hand side over there, but I found the change refreshing as I had gotten too lax in the States and needed the shift in driving conditions to keep my mind focused on the task at hand - which was having enough horsepower to make it up the mountainous pathways and not getting us killed with any crazy left turns.

Livestock was the final challenge that the road system presented us as we encountered cows, donkeys, wild mountain goats, deer and a giant pig during our various trips across the island.

The possibility of vehicular doom was a small price to pay, however, for the rewards which came around every turn as you would suddenly find yourself overlooking lush hillsides that fell away to the pristine ocean waters surrounding the island.

The only real problem we encountered during our stay was the extremely high cost of food. This was due to the fact that St. Johns has to import virtually all their food from other countries, which means that the prices were frequently doubled and sometimes quadruple the cost of the same goods you find in the states.

For instance, a 24 pack of bottled water goes for around $7 at the grocery store or $5 at Costco, but on St. Johns it was $22. I don't mind paying a premium for water, but I did flinch when a USA Today was $3.50 and a dozen eggs was $4.

Only a fool or a pessimistic babboon would quibble about this matter, so we quickly accepted the nature of the beast and focused on enjoying the island and avoiding Kenny Chesney.

We were successful on both counts, and it was truly a sad day when we were forced to leave our villa behind and board the ferry that took us back to St. Thomas en route to Texas.

Now we're home and the real world is beating down the door.

On St. Johns we had no cell phones, our villa phone never worked properly, I never got on the Internet despite the prescence of a Cyber Cafe in town and I saw not a single McDonalds or Starbucks for the entire week.

Now, it's emails to return and phone calls to make and work to perform.

My mind is still in St. Johns, however, and it was a rude shock to open my front door this morning and not see St. Thomas in the distance. Then I got in my tiny sportscar and the roads were straight and level as I drove to the grocery store, where I didn't have to pay nearly $6 for a loaf of bread.

I already miss St. Johns so much I could cry. But I won't.

At least not in front of people.

No promises.

-BDS

It's been a busy Memorial weekend around my place as I recovered from the Kenny Chesney debacle and managed to concentrate long enough to finish writing the rough draft of our second comedy script - "Monkey Business."

I would also like to point out that we have been using "Monkey Business" as a working title for close to 6 months, which was long before the Black Eyed Peas decided to call their upcoming album the exact same title.

Those derivative bastards.

Anyway, I've been describing the script as "Sideways" meets "Old School" with suburban swingers thrown into the mix. I think this is a winning combination of movies that one might not think of in the same breath, but it fits our script fairly well and the suburban swingers part usually catches people's attention.

I also saw "Layer Cake" during a torrential downpour that for reasons unknown filled the theater with groups of seniors who had no idea that the movie was a British gangster drama complete with salty language, murder and thick accents.

Maybe the title threw them off and led them to believe it would be on par with "Chocolat" or something else light-hearted and cheery. But they were mistaken and many were audibly dissapointed as they left mumbling about "dirty Brits" and asking each other "did you understand that movie?"

Every time I see a film like "Layer Cake" it reminds me that American-made movies are almost always good-looking. I don't mean the actual visuals; I mean the actors.

Virtually all American movies feature characters that are either very good-looking or at least somewhat striking. From small supporting roles to the nobodies billed as "girl #4 killed in garage" during the closing credits our audiences are bombarded with fantastic looks.

On the other hand, British gangster movies are often populated with shifty characters who look like they haven't bathed in awhile.

You can have big ears, bad teeth, thinning hair, massive nose hair, weathered skin or just about any other physical ailment and still be a major player in these films.

In America, you would be unemployed or typecast as an ugly bastard unworthy of anything better than a guest spot on "According to Jim."

I like the British way, however, and think this underlying physical decay in these movies gives a greater sense of realism because I can't leave my house without running into several average-looking people who are woefully underrepresented in Hollywood.

Physical looks notwithstanding, I found the film at least as good as "Lock, Stock and Two Smoking Barrels" and slightly better than "Snatch," although 'Cake' had no crazy Pikies running around and didn't know how to end itself very well at all.

Just seeing a movie called "Layer Cake" was torture for me because I am on a strict diet that includes no dairy, no sugar, no white bread products, limited sodium, but plenty of green beans.

What a deal, eh?

This will last until Friday when I am supposed to meet a New York City modeling agent at his hotel room in Dallas. And doesn't that sound shady?

He is supposed to be a big player in NYC, and has clients who've been on the cover of "Men's Fitness" and many other national magazines and print advertisements.

The meeting stems from a fitness photo shoot I did for a coffee-table book a few months ago (see Blog archives for more) and which will be published this year before most likely going straight to gay bathhouses across the United States.

We'll see if the meeting happens and what the agent's verdict will be, but let me say right now that I've heard the term casting couch and I want no part of it.

I'll do a lot for a job, but unless Sienna Miller (who has a small role in "Layer Cake") is the one sitting on the couch, then I'm staying off of it.

I have no problem writing about lewd acts and other assorted Monkey Business, but I have no desire to actually participate in the kind that could leave me sore and degraded before our imminent departure for St. Johns.

-BDS

In a little over a week, my brother and I along with two stellar female companions will be visiting the lush island of St. Johns for a week of sun worship, Hemingway Daiquiris, pulp novels, island exploring, fresh-fish eating, Jeep driving, snorkeling, shark-avoiding, sunset-watching, villa dwelling, and indulging ourselves in a generally slothful manner that sounds perfect to me right now.

The fact that our villa has a VCR player also means that we will be watching old "Beverly Hills 90210" shows that are currently on tapes and sitting in my parent's house (I can't wait to re-visit the Dylan McKay drunken/drugged episodes).

The trip sounded sounded perfect on paper and I've been excited for months about it, but then Kenny Chesney had to marry Renee Zellweger on St. Johns just a few weeks before we're due to depart.

I have long held a grudge against Chesney that started somewhere around the time he began wearing sleeveless shirts and pukka (sp?) shell necklaces. I don't think he's mean or arrogant or excessively egotistical - I just find his music treachly and his persona lame.

He's Jimmy Buffet without the humor or intelligence and just doing bicep curls doesn't compensate for a lack of talent or fashion sense.

To make matters worse, Chesney apparently owns a house or a boat in St. Johns so the odds of seeing him are greater than they've ever been in my life.

My main fear when going to beach locals has been and always will be sharks. After the Zellweger-Chesney union, however, I've got to be extra vigilant on our upcoming trip as one eye will be looking for dorsal fins and the other will be trained on any 40 year-old man wearing a pukka-shell necklace.

The easiest solution for everybody would be to simply feed Chesney to the sharks, but that might be a little harsh.

-BDS

I saw "Crash" this past weekend, and it was almost exactly as I anticipated from the previews - well-meaning but ultimately a little heavy-handed.

The issue of race is the beginning and end of every action, conversation and thought in "Crash." The movie is set in Los Angeles, but the message is that it could be anywhere, USA and that we all bring our own experiences and prejudices into our daily interactions with other people.

That message is just fine as any movie that makes people examine their own actions in the context of race relations seems more important than any Vin Diesel movie that comes to mind.

The ensemble cast also does a fine job with the material as Don Cheadle and Matt Dillon are particularly good.

My main problem with the movie is that every single problem or issue boils down to race.

Maybe the filmmakers just wanted to drive home their point, but a little more subtlety would have been appreciated.

I'm not going to argue that there's a fair amount of underlying racial hostility, but "Crash" is the kind of movie where a character would be walking down the street and another person could knee them in the crotch, thus making them very angry.

The person who got kneed in the crotch would be justifiably furious, but he wouldn't be mad because he got a sharp, painful object jabbed in his privates but rather because the person who did it was African-American or Hispanic or Muslim or some other nationality that the victim hates.

If a person walked by and kicked me in the crotch, however, I wouldn't care about my assailant's race, religious credo or political idealogy - Whomever it is that just kicked me is going down.

Some things are not about race; sometimes it's simply about the family jewels.


-BDS

I have a neighbor in my apartment complex who drives a beat-up 1980-something Volvo with a busted taillight and rust covering a major portion of the vehicle.

When the car starts it sounds like an old man choking on a chicken bone, and it emits enough smoke to scare me a little bit.

This car should be shot and put out of its misery, but it continues run and I realize there's something to be said for not having a car payment every month. This past week, however, I drove home after work to discover 4 new tires and 4 new high-tech spinning rims sitting on the ancient rusted-out eye-sore.

Does this make any sense in the world?

The tires and wheels are almost certainly worth more than the entire car, and in my view are completely and totally absurd. It's like people who drive broken-down Chevy Cavaliers and yet they feel compelled to put a $3,000 sound system in the trunk.

I know this isn't a big thing, and so I'll just chock it up to yet another item on the long list of things that perplex me about this world.

The entry will be sandwiched somewhere between soft-core pornography and the popularity of Toby Keith.

-BDS

After Dave Chappelle walked away from his show on Comedy Central and disappeared into the wilds of South Africa, it was reported by several news outlets and inside sources that he had cracked up.

He was either crazy or on drugs. Possibly both.

Chappelle is still in South Africa, but he recently contacted Time magazine to say that he was far from crazy - he was just on a "spiritual retreat."

I don't think I buy that, however, as it smells to me like creative labeling.

It reminds me of the time my garbageman suddenly turned into a "custodial engineer" or when secretary's became "administrative assistants" virtually overnight (although they don't hesitate to accept gifts given to them during Secretary's week).

I can't say that I blame Chappelle for going a little nuts because he morphed from a fringe performer into the hottest comedian working today when he inked that $50 million dollar contract.

That's a big public investment that is bound to cause more people to scrutinize what you're doing. It must put loads of pressure on the brain to come up with funny material lest you be embarrassed and called a fraud or a one-hit wonder who couldn't handle the pressure.

Cracking up a little bit is understandable from that perspective; just don't call it a "spiritual retreat" when you disappear from your show weeks before the premiere, fly to another country and leave everyone with an unfinished product and no idea where you went.

The public and even cable executives aren't stupid enough to believe that kind of crazy talk.

On a positive note, Fox just announced that it will bring back "Arrested Development" next season despite its anemic ratings. The show is easily the best comedy on network television and it's a criminal offense that more people don't watch it.

It's also very offensive to me that people watch "According to Jim" in such numbers that the show just shot its 100th episode. But that's neither here nor there.

What is important is that the network execs got this one right by bringing back "Arrested Development" and proved that it's a fine thing to be crazy like a Fox - sometimes.

[ Editor Note: I've never met a cliche or saying that I didn't like and would utilize if given half a chance.]

-BDS

I spent this past weekend apartment-hunting in Austin, and once again the town got the better of me.

It seems that every time I enter into Travis County my brain gets cross-wired and immediately starts sending faulty signals to my body that I can systematically abuse it until I'm able to limp back onto I-35 and drive north.

It's been 5 years since I got out of college at UT, but whenever I return to Austin some sort of Pavlov response kicks in - at least for one night. My brain tries valiantly to transport my body back in time to a place where it never got tired and could manage to drink all night without a hangover the next day.

The problem is that I'm no longer 20 years old and my tolerance for both alcohol and hangovers has gotten abysmally bad.

So, this presents a real conundrum because in a few short months I'll be moving to Austin to set up residence. But now I'm starting to wonder if I can live in a city that has beaten me like a gong for the past several years, and shows no signs of stopping.

Austin has many great things going for it, a lively film industry, Tex-mex, barbeque, live music, outdoor activities and more. It's also got enough distractions for any three cities, and that can get you in trouble.

Steve Earle once noted that although he loved Austin, he could never live full-time in the city because "the girls were too pretty and the dope was too cheap."

Maybe things have changed since he said that, but I'm been fighting a losing battle with the city since May 2000 and I keep coming back for more because there's no place I'd rather be than right inside the belly of the beast.

-BDS

"You a pothead Focker?" - Robert De Niro

It's dangerous business to dabble with dope these days - at least according to a large ad I recently read in my morning newspaper.

I'm pretty sure the ad was placed by the same anti-drug group that pays for those TV commercials which range from being unintentionally hilarious ("Just tell your brother you forgot to pick him up from practice because you were high") to downright creepy (the one with the old woman who haunts the poor teen who killed her while driving impaired on Mary Jane).

The purpose of the ad was titled "Marijuana and your teen's mental health" and seemed designed to whip parents into an emotional frenzy.

According to the ad, "new research is giving us better insight into the serious consequences of teen marijuana use, especially how it impacts mental health." And the results aren't pretty.

Did you know that teenagers who smoke dope have double the risk of depression later in life? Or that they are 3 times more likely than non-users to have suicidal thoughts? But the worst part is that marijuana use has recently been linked to an increased risk for schizophrenia later in life.

This would all scare me to death if I didn't think it was utter horseshit.

I knew several people in high school and college who smoked dope and the only time they got crazy was when we would run out of mint chocolate chip ice cream or Cheetos - and that's a perfectly understandable response.

It was far more common for people to do crazy and reckless things while drunk on alcohol than it was for the pothead crowd.

Smoking dope generally makes you prone to long stretches on the couch while watching movies like "Old School" or "Dazed and Confused."

But apparently marijuana is no longer a lark or a relaxation tool - nowdays you better scare your children straight because "their mental health may depend on it."

I just hope that there's not an ad placed in next week's paper warning parents that masturbation causes blindness later in life because all we need in 20 years is to be surrounded by large masses of blind and schizophrenic animals.

Now that's scary.

-BDS

The best thing that can be said about the new epic "Kingdom of Heaven" is that it looks nice.

The cinematography is excellent, but that doesn't really make up for the fact that the movie is Gladiator-lite, a problem which is mostly due to the casting of Orlando Bloom (although the screenplay doesn't help matters).

Generally, I like Orlando Bloom just fine and bear no grudge against the man just because he's handsome and makes most women squeal in delight. He was excellent in the "Lord of the Rings" triology and enjoyable in "Pirates of the Carribbean."

After his role as a spineless coward in "Troy," he's cast here as a blacksmith who through a ridiculously easy process ends up defending Jerusalem from the Muslims.

It might be his skill as a swordsmen that causes this to happen or it might be the fact that he has by far the best set of teeth in the movie.

Bloom is not helped in his quest for believability by a screenplay that has him turning from the aforementioned blacksmith into a cold-blooded warrior, military expert and confidant to the King after a single, abbreviated sword lesson from Liam Neeson.

Although Bloom tries hard to project an aura of strength, it's increasingly clear that his youthful looks and relative lack of depth are no match for veterans like Neeson or Jeremy Irons.

They look and act like they've seen things and been around wars far longer than it took for Bloom to grow his scraggly beard.

They are real men - a fact that is solidified by Neeson's announcement early in the film that he "once fought for two days with an arrow through my testicle."Call me cynical, but I don't think Bloom would fight for two minutes if he ever caught an arrow in the groin.

Although to be fair, neither would I.

-BDS

As if the state of Texas needed to give the national media any more reason to mock us, our team of monkees (known collectively as the state legislature) added another to the list yesterday when they passed the lewd cheerleader bill through the House.

Apparently, the most pressing issue concerning Texas public education is not that the legislature can't find a sane way to finance schools, but rather it rests on the pelvic angles of their cheerleaders.

The bill was proposed by Rep. Al Edwards, a deranged ordained minister from Houston, who called the vote "monumental."

He's right - it was monumentally asinine and a complete waste of time.

Edwards has a long track record of allowing his ministry to ride roughshod over common sense, and once upon a time he advocated cutting the thumbs off drug dealers in prison as a reasonable punishment.

The only fitting punishment for Edward's utter waste of taxpayer time and money would be to strap him to a chair and let squad after cheerleading squad dance suggestively in front of the good Reverend until he started foaming at the mouth.

And then they would dance some more.

On a related note, the scene in "Bring It On" with the militant cheerleading coach is one of the funniest I have every seen committed to film.

Let me see those Spirit Fingers people . . .

- BDS

After a long day at work, I came home last night anticipating nothing more than a cold Fat Tire ale and a new episode of "The O.C." Instead, I got George W. Bush.

What a lousy trade, eh?

Seth and the gang of privileged miscreants were canceled for an hour-long discussion of Bush's doomed social security plan followed by a Q & A session that yielded very little noteworthy information.

One would think that the White House would check their TV Guide before scheduling a Presidential press conference. Why couldn't they have George talk on a night like Monday, which boasts no good television shows. Even Wednesday night would have worked this week because "Lost" was one of those lazy clips episodes.

But this decision to banish "The O.C." is just another black mark for Bush in my book, and I hope he learns a lesson from this sordid little episode; although I seriously doubt it.

-BDS

The summer movie season is almost here, and depending on your point of view, this either constitutes a rich and rewarding experience or it might feel like you're losing IQ points every time you sit inside a theater.

Regardless, the summer has to be better than the crop of putrid shitbombs that Hollywood has been unleasing on the public since January.

Something has to give because I'm ready to return to the theater and Vin Diesel in "The Pacifier" or anybody in a remake of a horror film will not get me there.

And with in mind, here's few of my picks that might be worth a look this summer judging from the magazines I've read and the previews I've seen.

THE GOOD

1) "War of the Worlds" - Tom Cruise and Steven Speilberg rarely put out bad movies and the trailer looks pretty cool. I also like the fact that these aliens would chop E.T. to pieces if he ever stuck his creepy fingers in their direction.

2) "The Wedding Crashers," - Owen Wilson and Vince Vaugn crash weddings and pick up girls in this comedy, which Wilson has cited as an ode to the comedy classics of the 80s. "R-rated movies - Stripes, Animal House, all those movies that I liked . . .," Wilson said. Even if "Animal House" wasn't made in the 80s, I like the way he thinks and I'm definitely hitting this wedding.

3) "Untitled Mike Judge Comedy" - "Office Space" was good (not great like a lot of people believe), but I still want to see Luke Wilson be cryogenically frozen and then wake up in the future to find that the rest of us are now a bunch of morons.

THE BAD

1) "Monster-in-Law" - Jane Fonda makes a comeback to the big screen with J Lo and Michael Vartan in this romantic piece of garbage that looks distinctly unfunny and somehow makes the Fockers look like comedy geniuses.

2) "Stealth" - This is one of those movies that was shot before a star hit big (Jaime Foxx) and then the studio tries to cash in on their newfound fame. In this case, the movie centers on a trio of elite naval pilots trying to stop a rampaging computerized jet - AND Jessica Biel plays one of the pilots. Let me repeat that for emphais, Jessica Biel plays an elite Naval pilot. Did I also mention that I'm a rocket scientist?

3) "Dark Water" Although the trailer looks kind of creepy, once you realize that everyone in the film seems to be running from WATER things change in a hurry. I'm sorry but taking a shower rarely scares me and it's been years since I was traumatized by a garden hose; I still don't want to talk about it.

THE UGLY (OR THE STRANGE)

1) "Charlie and the Chocolate Factory" - I'm hoping this will be good because like most people I have a fond place in my heart for the original, which featured Gene Wilder and those dirty-looking Oompa Lompas (sp?). Anyway, at the very least this will be one weird ride through Mr. Wonka's house upon which dentistry is built.

2) "Mr. and Mrs. Smith" - I'll go see this one, but the production was in tabloid and re-shoot hell, which is rarely a good sign. On the plus side, Angela Jolie and Brad Pitt have enough good looks between them to render things like plot, pacing and dialogue almost obsolete.

3) "The Longest Yard," - Here's another remake, and from the preview, I can't say that it was a successful one. It doesn't appear to be even remotely funny (even with Chris Rock) and I don't buy Adam Sandler as an inmate or a quarterback. He might be the "Waterboy," but he's no Burt Reynolds, who also happens to be in this film.

-BDS

Last month I posted about a strange and intriguing personal ad that I discovered in my local Dallas Observor. It read:

Hot And Willing Oven

Burning for change. If I see another spaghetti dish, I will die. If you're raw, looking to get baked, and fancy yourself a break from the same old same old, then you're the dish for me. Especially interested in simple but delectable creations involving The Other White Meat. Call me at 515-223-2770. I'm already preheating.

I was obviously too obtuse to decipher the meaning of the message, but now this mysterious author has written a new ad reading:

Hunk of the Other White Meat

Seeking the perfect sauce. Think luscious. Must be adventuresome but simple to prepare. Open to experimentation. Will try any combination of soy, balsamic vinegar, fruit essence, and exotic syrup as long as it complements my unique flavor and delicate texture. Alfredo, marinara, tetrazini need not respond.

Call me at 515-223-2770

The saga continues as this creature has obviously not found what she is looking for in the first round of food-flavored weirdness. Again, I am assuming the author is female, but that is still uncertain.

This whole thing continues to baffle me, and I keep conjuring up horrible images involving some mutant scene from "9 1/2 Weeks" combined with "Sideways" if the author ever finds a suitable mate.

I can easily picture the hard-loving but extremely portly couple from "Sideways" covering themselves in all sorts of condiments and frolicking naked around their house; a thought which is far from sexy.

But like I said in my previous post, I might be entirely wrong about everything.

-BDS

Today marks the 50th anniversary of Albert Einstein's death, and so the wild-haired scientific genius gets another chance to make the rest of us feel stupid.

E=MC2 will forever be burned into our collective brains even if most of the world couldn't tell you what the individual components stand for much less what they mean as a whole.

If he were alive today, Einstein would probably laugh at our priorities as his accomplishments would undoubtably be buried behind hard news about Britney Spears pregnancy or the state of Nick and Jessica's marriage.

It's slightly depressing to me that I could tell you what real estate properties that Brad and Jen are haggling over, but would have no idea how to describe Einstein's theory of relativity.

He described it this way:

"Put your hand on a hot stove for a minute, and it seems like an hour. Sit with a pretty girl for an hour, and it seems like a minute. That's relativity."

Well, Einstein might trump me on science and analogies, but I am a member of his beer-drinking club. It's a little known fact that when Albert wasn't remaking science in his own image that he was pounding beers and ogling women and eating peanuts at pubs across the U.S.

Or maybe that was just me.

Regardless, I joined a local Austin chapter of the Einstein Pub Club at The Draught Horse when I was just 19-years-old. I was armed with only my wits and a bad fake ID when I consumed the 50 different beers necessary for inclusion and then passed a brutal written examination about the varying ales, lagers, stouts and porters.

I am still proud of my accomplishment and the special kinship that I share with Albert Einstein.

My only regret is that I was never able to sit down with the man himself for a few cold ones because I have always found that my intellect rises substantially after I've been drinking.

-BDS

The Cookie Monster has been castrated!

Well, that's a little severe, but the the big, blue furry creature on "Sesame Street" probably feels that way after it was recently announced that he would no longer be able to consume cookies in massive amounts.

For years, the Cookie Monster lived and breathed cookies. It was his mission in life, and viewed from any perspective, the man did his job well.

Too well.

It seems that the creators of "Sesame Street" now feel that the Cookie Monster's powerful lust for cookies is not suitable for young and impressionable minds. We must shield our children from the frenzy of cookie lust that is found whenever the Monster appears seems to be the show's new credo.

The next season of "Sesame Street" will emphasize children's health, and the Cookie Monster just didn't fit the new image. Instead of singing his long-standing anthem, "C is for Cookie and that's Good Enough for Me," the poor Monster will soon be forced to utter "A Cookie is Sometimes Food."

I can vividly picture the Cookie Monster locking himself in his trailer, and begging for someone to shoot him and put him out of his misery as I write this diatribe.

The man's one passion in life was cookies, but now he's being told that his life force is only "sometimes food."

This whole thing stinks of a public relations ploy. It's just another way to cater to parents whose kids are fat as hell and expanding every day. The reason can't fall to the parents themselves and the fact that they allow their kids to eat fast food and then park themselves in front of the TV or the computer for hours on end.

That makes no sense at all - the fault has to be with the Cookie Monster and his disgusting habits. It's obviously the only sane answer, but we're all a little bit worse off for it.

The Cookie Monster spoke to the inner junkie in all of us. He was that part of ourselves which knows we shouldn't drink too much or eat an entire pizza at 2:30 a.m. or drive too fast or have too much fun.

But we do it anyway because living life in moderation is not really living at all, and the Cookie Monster knows this fact better than most.

So raise a box of Girl Scout cookies aloft for the blue, googly-eyed Monster, scarf the entire contents down in one sitting and send a silent acknowledgement for a partner in crime who recently got blind-sided by a gang of jackasses.

-BDS

It took me roughly 5 minutes to buy "The Talented Mr. Ripley" and "Sideways" on DVD this week at my local Best Buy. Driving home took another 8 minutes and then walking from my detached garage to my front door added another 2 (because I stumbled slightly along the way).

Then it took me nearly 20 minutes, one hangnail and 4 raw fingers to finally open the movies I had just purchased.

These days I find opening a DVD akin to Chinese water torture and only slightly better than lighting myself on fire.

Whatever deviant and dirty bastard came up with the idea that every disc should contain an outer layer followed by three stickers along all entry points should be beaten with a meat whip and forced to open DVDs for hours on end until his hands are bleeding and his mind is jelly.

I don't begrudge stores for wanting to keep their merchandise from being stolen, however, I find it a bit silly when I bought "The Talented Mr. Ripley" for only $5.99, yet it still contained 3 stickers.

When will the madness end, and where can I find the innovator of this anti-theft technology?

Let's bring back some common sense to the world, and we can start with the packaging of DVDs. It's not much, but it's a start and if the manufacturer's won't listen to reason then I'm sure there's a discount to be had when buying meat whips in bulk.

And while we're meat-whipping these people into submission, I would also volunteer Tom Delay for the punishment, although for entirely different reasons.

-BDS

Well, I just got back from catching a mid-week viewing of "Sin City" and coming back to the real world was tough.

After nearly two hours of depravity, it was hard to leave the confines of Basin City (the actual town name) and come home to a place that didn't smell of cigarettes and a city where hookers don't rule the streets while wearing sexpot outfits that look they were bought with a deep discount at some sort of bondage vigilante superstore.

It also doesn't make it easier to leave when every female in the city looks like Jessica Alba or Rosario Dawson or Brittany Murphy.

The movie looks and is flat-out cool, and although the dialogue takes getting used to (it felt like a parody of hard-boiled banter for awhile) the experience was a good one.

It seems that everyone in Hollywood appeared in the film at some point or another, and most handled themselves quite well among the squalor of the city. Clive Owen, Bruce Willis, and surprisingly enough Elijah Wood all thrived in the film, but it was Mickey Rourke who dominated everyone.

Rourke was almost unrecognizable as his head looked like silly-putty that had been pounded with a meat hammer, but he held the screen for his entire section of the film and left an impression long after he was gone.

When he briefly re-appeared near the end I was hoping he would get back into the action, but I was pacified with a gyrating Jessica Alba, her trusty lasso and an extremely lucky pair of leather chaps.

My main problem with the movie was the way it bookended itself with Josh Hartnett.

For once, Hartnett didn't appear that he would start weeping uncontrollably at any given moment, but his smooth features looked out of place in the mean city and the contention that he would be a contract killer was laughable.

There's simply no room for actors like Hartnett in "Sin City" - it might be a place full of perverts and wineheads and killers but you have to draw the line somewhere.

-BDS

I spent April Fool's Day in Austin, and the joke was definitely on me as I found myself locked in on a self-imposed booze trip that found me pouring Shiner Boch and margaritas down my neck at an alarming rate of speed.

Ostensibly, I was down there to attend Jerry Jeff Walker's birthday concert with my Dad and my brother, but after a mediocre show that lasted a little over an hour, the only sensible solution seemed to be found at the bottom of many beer bottles.

Although the show was a disappointment, the bathroom at the concert venue provided me with many a laugh.

This is because the bathroom at the Broken Spoke on South Lamar is a pit that holds one large, rusted trough as well as a sink that doesn't work and the place is rounded out by an industrial-size trashcan that sits in the corner.

Three intoxicated men were usually crammed around the trough, which left room for two more people to stand behind the pissers and give advice while discussing the condition of the facilities.

It was during my second or third trip to the bathroom that an older man with long, grayish hair ended up standing behind me as he waited impatiently for a place at the trough to open.

Here's a transcript of the conversation he had with the three of us situated at the trough (despite the fact that none of us said a word throughout most of his monologue):

Man: Goddamn, this place is tiny and I've got to drain the lizard. Hurry up there boys. Son of a bitch you would have thought they would have put more places to piss in here for Christ's sake. I guess in a pinch you could always piss in the sink and shit in the trashcan over there. In fact that sounds like a good deal for everyone.

Pisser to my left: Except for the trashcan.

Man: Hey, we've all been there before buddy.

I quickly finished and left the bathroom laughing as I pictured this guy squatting down over some nasty trashcan in a dark alley somewhere in Austin. It was only later that I realized that I should have been angry with this sick bastard for lumping me in with him and his inability to shit in normal places.

When he spewed out that "we've all been there before" the implication was that I had also been down that road paved with garbage cans full of shit.

But I have not, and I have no plans to start.

What my plans do include, however, is a sharper focus on what people say and what it means in a broader sense. Quite simply, I've got enough problems that I create on my own without having other filthy degenerates putting me smack in the middle of their seedy bathroom issues.

Life is too short, and there's simply too many working toilets for that kind of shit.

-BDS

Things are looking up this week as the sun is shining, 'Lost' is back on and we finally finished entering our first script, "Last Train to Amsterdam," into 3 contests that I'm sure will bring us fame and fortune beyond our wildest dreams.

My wildest dreams typically have a Roman theme with wine and Eunuchs and scantily-clad females feeding me grapes as I lounge around with one hand grasping a turkey leg and the other on the firm buttocks of a vestal virgin.

But it doesn't pay to live in a fantasy, and we'll soon see if anyone outside of our small circle of friends will think that the script is any good.

I did receive feedback this week from a client, who said that she enjoyed reading the thing, but that I had a "twisted sense of humor," a sentiment which seems about right.

Let's hope that the upcoming contest screeners will feel the same way, and that they can see past the uplifting dramas about leprosy or the deranged character studies about obscure South American priests and know that what the public really needs is a movie about boy bands, degenerate train conductors and polar bears.

The decisions won't be handed down until the summer, however, and my brother and I (with our respected paramours) have made the necessary reservations and should be sitting poolside at our villa in St. John's when the announcements are made.

I can think of no better place to be than a Caribbean island getaway when we get the news - And I'm going to call ahead to make sure that the Villa is stocked with alcohol, grapes and maybe a few Eunuchs if they can get their hands on some.

-BDS

Much like using public restrooms or watching Steven Seagal movies, I rarely read the personals in my local Dallas Oberver - but occassionally shit happens and you have to use a 7-11 toilet or it's impossible to keep yourself from watching "Under Siege."

This past weekend I also found myself perplexed by an ad placed on the back page of the Observer and it's meaning has been plaguing me ever since. Perhaps I'm too dense or simply not hip enough to catch the hidden subtext, but here it is:

Hot And Willing Oven

Burning for change. If I see another spaghetti dish, I will die. If you're raw, looking to get baked, and fancy yourself a break from the same old same old, then you're the dish for me. Especially interested in simple but delectable creations involving The Other White Meat. Call me at 515-223-2770. I'm already preheating.

For me, this post raises more questions than it provides answers, but maybe that's the point. The message is intriguing and leaves itself open for many interpretations that might pique the interest of prospective suitors.

The only thing I took from the post was that the writer wants to get high with whomever she (he?) dates. I assume the author is female, but even that is not certain.

And what's with the other white meat? Is that simply an "Austin Powers" reference or is she seeking a different racial preference? And is this oven talk a hint that she wants someone to knock her up?

Riddles in the dark . . .

Whoever the author is, she's obviously a sexual creature full of mystery with an appetite to match. Regardless, I would be very careful before dating her because if she's been eating that much spaghetti then she's probably fat as a cat or carrying enough disease to stop a charging rhino at 50 paces.

But maybe I'm missing the point entirely, and if that's the case, then someone please explain it to me.

-BDS

Good Friday is here again and once more I have to wonder why we feel the need to throw an adjective in front of the day.

In my book, every Friday is a Good Friday. It's not like we ever designate something as Shit Monday or Worthless Tuesday (Fat Tuesday sure), but Good Friday has always been known as such, and although I believe there's some religious significance attached to the name, it escapes me at the moment.

I have always loved Fridays.

Some people might argue that Saturday is the best day of the week, but those people are dingbats and can't be trusted. The believers claim that Saturday night is the one for mystery and partying and romance.

All of this might be true, but the great thing about Friday is that you still have Saturday in reserve. You can still get wild on a Friday and know that you have Saturday just waiting for you to use in any way you see fit. If you blow Friday off, however, and try to shoot your load on Saturday night it will end badly because sometime during the night you realize that Sunday is right around the corner (or has already arrived) and that just sucks.

Sunday is the antithesis of Friday. According to Kris Kristofferson, it's a day for soul-sucking lonliness and your horrid condition can only be averted by getting stoned and maybe eating some fried chicken.

Fair advice, but that also brings us back to why Fridays are usually so good because that's the day that new movies are released. Unfortunately, the parade of cinematic garbage is still being served up and the only way to sit through any of the recent fare would be to get so incredibly stoned that you don't realize that Ashton Kutcher has replaced Sidney Poitier in a remake of "Guess Who's Coming to Dinner."

I shudder to think what might be next on the remake list if anyone thought this new Kutcher vehicle seemed like a good investment. I know I've been longing to see Wilmer Valderra in "Scarface" for what feels like an eternity.

On second thought, maybe all Fridays aren't good Fridays, but on days when at least one good movie debuts, there's simply no comparison.

-BDS

"A thousand thousand slimy things lived on, and so did I,"
- Sam Coleridge, "The Rime of the Ancient Mariner"

Few things in the world are worse than a raging hangover.

Having your toenails ripped off by a pair of rusty pliers or being strapped to a chair and forced to listen to Clay Aiken on a constant loop come to mind immediately, but most things are mere child's play compared to a hangover that beats you like a gong for the better part of a day and only lets you go when it gets bored.

I can't count the number of mornings I have gotten out of bed and stumbled to the bathroom muttering "never again" under my stank breath. Never again will I poison my body with booze and end up at Jack N The Box at 2:30 am and order the Bacon Ultimate Cheeseburger combo.

These are all lies, however, because hangovers are like bad luggage or herpes - you can never rid yourself of them.

The best you can hope for is to find ways to cope with an enemy that fights dirty and one that will put your head in a vice faster than a Mafia Don. If you expect a fair fight from a hangover you've lost before you ever started and can expect a day of misery, despair and pain.

The only sensible solution is to go on the offensive.

So, with that in mind here's a recent battleplan that turned into a rousing success for me in the lifelong battle that rages on and on.

8:30 am - Rise and stumble into a hot bathtub with a full glass of water. You might think that sleeping later is smart, but I think the real key is to face the hangover head-on and conquer it.

9 am - Shower and brush your teeth for 17 minutes

9:17 am - Breakfast - This must be undertaken with some skill and you need 1 large pot of strong coffee, 1 glass of O.J., 32 oz. of water, 4 pieces of bacon, 4 scrambled eggs with onion and cheese, side of hash browns, 2 pieces of whole wheat toast, 1 grapefruit, 1 glass of milk and a slice of pie. In addition, take a multi-vitamin, 2 C's, 2 aspirin, and some Ginseng.

11 am - Leave your residence immediately and start moving or you will fall in a heap on your couch and never recover.

11:15 am - As long as it isn't raining, drop the top on your car and put Bob Dylan's "Desolation Row" on repeat as you drive to your local Best Buy or wherever you buy your DVDs.

11:30 am - Buy a good DVD or two to watch in the afternoon while stretched out on your couch. My recent additions of "Raging Bull," "Sex, Lies and Videotape," and "Wonder Boys" were an immense help.

12:15 pm - Visit KFC for 5 of their new '99 cent snacker sandwiches.

12:30 pm - Head to Sonic for a Butterfinger Blast and then go back to your place and shower off the nasty alcohol sweats that are ALWAYS around the next day.

1:15 - pm - Bring 2 good pillows and your DVDs and your Snackers and put your Blast in the freezer as you find the couch and throw the first movie into the player.

The rest of the afternoon should be spent guzzling water, eating Snackers and watching movies. After the first film, make sure you eat the Blast before you start the next one and then drift in and out of sleep as the new one plays in the background.

If you follow this system you should be feeling human again by mid-afternoon and ready to strap another one on for the evening. A hangover is an adaptable enemy, however, so I would recommend changing this routine almost immediately, although the best solution I can fathom would be to stay 18 years old forever.

I never remember having a hangover when I was that age.

-BDS

Everybody is Irish on St. Patty's Day.

The actual amount of Irish blood flowing through your body can be minimal or even nonexistent, but on this day, it doesn't matter as millions of Americans will use the holiday and their "Irish roots" to justify a large indulgence of green beer, Jameson whiskey and all things related to cabbage.

The population of Ireland is a mere 3.9 million people, yet nearly 34 million Americans claim to have Irish ancestory, according to a recent newspaper survey.

I'm not a numbers cruncher, but something seems amiss with those statistics or the more likely scenario is that many people are simply lying to cover their predilection for public drunkeness.

Regardless, I have always loved St. Patty's Day and have fond remembrances of drinking Black and Tans until morning and then watching other people throw up a horrible green liquid into their hands and onto their shoes as I made my way to Denny's for a nice greasy breakfast.

I have never had an ounce of symphathy for these animals, however, as anyone stupid enough to drink green beer gets what they deserve. The beer distributors who came up with this idea must chuckle to themselves every time they pass a puddle of green vomit on the morning after St. Patty's Day.

So, my advice would be to stick with normal beer colors like black (Guinness) or gold (Harp) or amber (whiskey) and leave the green beer for freshmen college students, hopeless dorks from your office or those with 1/100 Irish in them who only claim the ancestory to rid themselves of the shame of wearing stupid green hats and talking about how much they love Bennigans.

-BDS

I picked up the newspaper today and it was filled with sex.

Sex stretched from the front page to the editorials and finished with a flourish in the religion section. It was hard to miss the writing on the wall, and the message wasn't pretty - America seems to be turning into a sex factory full of lust-crazed degenerates who are poised to give the French a run for their money when it comes to perversion.

I missed out on the sexual revolution of the 60s and 70s by not having the good sense to be born yet, but the onset of AIDS in the 80s combined with the stern warnings that sex equaled death effectively squashed the libidos of many young Americans.

But this is no longer the case, and the playing field of high school sex has altered so dramatically in the 10 years since I left it that what was considered hitting a triple in my day wouldn't get you out of the dugout now.

From the sound of things, kids are merely killing time in history class before getting blowjobs at lunch and setting up orgies for the weekend. A 16-year-old student at a Richardson High School wrote an editorial urging parents to face reality, and the reality is that "It's an orgy out there; casual sex is growing like weeds."

Her summation of the current state of high school sex affairs was succinct and informative.

"Here are the facts in our terms: Friends-with-benefits are trendy, trains are becoming more popular, orgies are more accepted than ever, and oral sex is more casual than denim."

I might have enjoyed high school a little bit more had this kind of behavior been more rampant. Besides, I wore jeans to class almost every day, and that's a lot of denim and hummers in any given week.

Maybe Supreme Court Justice Antonin Scalia saw this all coming when he decried the 2003 court ruling which struck down the Texas sodomy law. Scalia warned that the ruling would have dire and far-reaching effects and unleash a "massive disruption of the current social order."

I was all for striking down the sodomy law, which always seemed asinine because anyone who wants the government to legislate what goes on in my bedroom is almost certainly some far-right religious lunatic.

Scalia was all for peeking his head in, however, and wrote in his dissent that "this effectively decrees the end of all morals legislation."

Could it be that Scalia was onto something?

Maybe the pendulum has swung and a new moral code has sprung up when nobody was looking. It's possible that a new sexual revolution is taking place and starting in the high schools before taking to the streets for public orgies, flogging and perversion on a scale that would make Caligula blush.

It's hard to say for sure, but don't be surprised if your neighbor starts coming home with sacks of whips and people start shopping for groceries dressed like the Gimp from "Pulp Fiction."

The "train" is coming to the station, and you better be prepared to climb aboard or you will be left in the dust.

-BDS

I don't watch nearly as much MTV as I did when I was a teenager.

I lived through the "I want my MTV" salad days of the network, but after "Jackass" left the air, I catch only occasional glimpses of the channel and I feel fine with this arrangement. The other day, however, I managed to find some actual music videos as I was surfing and noticed that rapper 50 Cent had the number one slot with "Candy Shop."

Although I can't argue with the video, which features 50 and a group of sleazy sex madams holed up in some kind of mansion where chocolate sauce, whips and oversized bathtubs are the norm, I couldn't help but laugh at the absurdly juvenile lyrics that were pouring from his mouth and that he appeared to be taking them seriously.

"I'll take you to the candy shop, and let you lick my lollipop, oh girl don't you stop . . .

I'll melt in your mouth not in your hand," - excerpts from "Candy Shop"

I wrote something similar but far more clever during my middle school years, but nobobdy was waving a recording contract at me and telling me how they would rent out a giant house full of girls for my amusement.

Instead, Mrs. Chapman took up my piece of scribbled paper and sent me to in-school suspension, thus proving once again that life is often unfair. On the flip side, 50 did get shot 9 times before making it big so I suppose everything balances out in the end.

It won't be balancing out much longer for Sandra Bullock, however, if she keeps turning down film roles like the character that Hillary Swank ultimately played in "Million Dollar Baby." I just read that Bullock was originally approached to play the white trash boxer in the movie, but after demanding too much money she was told to take a walk.

It's hard to imagine any actress doing a better job than Swank, but Bullock could have used the opportunity to stretch herself and give it the old college try. Eventually, she came around and agreed to work for less money, but by that point the producers and Eastwood had decided to go with Swank and Bullock was left out in the cold with only "Miss Congeniality 2: Armed and Fabulous" to keep her warm.

I didn't see the original "Miss Congeniality," but I'm willing to bet at least 50 cents that the film didn't leave many unanswered questions that demanded a sequel, and I would bet a whole dollar that the forthcoming sequel is anything but fabulous.

-BDS

I know that everyone has their own personal list of things or acts that they absolutely will not, cannot or shall not do under any circumstances.

My own personal list includes things like never owning a mini-van or Taurus, never being seen in public with a little Paris Hilton-like terrier, never referring to myself in the third person, refusing to watch home makeover shows, etc.

I also thought wearing a Speedo fit somewhere on this list, but after my photo shoot on Sunday, I realize now that my list must be revised.

First off, I don't own a Speedo, and I think this matters when you consider the circumstances that dictated my wearing one - But I'm getting ahead of myself.

I got to the shoot on a brisk Sunday morning to find the photographer (gay of course, not that there's anything wrong with that), and his assistant (also gay, not that there's anything wrong with that) unloading the camera equipment out of their Ford Explorer.

He had chosen a park near Oak Lawn in Dallas to shoot me. It came furnished with some nice graffiti-laden concrete walls, a small cold creek running through it, plenty of green grass and as a bonus some lucky kid was kicking a soccer ball against the wall while this all occurred.

After mussing my hair with styling product, I put on jeans and a white "wife-beater." I also got to wear my old beat-to-hell Red Wing boots, which reminded me of college and beer and managed to put me a little bit at ease.

Unfortunately, that was the last time I wore a shirt for the next two hours and it was definitely chilly while roaming the park in early March when you're only wearing your white Jockey boxers for warmth. Selah.

Anyway, I quickly progressed (or regressed) from my jeans/beater ensemble to workout shorts sans shirt before moving into my white cotton Jockey boxers. It was at this point that the oil and lip balm appeared out of the assistant's bag, and he wielded them like a crazed transvestite hopped up on speed.

In no time at all I was greased like a pig with lips that shined like new state quarters.

After the boxers were finished, the flesh-colored Speedo was next and I faced the moment of truth. I was bumping up against my own idealogy, but I thought of Tom Cruise in "Risky Business" and remembered how he said sometimes "you have to say what the fuck and make your move."

So I did.

In this case, however, that move was up against a concrete wall with my leg cocked at such an angle that it will appear to all the world that I was naked when he shot me from the side. The photographer said something about "being sexy" and loving "the lines in my legs," but I didn't hear much as I kindly let my mind wander.

When the shoot was over, I felt strangely good as I drove back to my apartment with top down and Steve Earle playing loudly. Sometimes it's good to break your own rules as long as it doesn't hurt anyone else or involve animals.

Rules were of course made to broken, but we'll see if that cliche holds firm in a few short weeks when the proofs come back from the shoot.

In the meantime, the Bryan is going to enjoy chucking his diet out the window, tossing pack a few pints and maybe getting some work done on our next screenplay.

But I'm not buying a Speedo.

-BDS

About a month ago I posted a blog detailing a rather bizarre offer involving my participation in a shirtless modeling gig that is due to be featured in a coffee table book.

I had spoken with the photographer, and we both agreed that it was something I would pursue if for no other reason than it sounded like a good story. He talked in generalities about a March/April shoot that he described as typical Abercrombie & Fitch stuff with guys running around outdoors with no shirts.

After I got off the phone, I immediately started a diet/workout routine which consisted of 5 days a week of weight training, 3 weekly cardio sessions, low carbs, no sugar, no alcohol, no drugs, high protein and I have been following this regime for the past month.

It has not been fun and I would not recommend it for anyone.

During this time, I have been easily irritated, boasted consistently low energy and the food is flat-out boring. It also doesn't help matters when your sex drive could be accurately compared to a mortally wounded tree sloth.

But the wait is over and the photo shoot is supposedly on for this Sunday in Oak Lawn. For those of you unfamiliar with the Dallas scene, let's just say that the area isn't a bastion for heterosexual males if you catch my drift.

So, I'm basically riding this thing out on a wing and a prayer and I just hope that nothing goes sideways when I show up in a few short days.

All I do know is that I don't care how much alcohol they ply me with at the location, my pants are staying firmly affixed to my torso. And before anyone calls me a prude, just consider that my grandparents will almost certainly have this thing sitting on their coffee table for the world to see someday.

A shirtless grandson is an interesting and vaguely risque picture to show their neighbors, but a full frontal shot turns you into the black sheep pervert of the family who doesn't get spoken about during the holidays.

-BDS

I am sick of my TV, and am making the decree that I will refuse to watch it until some decent shows start again or Joe Rogan is forced off the air (does this clown really deserve to host TWO television shows).

Typically, I can escape to the movies to re-charge my creative engine, but there has been no respite at my local Tinseltown since the beginning of 2005. This is due with the fact that the usual slate of movies which open in January and February are almost universally deplorable and should be avoided like the plague; witness "Son of the Mask," "Boogeyman," "The Wedding Date," "Man of the House," and "Cursed."

You know you're in trouble when "Hitch" seems like the only lifeline you have available.

To fill this celluoid void, I have been watching a lot of TV, but with the exception of "Arrested Development" and "Lost" there's just not much that has caught my attention. I stopped watching reality shows a year ago (with the exception of "The Bachelorette" this year and that was a tremendously bad decision) and most sitcoms are so awful that even the laugh track sounds embarrassed.

There appears to be hope on the horizon, however, as "The Shield" and "Deadwood" are scheduled to kick off their respective seasons during March. Besides, there's always the NCAA tournament to drain your time, your wallet and to lose the respect of any female who wanders into your general vicinity.

When I was traveling through Europe last year I seemed to remember that the TV programming had a different feel to it. My best friend in Ireland confirmed this to me over the phone recently, but qualified his statement with the warning that different "did not necessarily mean better."

It might not have been better per se, but I thought it had less rigid standards than our programming since Janet Jackson's nipple came out to say hello during the Super Bowl.

But it seems that Europeans can be angered over indencency just as much as a group of Baptists from the Deep South. Recently, Rebecca Loos (David Beckham's ex-assistant who was rumored to have slept with him) appeared on a reality show called "The Farm" and sparked an outrage after she masturbated a pig and collected its semen.

Several viewers complained that her antics were akin to bestiality, but in the end, cooler heads prevailed as the regulatory body decided that her actions had not been "degrading or harmful to the boar."

Personally, I think the ruling is a victory for both viewers AND boars throughout the world.

-BDS

The Oscars have come and gone and Martin Scorcese has once again left the building empty-handed.

I can't say that he deserved to win this year, however, as I felt that Clint Eastwood's "Million Dollar Baby" had a far greater emotional impact than "The Aviator." Scorcese has had legimite beefs in the past after getting shafted for "Raging Bull" and "Goodfellas," but this year he may have just been beaten.

Regardless, I won one Oscar bet and pushed on the other. It was my own fault for not winning both as I bet with my heart (taking Viginia Madsen over Cate Blanchett) instead of my head. And that is never a smart way to wager unless you're some sort of masochist who enjoys being fleeced.

This year's show did move along at a surprisingly brisk pace, although the producers should simply cut ALL musical performances (which somehow featured Beyonce in nearly every song) from the set.

I did enjoy Chris Rock's hosting style as he kept things moving and didn't try to get in the way of the show. He also got some good jabs in about President Bush, Tobey Maguire, Nicole Kidman, and a trip to a Magic Johnson theater provided some hilarious moments - the best being the man whose entire list of favorite movies of the past year began and ended with "The Chronicles of Riddick."

Ouch.

As a lead-up to the Oscars I decided to watch a past winner, "American Beauty," prior to the show. I hadn't seen the movie for several years, and while it wasn't quite as good as I remembered it to be, it still boasted a great cast and some excellent performances.

Everyone knows and has raved about Kevin Spacey, Annette Bening and Mena Suvari in the film, but after re-watching it I have to say that Peter Gallagaher (lately of "O.C." fame) has been unjustly overlooked.

In the film, he sports a silly head of dyed gray hair to play Buddy Kane, the "King" of local real estate. He comes into play several times in the movie, but none were more memorable than his decision to take Bening to a cheap hotel to consumate their affair.

It's hard to deliver a line such as "How does it feel to be nailed by the King?" but Gallagher does it with aplomb. Bening doesn't back down an inch, however, and even one-ups him with the retort "Oh, fuck me your majesty."

No wonder the film won so many awards.

Also appearing in the movie as a bizarre loner who enjoys taping people and inanimate objects while peeping from the shadows is Wes Bently. Bently got good notices for his performance and seemed to be poised to hit big after the movie was such a success, but I had to wonder where he's gone since then?

Maybe he's off chasing plastic bags around the country because I can't recall a single film he's been in since "American Beauty." This got me thinking about other actors who seemed destined to explode onto the scene, but instead detoured into obscurity.

I'm not talking about people like Corey Feldman, who had no discernible talent to being with, but instead about people like Bently; people who appeared in good films with fine performances and yet they went nowhere.

I'd like to start a list, but I have no time on a Monday morning as work beckons and I must heed the call. I will ponder other actors who should be placed on this list, but any help would be appreciated because the inherent nature of the project makes it difficult.

If these actors have disappeared from view then it's no surprise that it would be hard to remember them. Maybe they really should bring back those milk cartons with the pictures on them.

It could be a great help to us all.

-BDS

Deep thinking about "The O.C." is both an oxymoron and an exercise in futility. Despite this sentiment, here's 5 lessons I took from the latest episode.

1) School seems to be out indefinitely. I mean seriously have any of these kids been to school in months? At least on "Beverly Hills 90210" there were actual storylines that involved teenagers who attended class once in awhile.

2) Ryan is in dire need of a haircut. It looks like an otter fell, then died on his head and he hasn't been able to shake it off yet.

3) Zach appears to be 31 years old and still attending high school (even if there are no actual classes at the school - only a coffee bar). Since he's 31, however, it makes sense that he's more mature than ANY high schooler in the history of the world.

4) The homoerotic tension between Ryan and Seth seems to be reaching a fever pitch. Examples include the duo standing at opposing doors in the rain while gazing longingly at each other, then later sitting cross-legged across from each other on Seth's boat in the living room and the icing on the cake was when Summer repeatedly mentioned that Seth left her for Ryan.

5) If you didn't see the upside/down Spider-Man kiss foreshadowing 15 minutes into the episode you're not paying close enough attention or don't know your pop culture.

For years the University of Texas at Austin had turned down requests from film companies that asked for the school's endorsement. They carefully screened these inquiries before deciding that they would not allow the Longhorn emblem to be shown nor the campus to be featured in any movie that they did not deem suitable entertainment.

The wait will soon be over, however, as the Tommy Lee Jones vehicle "Man of the House" starts Friday.

From the previews that have been airing incessantly it appears that my former college has endorsed the film in a big way. Burnt orange is everywhere, on everyone and many scenes appear to be set at the football stadium.

Unfortunately, the movie looks terrible.

Perhaps it was Mr. Jone's impressive resume ("Lonesome Dove," "The Fugitive," "JFK," not "Volcano") that provided the incentive. Surely it wasn't Cedric the Entertainer, who bounces through the previews covered in orange and gyrating like a hyena.

On the other hand, the board might have been swayed by director Stephen Herek's presence, the acclaimed auteur of "The Mighty Ducks" and the huge piece of garbage "Life or Something Like It."

Regardless of the reason for the school's cooperation, the partnership has left me disappointed. I just can't believe that Dartmouth college gets "Animal House" and UT gets saddled with "Man of the House."

Sometimes, life or something like it just doesn't seem fair.

-BDS

"It never got weird enough for me," - Hunter S. Thompson

I wasn't planning on blogging today, but after I picked up the newspaper this morning and discovered that Hunter S. Thompson, inventor of Gonzo journalism as well as some of the most astute political writing of modern times, died last night - I just couldn't help myself.

Thompson shot himself at his famous fortified compound in Woody Creek, Colorado. He was 67 years old.

I've followed Thompson's work for many years, and his brand of fiery prose combined with a great appreciation for the value of words kept me motivated throughout my undergraduate journalism tenure at the University of Texas at Austin.

I even had a Gonzo symbol tattooed on my back during this time period, and I'm still glad I had it done.

Thompson was a counterculture icon to many, a deranged maniac to numerous others, but what I admired most about the man was that he always lived life on his own terms. That philosphy is easy to talk about, but hard to put into action.

Hunter managed to do it nearly every day of his life.

The man owned peacocks, traveled the world, shot heavy artillery, took almost every drug known to man and beast, wrote several ground-breaking articles and books, raced motorcycles at extremely high speeds, bet heavily, called politicians on their bullshit, enjoyed dove bars and hot tubs and cherished his freedom to indulge in all of his passions.

A self-described "Southern gentlemen" from Kentucky, Thompson struck out at anyone, any organziation or anything that threatened these freedoms for himself, his friends and other Americans.

He wrote consistently about what he lamented as the "death of the American dream" in widely praised books such as "Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas," "Songs of the Doomed" and "Generation of Swine."

Although he was known for his prodigious drug intake as well as his participatory role in his stories, it would be too easy to dismiss his ravings as that of some wounded beast hopped up on illicit substances.

His life-long political writing combined the best of both worlds as his predictions about candidates were eerily accurate and he also produced a classic political tome, "Fear and Loathing on the Campaign Trail '72," from his occasionally drug-altered view of the national landscape.

He also took it as his duty to help run Richard Nixon out of office, an intelligent stance echoed by many journalists but almost none kept up the flogging of this corrupt man as much as Thompson.

Nixon once said that his nemisis represented "that dark, venal, and incurably violent side of the American character."

That might be partially true, but then where did that leave Nixon?

Thompson continued his political writing for the rest of his life and also wrote several other good books such as "The Rum Diary," "Screwjack," and "Kingdom of Fear."

It's always sad when someone you admire and appreciate is suddenly gone forever. There will be no more books, columns for Espn.com, or interviews with the legendary "Doctor of Gonzo journalism."

One thing is certain, however, and that is the world is a less interesting place now that Dr. Thompson has moved out of it.

I only hope that wherever he's gone that he finds an endless supply of Chivas Regal, a good piece of land and a sturdy typewriter waiting for him.

-BDS

It's Sunday afternoon and there's little to watch and nothing to bet on because no sane person would give you any odds on the NBA All-Star game or the Daytona 500. Besides, I could care less about the All-Star game and NASCAR racing holds all the appeal of a taser gun to the crotch for me.

So, in lieu of working on our new script I decided to read my recently arrived Details magazine, which featured Kevin Federline (a.ka. Mr. Britney Spears) on the cover.

It was late last week that I first heard about his interview on some kind of hard news program like "Extra."

Supposedly, Kevin was a surprisingly thoughtful and articulate fellow according to some "celebrity expert" being interviewed on the show. This seemed strange to me despite the fact that I had never heard him utter a word on television or even read any trace of a thought from Federline in print.

I was basing this viewpoint on virtually no concrete facts, but instead on the seemingly endless supply of pictures featuring him sporting ridiculous combinations of baggy jeans, wife-beaters and NY Yankees baseball caps that were incapable of being worn straight on his head.

After reading the interview, however, while I won't say I was correct in my assumption I certainly wasn't wrong. What emerged was the portrait of a young man as a dancing artist, and as a bonus, Britney Spears showed up to help Kevin with some colorful quotes.

Here's some of my favorites:

On What He Did Before Dancing:

KF: Nothing. Shit. I was delivering pizzas and up to no good.

On meeting and falling in love with Britney:

KF: Shit, it just happened to be that she had everything and then some. Shit, I could go on forever about my love for this girl.

On Spear's supporting him (personal note: emotionally of course)

KF: I mean she's fucking proud of me. I could be sitting at home doing nothing. I could be playing fucking video games.

And finally on his future career ambitions:

KF: Shit, well yeah, we're starting a clothing line. We're going to hopefully launch that by the end of summer or Christmastime of next year, or this year.

Shit, it was clear to me that there was more to this Federline guy than I could have possibly imagined.

It's no wonder that Spears seems so determined to have a kid with this guy, but she did acknowledge the problems of children and touring as she cited Celine Dion's show in Vegas as an inspiration.

BS: Everybody comes to her. When I have kids, I'm so there. That's what I'm doing: "Come to me, motherfuckers."

Personally, I just think it's great these two crazy kids found each other because, shit, it's not easy to find an unemployed former dancer who plays video games AND can make and deliver a mean Pepperoni pie.

Not too easy indeed.

-BDS

Now that Valentine's Day is finished it's time for the antithesis of romance - a divorce.

A good friend of mine is visiting his attorney today to sign his final divorce papers, and he couldn't be happier.

He's been living with his soon to be ex-wife in their house for several months now, a situation which arose because of Texas laws that make it mandatory that couples wait before formally divorcing. The financial incentive, however, was the main reason for the living situation as neither party wanted to pay for a mortgage as well as apartment rent/utilities/etc.

It's not difficult to imagine that this has been an uncomfortable living situation despite owning a two-story house.

Imagine your worst roommate from college (I once drunkenly punched a birthday cake intended for my horrible roommate and baked by his ugly girlfriend after I discovered it in our refrigerator), multiply that by a thousand and you might have a clue as to the level of frustration that my friend been feeling since the beginning of 2005.

Things have been very tense at the house, and there were also several periodic flare-ups like the time she used his airline miles to book a first-class ticket to visit her sister (after it had been decided that he would receive the miles in the settlement).

I recommended to my friend that he start watching pornography at uncomfortably loud levels all day and night, but I'm not sure if he took me up on the suggestion.

Regardless, the deed has been done, his ex-wife is moving to Houston (which is punishment enough as far as I'm concerned) and it's time to release my friend back into the wild.

I only hope that he finds the dating scene somewhat familiar or it will grind his nuts like a tractor combine, although I bet that's a feeling he's used to by now.

-BDS

It's Valentine's Day again, but I don't want to write a typical rant about how February 14th is a manufactured "Hallmark Holiday," how florists might as well bend you over the counter as they hand over your flowers or how the service sucks at all restaurants and their price-fixed choices should be flushed down the toilet (if I'm forking over hundreds of dollars I'll order ANYTHING I want off the menu).

No. That line of thought would be too easy, too traditional. Instead, I want to talk about Fred Durst.

To the casual observer it might seem that the concept of romance AND Fred Durst could never exist together under any circumstances. But they do.

Just ask several Playboy Playmates, Britney Spears, Halle Berry and numerous other extremely attractive women who have been rumored to have taken a roll in the hay with Durst before they kept a "Rollin' Rollin' Rollin'" themselves.

Many of these women will barely admit to even knowing Durst after their supposed interactions, but who can really blame them? The important thing to me is that something might have happened in the first place.

I mean what kind of hidden depths does Durst posses that I cannot find?

From my perspective he's a man who enjoys shouting, writing mediocre to embarassing lyrics, prone to excessively using a backwards baseball hat to hide his receding hairline, doesn't appear to care for personal hygiene, and has been accused by several people (including former band members) of being a giant asshole.

Romantic indeed. But, the guy has to have something going for him and maybe it's his spiritual side.

"The spirit inside of me is a predator of energy and balance," - Fred Durst (taken from his blog)

That must be it.

I've always felt the spirit inside of me was like a tornado of karma, fusion and lunch meat. That sorry package, however, is nothing compared to Mr. Fred Durst, a man who knows no bounds or limits when it comes to romance or keeping his spiritual side in balance.

I think we all could learn something from him on Valentine's Day 2005.

-BDS

I must say that my co-writer and elder brother is providing a lot of fodder for me to write about lately. So...topless coffee-table book modeling, eh? Exciting. True. Strange. To be sure. However, I believe that I will approach this situation with cautious optimism.

I say 'cautious' because I experienced a similar situation in college. When I first arrived at my campus, a young, bright-eyed 18 year old, I did not know the kind of fiendish savages that are just waiting to take advantage of people like me. So, it was not long before I learned that starring in an "Art Film" actually meant being a "secondary character in low budget amateur porn."

I fear that in a short time my co-author will be forced to learn the ugly truth that "topless coffee table book modeling" actually means "donkey fluffer in Tiajuana."

Editors Note to PETA: No one here at 2DollarProductions endorses or condones beastiality. No donkeys were fellated in the making of this post.

-JWS

For the past few months I've been hearing about Bright Eyes and the band's lead singer 24-year-old Conor Oberst, who people have been referring to as a "young Bob Dylan."

I had vaguely heard of the band before they recently released two simultaneous CDs, but with all the good reviews and general fanfare I decided I should probably check them out. The music was certainly better than a lot of the current popular nonsense that usually fills the airwaves. He also gets points from me for signing up EmmyLou Harris to sing vocals on several tracks.

However, after a recent Bright Eyes show in Fort Worth, according to Oberst I'm probably not smart enough to understand his complexity because I happen to live in Texas.

During the concert, Oberst slurred to audience:

"I don't know if you know this, but I hate your fucking state. I'd put a fucking gun to my head before I'd live in your state."

Since I'm from Texas, I should own a gun (according to Oberst's pin-headed logic), but unfortunately I don't have one handy to lend to him. Missed opportunities I suppose.

He continued by saying that if you were at the concert that you weren't "a normal Texan" because "if you were a normal Texan, you'd probably be roping steers and raping Indians."

Raping Indians?

The Indians by and large went the way of the buffalo many years ago, which is probably around the same time Oberst was making music in his basement, doing his deep thinking and masturbating furiously while trying to rough out the tough Nebraska winters.

That's right friends - he's from Nebraska - which the last time I checked wasn't exactly a bastion of liberal-minded activism.

Maybe if he grew up on the East or West coast he could claim ignorance about his recent statements, but he didn't and it's exactly his kind of bullshit views that piss me off to no end.

It's the same school of thought that assumes that if you live in Texas that you voted for George W. Bush twice, ride horses to work while wearing your ten-gallon hat and sleep with your sister on the weekends.

To be sure that kind of stuff does happen here, but it happens everywhere and is not limited to the borders of Texas, South Dakota, California, Nebraska or any other state in the Union.

So Conor, if you hate Texas so much just stay out the state and concentrate on making better music and eating something (if you were any thinner a stiff wind would blow your skinny ass down).

Besides, I'm listening to Bob Dylan's "Blood on the Tracks" while I write this missive, and I have to say to Conor that I know Bob Dylan's work and you sir are no Bob Dylan.

Not by a long shot.

-BDS

Just when I was feeling lost and adrift a bizarre offer came from nowhere to shake up my world and cause my priorities to adjust.

It all started with an email (thanks Gabrielle) asking for male fitness models who would be interested in appearing in a coffee table book. It was described as something akin to an Abercrombie & Fitch catalogue - i.e. a bunch of shirtless guys playing sports or shooting pool or lounging around - minus the vaguely creepy underage aspect.

So, I sent some pictures into this photographer and he called me last night. He said that he definitely wants to shoot me for the book and that if I was a few inches taller I could be doing runway work.

Anyway, he's going to L.A. to shoot something, and then he's coming to Texas at the end of February to meet with me and go over details of the shoot, which he thinks will be in March or April. I suppose the warmer weather means less hard nipples or something.

In addition, he told me that this group from NYC, The Lyons Agency, does all the major booking for fitness shoots across the U.S. and they will be hosting a convention in May in Dallas for $700 for the weekend.

However, he said I don't have to pay that fee and he'll take me to meet the head guy in his hotel suite downtown for FREE.

It's certainly an odd situation, but at the very least the book will be a cool thing to do and something I can have sitting on my coffee table if for no other reason than it will be one less copy that will be sitting in gay bathhouses across the country.

Weird stuff, but at the very least it will be worth a story or two, and besides I've always said when the going gets weird the weird turn pro.

That being said, however, does this seem strange to anyone else?

-BDS

I just read a blurb about Martha Stewart which provoked both sympathy and loathing in my heart. Apparently, Ms. Stewart has a new worry to contend with in prison besides the shower room, holiday decorating contests (which her team lost despite claims about pay-offs to the guards) and bad food.

These concerns are merely trivial compared to the cruel and unusual punishment that the sadistic wardens had been saving for her all along. They had been toying with her with the start, but now the fangs have come out, the claws have been bared and the gauntlet has been thrown down - Stewart is taking line-dancing lessons.

Line-dancing is by far the worst, most idiotic kind of dancing that one could find in any part of the world. I would rumba, foxtrot, do the "lambada," lean back, breakdance or hustle before I would resort to line-dancing.

The very name conjures up images of overweight people who are squeezed into too tight blue jeans and listening to Billy Ray Cyrus. Then the mass of denim starts flailing about like they're having a collective seizure.

I pity the poor fool who stands in their way.

Although I have never had much love for anything or any product with Martha Stewart on the label, I must admit that I finally felt sorry for her - at least until I read she signed up voluntarily.

And then I remembered why I didn't much care that she went to prison in the first place.

-BDS

Like any decent American I watched the Super Bowl last night, and the game actually turned out to be worth it. In addition, my bets paid off handsomely and I have a little more cash in my pocket and a Grande latte from Starbucks coming my way.

Although you can't count on winning bets or even a good football game in most years, you can usually depend on the commercials to make your viewing worthwhile. Besides, at $2.4 million per 30-second spot there's a lot of pressure on these companies to make ads that are watchable, illuminating and memorable. Sometimes they even suceed.

This year there were still the perennial advertising heavyweights such as Budweiser, who pulled off some good spots (the skydiving one was by far their best with the stupid designated driver dance being not so hot).

But there were also several new offerings that were worthwhile from companies like Ameriquest (loved the boyfriend mix-up where he appears to be butchering his girlfriend's cat when she arrives home) and the new Internet offering GoDaddy.com, which thumbed its nose at the FCC with its blatantly gratuitous ad featuring a buxom woman in front of panel of bureaucrats.

For the rest of the competition, however, it was a zoo out there. Literally.

I don't know if there was a discount on animal performers or if everyone was using the same ad agency, but the general consensus seemed to be that when all else fails throw some non-mammals onscreen and get out of their way.

Giraffes, storks, bears and especially monkeys were running amok everywhere I looked. Generally, members of the ape family do bring a smile to my face, but by the 3rd or 4th Careerbuilder.com monkey spot I felt like finding a gun and starting a monkey massacre. And I've never shot anything or anyone in my life.

At least Fed Ex acknowledged the inherent cliche of animal performers during their ad, which also featured Burt Reynolds, cute kids, cheerleaders and of course a bear. On the plus side, I can't deny there seemed to be a certain karmic justice to watching the aforementioned bear kick Burt Reynolds in the crotch.

But now that the football season if officially over I feel a certain sense of loss in both my heart and my wallet. I have a hard time betting on the NBA, but the NCAA tournament is right around the corner.

In the interim, it's time to finally send our script off to the various contests we want to enter and certainly time to start a new one. I already have an idea, and I don't want to get too far ahead of myself but it just might involve some monkeys . . .

You've got to give the people what they want, eh?

-BDS

At long last there might finally be hope in this unflaggingly Republican state as musician/author/columnist Kinky Friedman recently announced his intention to run for Governor.

Although I would be hard-pressed to wager green money that the Kinkster will take down Rick Perry (or whomever comes out of the Republican camp) and pull off a Jesse Ventura-style victory, his presence alone ensures that the race will boast a little bit of humor.

For instance, this is what Kinky had to say about Perry and Sen. Kay Bailey Hutchinson at his press conference:

"Rick Perry is like Gray Davis minus the personality"

And about Hutchinson . . .

"She's twice the man Perry is"

Those quotes might be slightly wrong, but not by much, and in addition to his bits of levity there was also a steady stream of common sense that ran through Kinky's head.

"We're the number one state in executions, yet we're 49th in education spending," he reminded the crowd.

As far as I'm concerned common sense and a sense of humor are two qualities that are sorely lacking in far too many politicians and I intend to watch the upcoming race with great interest. Besides, anyone who can graduate from a UT honors program AND pen lyrics like "Get your biscuits in the oven and your buns in the bed" is a walking contradiction to interesting to ignore.

-BDS

Last night's show. Great. Seeing an old friend who unexpectedly came into town. Great. Getting good and hammered with said friend and two other friends. Also, great. Almost being beaten to a pulp on a crowded dancefloor to a terrible R Kelley remix. Not so good.

I wish I could say that the altercation, which was instigated by one of my more intoxicated female companions, was avoided because the other man(read: Giant yeti-like creature that probably eats live puppies for breakfast and washes them down with hogs blood) saw the steel in my eyes and backed down for his own safety. However, I can not delude myself or you gentle reader. This man would have happily poured sugar in my gas tank as he gleefully ripped me a brand new bottom-hole. Luckily he was drunk enough to be calmed down with a little fast talking and pseudo-apologizing. Smart move on my part? Yep. A bit emasculating? Um, yes.

Anyhoo, the night all in all was a rousing success. Unfortunately the success spilled over to this morning when I did not have time to shower and was late for work. Once I arrived there, my lone employee queried: What in God's name is that smell?

To which I replied calmly: Probably your mother. Now shut up before I fire you.

As to my brother's assertion that the OC is OK: I can not agree. McKenzie is irritating with his, I-wish-I-could-muster-the-strength-to-wade-through-my-oceans-of-angst-so-I-might-be-able-to-speak-one-effing-line-above-a-whisper style of acting just makes me want to crap my pants a little.

The fella who plays Seth has his moments, but quickly becomes annoying. Mischa Barton: I would just like to give two things to that girl. They are the words 'It' and 'Suck.' I think she'll know what order to put them in.

And as for Peter Gallagher, believing that that man is doing anything other than raising an army of mutant, ill-tempered caterpillars, which he raises to maturity on his forehead, is just beyond me.

Poor man's 90210. No way around it.

-JWS

I didn't want to like "The O.C." when it debuted last year.

My position was mostly due to a long-standing allegiance to the seminal "Beverly Hills 90210" of my youth. I loved Brandon, Donna, Kelly, Steve with his outlandish pompadour and especially Luke Perry, whose Dylan McKay was the man I wish I could have been in high school (i.e. driving a vintage Porsche, living alone in plush hotels or pimped-out houses and screwing anything that moves as long as she was good-looking).

But it is with grudging respect that I have to admit that not only is "The O.C." watchable, but it seems to be getting better. Besides, you have to respect a show where one of two main parental figures (Peter Gallagher) is complimented repeatedly by an old flame for his ability to manufacture bongs out of almost anything. Screw his lawyer skills, the man can make a bong like nobody's business.

Even more astounding is that after last night's episode even Mischa Barton is showing signs that her acting might be rising above the deplorably bad level thanks to her new lesbian storyline.

Mischa Barton has always been the show's weakest link as far as I'm concerned. This is mostly due to her vapid acting style which mostly consists of her looking completely vacant; a persistent method that renders her wholly unbelievable whether she's ordering coffee, yelling at her parents or screwing the lawn boy.

But last night she showed signs of reaching new levels of mediocrity. By that I mean that at least she wasn't distractingly bad, and I'm holding out a small hope that this might continue.

Miracles can happen my friends.

Regardless, I plan on watching next week to see if my theory is correct. Besides, the promos from Fox tell me that I absolutely cannot miss "the last five minutes" of next week's episode.

Their breathless tease can really only mean one thing - sexy girl-on-girl kissing. Oh, Fox I would have never expected it from your network you classy bastards.

-BDS

Well, it would appear that my normally technology-deficient sibling has been running circles around me in the blog arena and making me look like a fucking fool. No matter. I imagine I can easily rectify this problem by instituting a 25% decrease in my Midget Porn watching schedule. This should free me up to write more often as well as squash the frightened looks that Bre has been sending me more and more frequently.

For those 2 or 3 unfortunate souls who accidently stumble across this corner of the blog universe, I would like to announce with great enthusiasm that Steve Earle will be gracing the city of Austin tonight and yours truly will be in attendence. Despite the fact that Earle has become extremely political over the last few years, he and The Dukes still put on one hell of show and still rip up the stage with some of the older songs.

Also, it has recently come to my attention that Ray Wylie Hubbard will be coming to the Cactus Cafe in a week or so, and that James McMurtry is still putting on his Midnight shows at the Continental Club. These two fellows are currently, I would say, at the top of the Texas Country Music chain and they are still getting stronger. Much happiness to be seeing them all again.

These show will hopefully regenerate my mind which has been turned into goddamn mush by the vicious editing and formatting project that I have been working on of late. A project that has been stalled and thwarted by worthless, broken automobiles, nefarious felines and savage work deadlines all last week.

A parting nonsequitur: I have noticed many sites carrying the new pictures of Britney Spears walking around on her balcony topless. I just can't see the intrigue in this. Honestly. Looking at those pictures is like running into a girl, who you remember being really hot in highschool, at a a stripclub, where she is working as a now-overweight cocktail waitress. Sure, its kinda funny. Slightly amusing. But mostly. It is. Just. Sad.

-JWS

I had forgotten it was Groundhog Day this morning until I flipped on the TV and saw a huge crowd of people freezing their asses off somewhere back east.

Ever since the excellent Bill Murray movie, "Groundhog Day," was released I've had a fond place in my heart for the animal. They seem like solid creatures with an uncanny knack for predicting the weather, although they do look like they were formed after a mutant squirrel mated with a possum.

Anyway, as I watched the TV numerous people in the crowd seemed to share my admiration for the Groundhog as they waited for it to appear. On the other hand, many just seemed liquored up and almost anything might have excited them.

But then the Groundhog came out of hiding.

Or rather he was pulled out of hiding by an old man in a silly hat who then held the poor Groundhog aloft and twirled him like the Olympic torch before reading his lengthy proclamation.

As I watched this spectacle I couldn't help but root for the Groundhog to one day turn on somebody and just go crazy. The attack would be justified in my mind because if someone woke me from a warm, heavy slumber and then grabbed me and held me in the air while hundreds of maniacs screamed I would be more than a little pissed off.

So I've decided from this year forth I will try my best to watch this event live in hopes of witnessing some carnage. The odds of a Groundhog attack might seem slim, but one of these years it WILL happen and I'm going to be watching.

And cheering for the Groundhog.

-BDS

For the past week we've been trying to condense our screenplay into a catchy 1 to 3 sentence synopsis that would invite a total stranger to open the first page and read it. It has not been easy.

However, I think we're finally onto something at least according to our somewhat twisted sense of humor. To get an idea of what's out there we read several blogs that showed numerous pitches which were brutal, boring, grammatically suspect or just plain awful.

So, our research definitely inspired some confidence, and I decided there was nowhere to go but up. And with in mind here's what we've come up with to send off to various contests/queries:

Boy bands, pop culture and polar bears collide during a wild train ride through Europe which explores a seedy universe populated with has-been actors, German barons, heated housewives, and a degenerate train conductor who knows everyone's secrets.

A truly bizarre combination of characters and events, but I would at least read the first few pages of that screenplay. The real question, however, is would anyone who actually matters read our script?

We'll see.

-BDS