I saw "The 40-Year-Old Virgin" last week, and the movie was a pleasant surprise as it was consistently funny and fairly raunchy.
Much like "The Wedding Crashers," Steve Carrell and company reveled in their R rating and didn't pull punches when it came to describing sexual acts or situations.
But it was also one of these descriptions, however, that disturbed me after leaving the theater.
About half-way through the movie, a character of Middle Easter origin discusses a variety of sexual activities with Steve Carrell. The exchange begins with some common sexual banter, but then takes a turn for the gutter.
Somewhere in the middle of this sequence, the term "Dirty Sanchez" was thrown out. I found myself laughing because the idea of a "Dirty Sanchez" is always good for a chuckle or two due to its extremely revolting visual nature.
After I finished laughing, however, I looked around and noticed that a large majority of the theater was also in stitches.
I didn't think much of it at the time, but afterwards it started to disturb me that not only did a large percentage of the general public seem to understand what a "Dirty Sanchez" entailed, but that they also appeared to condone its usuage by their gales of hearty laughter.
For those people who have no idea about the filthiness of a "Dirty Sanchez" let me just say that you never want to be on the receiving end of one. The term describes a deviant sexual act that involves doggy-style lovemaking, feces, and hand-drawn mustaches.
The "Dirty Sanchez" originated as part of an email laundry list of strange sexual pleasures, but since its humble beginnings the act has now leapt into the mainstream.
Howard Stern talks frequently about it, a team in last years movie "Dodgeball: A True Underdog Story" adopted it for its tournament name, and most recently a full description could be found in the new release "The Aristocrats."
So what does this all mean?
And what will this onslaught of "Dirty Sanchez" talk add up to in the near future?
Personally, I think it is only a matter of time before a "Dirty Sanchez" is actually performed in a theatrical release. Or at the very least the conclusion of one will soon be out there for public consumption.
You can only talk about something for so long before the urge to actually perform the act becomes too overwhelming to resist.
Call me a prude, but I can do without watching actresses running around with brown mustaches unless that actress happens to be Paris Hilton - in which case I hope she boasts a huge brown handlebar on her upper lip that would put any long-haul trucker to shame.
-BDS
Names are important.
First names, last names, nicknames, product names and especially movie names are of vital importance to the long-term success of the person or the product.
Most of us have little input with our given names, but one of the earliest ways we can influence the direction of our lives is the choice or cultivation of a nickname. A superior nickname craftsman can help themselves in nearly all social situations or at the very least can increase their chances of getting laid.
For instance, Owen Wilson, known as the "Butterscotch Stallion," is brilliant. His self-appointed monikor is funny yet regal and appeals to men and women alike.
Personally, I spent my high schools years yearning to be known as the "Conquistador," but alas it was not to be.
Many factors held me back including the utter lack of any Spanish blood coursing through my veins as well as the fact that I rarely if ever roamed the halls of Plano Senior High School with a long sword swinging menancingly behind me.
While a good nickname can raise your social status, a good product or movie name can ensure monetary success or leave the endeavor doomed to utter and complete failure.
A recent example of a movie that bombed thanks to a bad title can be found in "Layer Cake." This entertaining British gangster film was stylish and boasted a sharp cast, but it bombed at box office after getting no help from a title that conjured up images of Julia Childs or at the very least of the sugary sweet film "Chocolat."
A good title should be easy to remember as well as invoke an image that fits with some aspect of the film.
"Sin City" was a good title for a movie filled with hookers and hoods and sluts and perverts. However, "The Englishman Who Went Up a Hill But Came Down a Mountain" flat-out sucked even if it was appropriate for Hugh Grant.
I was reminded of this problem as I read the recent Fall Movie Preview in Entertainment Weekly. Most of the titles were solid ("Lord of War" or "Into the Blue") and some were even better ("Guys and Balls" or "Walk the Line.")
The problem is that anyone associated with upcoming releases such as "The Squid and the Whale," "Breakfast on Pluto" and "The Prize Winner of Defiance, Ohio" need to run for the hills because these titles will get them nowhere near box-office glory.
These films face an uphill battle thanks to someone or many someones who failed to recognize the importance of names. It will all become clear, however, when these films languish at the bottom of the box office and studio execs realize their mistakes.
Take it from the "Conquistador" - you only get one chance to find a name that really makes a difference.
-BDS
It's been awhile, but it's been hard to blog when you're living out of boxes thanks to a just completed re-location to Austin, TX.
Moving is just another of life's trials that reminds you that some things are out of your control - much like taxes and the career of Freddie Prinze Jr.
So, for the past several weeks I had been locked in a constant battle with new and old landlords over such trivial matters as rent, security deposits, holes in the walls, and a bathtub that had turned a truly hideous shade of grayish-black due to unknown causes (i.e. my failure to clean it since the start of 2005).
My days had been utterly bleak due to these moving-related factors, but then salvation came through the U.S. Post Office when we received our critique from the International Screenwriting Awards.
We had already discovered that we didn't make the quarterfinals of the ISA contest, and for all we knew our first script had been a complete waste of time, effort and paper.
Could it be that our humor didn't transcend to the outside world?
Of course not.
The critique was extensive and effusive in its praise for our "unique and imaginative" script. It went on to say that the writers "have obvious talent" and that our ability to handle "a large cast of characters and still give them each a distinct voice displayed outstanding character development."
The two problems that kept us from the quarterfinals was the lack of a strong main character to drive the plot as well as a story that was a little scattershot due to its large cast of characters.
On the plus side, these were both problems that my brother and I discussed while writing the script and should be fixable without a sizable re-write.
When the reviewer got down to our score we had a 58, which placed us in the top 26 percent of applicants. We kept reading and found that a score of 60 would have advanced us into the next round of the competition.
I suppose it's appropriate since our company is titled 2 Dollar Productions that we missed out on placing in the ISA Awards because of two lousy points, but I'm no fan of irony when I'm on the receiving end of it.
As far as I'm concerned you can keep your praise for "Last Train to Amsterdam" - I want my two points.
-BDS
The countdown has begun and it's only a few short weeks until I point a giant U-Haul south and drive down I-35 towards Austin.
Packing my belongings sucks, paying initiation fees to set up new services is even worse, but the thing that is driving me crazy is the persistent inquiry of seemingly everyone I meet about my job prospects.
If I had a nickel for every time I've been asked the question "What are you gonna do in Austin" over the past month; well at the very least I'd have a shitload of nickels and maybe I wouldn't have to work.
The real answer is I don't know where I'm going to work in Austin. Usually, I mumble something about finding a job when I get there, but lately I've been telling some people that I can't wait to get into low-budget pornography.
"Pornography?" they ask.
"Yeah, but not the respectable stuff," I say. "Austin has a thriving film community, but the Austin porn scene is not that soft-core Playboy TV nonsense. It's rough like an ancient lard-caked griddle and since it's still out of the mainstream they really don't have money to pay the performers so the actors do it for fun and a family bucket of Popeye's chicken."
"You can't be serious," they say.
"I'm dead serious. I can't wait to get my hands dirty and I love Popeye's chicken, so I think I can make a real splash and jump right in."
That answer usually shifts the focus of the conversation drastically because anyone whose goal in life is to work in low-budget porn should not be trusted nor talked to at parties.
In reality, the list of potential jobs that I'm toying with is long but distinguished - much like my Johnson (who can ever resist a "Top Gun" reference).
I'm currently working as a personal trainer which I could do in Austin, or I have a client trying to get me into a pharaceutical sales position or I have another contact who wants me to work in sales for a new computer software company or I have a long-shot modeling possibility in New York that I'm still pursuing and my brother is keeping me abreast of job openings in his marketing department.
What I'd really like to do is write another screenplay or two and possibly start on a novel. And for that dream job I will definitely need all the nickels I can get my hands on because the pay is lousy and often nonexistent.
So, where does that leave me?
I don't know, but I guess you have to consider yourself fortunate to live in a country where one man can reasonably fill such a wide variety of jobs when his college major was Journalism.
On the other hand, I've always wanted to try out Randy Peckerwood for a porn name, and I hate to limit myself by swearing off the adult industry without giving it a fair shake.
We've all got to make a living somehow, eh?
-BDS
I saw "Wedding Crashers" yesterday, and while it wasn't an instant classic it was still a breath of fresh air thanks to a plot that didn't shy away from gratuitous nudity, outlandish situations and characters who actually employ the word fuck in their vocabulary.
For several years, Hollywood has been languishing in a PG-13 wasteland of comedy blandness due to its quest for the largest possible audience.
One needs to look no further than this summer's "The Longest Yard" for an example of this lame grab for cash. I could care less about seeing movies like "Yard" or "Meet the Fockers" or the upcoming "Stealth" (which isn't a traditional comedy, but it sure looks like an unintentional one).
Not all comedies must be rated R, but the fact that the "Wedding Crashers" seems so fresh is less a testament to the movie itself and more about the recognition that Hollywood's courtship of the PG-13 movie has been going on for far too long.
The Wedding Crashers is a throwback to 80s comedies and even the "American Pie" movies because it embraces an R rating.
This fact allows for outlandish characters like an old lady who calls Elenor Roosevelt a "dyke" and her grandson a "homo." It also allows characters to be tied to bedposts and for breasts to be bared with no redeeming social value whatsoever.
Finally, it allows Vince Vaughn to put his rapid-fire quips to their best use since "Swingers" because he's not afraid that if he utters two "fucks" over the course of the film that the PG-13 grail will be lost.
"Wedding Crashers" is far from perfect, and the last 20 minutes aren't very good at all as the movie has to redeem its two leading characters in an implausible way.
This is a small price to pay, however, for a movie that has plenty of honest laughs and it sure beats stepping over kids and kicking a few for good measure on your way to "Charlie and the Chocolate Factory."
I really hope that the box office is good for "Crashers" as well because Hollywood jumps when the grosses spike, and that would mean better comedies in the future because I would rather have my pubic hair pulled out by a pair of rusty pliers than have to sit through more PG-13 schlock like "The Longest Yard."
-BDS
One of my favorite literary characters, Travis McGee, lived aboard a houseboat in the Florida Keys during the course of nearly 20 novels.
John D. McDonald created a world for him that always sounded ideal to me. McGee had it all in Florida as he was well-stocked with sand, sun, parties, flesh, friends and fun.
Unfortunately, the Travis McGee books were written decades ago, and now a current update would have to include a state populated with hurricanes, sharks and old folks - none of which appeal to me.
I once thought I might want to live in Florida, but things have changed and you couldn't get me there with the offer of a free house on the beach and an unlimited supply of Dos Equis in the refrigerator.
What good is a house on the beach if you're worried every year that it might be blown away in a hurricane? I don't need that kind of stress and I have no desire to board up my house with plywood each summer.
Living near the water also sounds good in theory, but I know this would lead to the constant temptation to go swimming, which would eventually end with me being devoured by a savage bull shark in waist-deep water.
So, I would be forced to stay on the land and fight retirees for early-bird dinners and good tee times at the golf courses.
No thanks, I think I'll just stay in Texas.
I hate to bash Florida because it's easy to pick apart the worst aspects in any state. It's not like living in Texas doesn't give me the highest chance of being put to death by the government.
And if you ask a good percentage of people living on the East Coast, they probably think I should also worry about being run over by a cattle stampede as I walk to my giant pick-up truck on the way to the rodeo.
Instead, I'm gearing up to drive my small silver convertible to Austin and I didn't seen many cows roaming the city when I lived there for 5 years while attending UT. So, until further notice I'll take Austin over Florida any day of the week and twice on Sunday.
I just feel better about living in a place where the hurricanes are mixed on Sixth Street and the sharks reside at the local pool halls and clubs that stay open until 4 a.m.
These things I can handle.
-BDS
I went to the dentist yesterday for a routine cleaning, and once again I was denied laughing gas which would have at least made the visit vaguely tolerable.
Dentists have gotten awfully stingy with the Nitrous Oxide since I was kid, and if they wanted happier patients they would reverse this ugly trend and start handing out masks as soon as you hit the waiting room.
Instead, all I got was a dental hygienest with a grumbling stomach who scraped and polished my teeth down to the gums - a situation I fully expected walking into the office.
What galled me, however, was the persisent open-ended questions she kept asking as she had my mouth pried open and her sharp instruments at work.
Did she really expect me to answer how my summer was going?
Or how my vacation to St. John went?
Or what my plans were when I got Austin?
Even yes/no questions are difficult when all you can do is grunt and possibly form a few vowel sounds. My lack of candor didn't bother her a bit as she continued this Q&A session for most of the appointment.
As I left the office with my gums bleeding and my lips chapped I added the hygienist's inane inquiries to the list of things I hate about going to the dentist and I also made a resolution not provide any answers on my next visit unless I'm gassed up like the Goodyear Blimp.
It seems like a fair trade to me.
-BDS
The problem with starting anything is that you inevitably have to finish it.
I've often said that beginnings are easy, but it takes real talent to end things well. You can apply this principle to relationships, movies, books, cocaine, whiskey, pornography, screenplays and Monopoly.
The only way to ensure success is to craft a finish that leaves you satisfied with the journey as well as the time that you've spent arriving there. The ending doesn't have to be happy (because most good ones aren't outside of Asian massage parlors), but it must be true and it needs to fit with the overrall arc of the relationship or story or drug.
I was recently reminded of the importance of conclusions after reading Dan Brown's "Angels and Demons."
Brown came out nowhere when "The Da Vinci Code" broke and 'A&D' was a previous book featuring the same main character from the Code. I have always been a sucker for books or movies that deal with secret societies (except for that shitbomb "The Skulls" with Joshua Jackson) who try to wield their mighty influence on the world and I was really enjoying A&D until the last 100 pages when I have to assume that Brown went insane or was simply working on an impossible deadline.
I won't ruin it for anyone who might read the book, but let it be said that Brown should be ashamed of himself for writing an ending that is implausible and an insult to the intelligence of at least some of his readers.
His putrid conclusion was even worse because I had enjoyed the first 3/4 of the book, but it's a testament to the power and elusive nature of endings that his abrupt foray into absolute crap turned a good read into something that I can't recommend to anyone.
This problem is also becoming increasingly relevant because our second screenplay badly needs an ending.
We need something good like "Lost in Translation" and not what we're currently working with which is akin to "Signs."An ambigious whisper beats aliens who can destroy everything on our planet yet are foiled by tap water EVERY single time.
The irony is that I'm at a loss on how to end this blog, so I think I'll just stop typing . . .
because that's another good rule of thumb for endings - always leave them wanting more.
-BDS
In the midst of my post St. Johns funk I almost forgot about my meeting with a New York City modeling agent right before we left the country.
This was the culmination of a fitness photo shoot I had done for a coffee-table book several months ago and through a complicated process I had been referred to this agent who books models for fitness, runway and commercials.
I met him at Northpark mall, and in anticipation of this I had been dieting for several weeks. He was in town for a modeling convention and the fact that he was one of the keynote speakers helped solidify his credentials for me.
I was nervous about the mall sitting, however, and I kept picturing this guy sitting in a chair at the Nordstrom’s dressing room and having me parade around in a series of revealing outfits while he ate pistachio nuts and made loud catcalls in his East Coast baritone of a voice.
Luckily, this was not the case as we meet in front of Dillards and had a bite to eat at La Madeline.
The agent told me he liked my look for fitness modeling and he also said I had a strong “commercial” look, which might translate into him pushing me into some TV spots.
I thought he noticed my hard dieting work had paid off until he said this was all for naught unless I gained 10 pounds.
The irony was that I had dropped almost that same weight through dieting and now I was being told to put it back on or he said it “was nice meeting me, and he wished me luck in the future.”
So, I am now eating everything I can find and have already gained 3 pounds thanks to a Lemon cake from Costco, Red Stripe, protein shakes, Pop Tarts, gallons of milk, pasta salads, eggs, red meat and red wine.
It’s a hell of lot more fun to put it on than to take it off, and once I gain the weight I’m supposed to send this agent some digital pictures and if he thinks that it’s enough then he’ll bring me out to New York and introduce me to clients.
We’ll see if this actually pans out as I’ve found that most people are at least half full of shit and some are nearly ¾.
In the meantime, life is good as I’m eating like a champ and feeling no remorse about anything that I put in my belly. Just point me towards a buffet and steer clear because the only way to tackle a project like this is to be fully committed and I rarely do anything half-assed.
Who knows, if I keep eating like this I might soon look like Tobey Maguire. And he’s Spider-Man.
-BDS
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
