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.
