2 Dollar Productions

"I left a long string of friends, some sheets in the wind and some satisfied women behind," - Billy Joe Shaver, "Ride Me Down Easy"

I've been saying a lot of goodbyes lately and although I've been improving upon my technique with each passing day, it hasn't made it any easier to stomach.

Over the past week, I've said adios at the gym, at restauraunts, on the street, in my car, over the phone, at the bank, in houses, and I even experienced one really awkard last call in a public restroom (where nothing good ever occurs).

The catalyst for this barrage of sentiment is my impending move to Austin on a full-time basis thanks to a job offer at a start-up firm in town. This change will eliminate my weekly commute between Austin and Plano, where I was still working as a personal trainer until today when I threw in the towel (pun intended).

It's not easy telling people goodbye when you 've been seeing them several times a week for the past 4 years.

Like most things that become routine, there will be a void where a dozen or so people used to be and that number swells considerably when you add in other acquantinces who I used to see at the laundry or the bank or at the Wendy's by my old apartment where I am still extremely popular with the largely Hispanic waitstaff.

But it's my old clients that I will miss the most.

It's an interesting phenomenon when you get thrust into someone else's life. Over the years, I've heard about hellacious children, traveling husbands, family pets, hired help, catastrophes big, small and imagined, slights and reconcilliations, pop culture trivia, emergencies, Junior League, fashion, vacation trips and everything else in between.

I didn't always agree with the comments and opinions that were tossed around, but at some stage a shift occurs where you start to overlook certain aspects of someone's personality and simply focus on the positive attributes that we all have to some degree or another.

Besides, nobody's perfect (although I must point out that my nickname in high school was "nobody") and I realize that my own personality is far from ideal.

Another bad thing about goodbyes is that they really wear you down. All week long I've felt like I've been sucker-punched except I can't ever seem to locate the culprit.

Of course, it doesn't help matters when you're attending lunches and dinners every day for a week, where you wind up eating copious amounts of food and drinking far too many Grey Goose vodka tonics and Negro Modelos, which ulimately leads to the foolish decision to smoke a large cigar, but I digress.

My problem with telling everyone goodbye has only been compounded by the sinking feeling that this severing of ties and shift from the gym to an actual office is the thought that keeps running through my head of "this is where the fun stops."

From here on out, it feels like it's time for an "adult" job and all the politics and bullshit and responsibility that runs along side of it.

So, not only have I been saying goodbye to a lot of good people, it also feels like I'm burying the last remnants of my childhood as well.

I really thought that it would help my pysche to write this blog, but looking back over this drivel is only adding to my uneasiness because it's exactly this kind of self-absorbed crap that makes me hate blogs in the first place.

But I guess that writing about how I wish that Freddie Prinze Jr. would be eaten alive by leeches has to occasionally take a backseat to real life issues, eh?

Then again, even the entertainment world has kicked me when I'm down because Fox recently announced that they were cancelling "Arrested Development," which narrowly beats "The Office" for best comedy on television.

When will the madness end?

I can't say I have an answer for that question or that I would be foolish enough to even venture a guess. All I want is a break from goodbyes, a new liver and a winning lottery ticket.

If I can't have all three, I'll take the first one for now because it's been a rough week and it's only Wednesday.

On the other hand, as Steve Earle once noted, sometimes "goodbye is all we've got left to say."

-BDS

As I mentioned last week, I've been doing quite a bit of driving these last few months and now it is not only turning me slightly deranged, but it's also making me into a mean bastard who hates the majority of his fellow drivers.

I have come to loathe these people driving beside me with a fierce passion that has left the simply misanthropic and is currently veering crazily toward wanting to run them off the road and into a ditch before lighting their cars on fire and roasting marshmellows over the flames.

That might sound harsh (and it looks really harsh onscreen), but it's true.

On my most recent journey, however, I tried to turn this unrelenting anger into a productive outlet and so I started a list of motorists who need to die a horrible flaming death.

I found this excercise extremely therapeutic and would recommend it to anyone who feels that they have experienced too much stupidity, buffonery and just plain embarrasing behavior on the roadways.

And with that in mind, here's my list which is subject to change at any given moment:

Motorists Who Need To Be Put Down Like Dogs:

1) Anyone entering a freeway at less than 40 MPH
2) Anyone with a personalized license plate that isn't your initials or that classic Van Halen album "OU812"
3) Anyone gesturing wildly while talking on a cell phone
4) Anyone who doesn't wave to acknowledge that you just let them into your lane to fix some dumb mistake they just made
5) Anyone with a Calvin and Hobbes sticker where one character is urinating
6) Anyone going the speed limit in the left lane of a highway
7) Anyone driving an 18-wheel truck in the left lane
8) Anyone driving a car (not a pickup truck) with more than 1 animal inside of it (unless going to the Vet)
9) Anyone over 50 and bald driving a Corvette (let's try and not fit the exact stereotype of that car, eh?)
10) Anyone driving a PT Cruiser

Much like myself, this list is ever-evolving, but I would strongly recommend trying to stay off of it because my mental state is rapidly detoriating and you can buy marshmellows anywhere.

-BDS

I think my twice weekly commute between Dallas and Austin is starting to turn me sideways because lately I've been having strange thoughts nearly every time I find myself on I-35.

For instance, this week I was fixated on a scenario that involves James McMurtry (a musician I enjoy), his song "Ole Slew Foot" and someone dressed up in bear costume. But first a little background is needed to fully appreciate the sequence of events.

McMurtry's new album, "Childish Things," has this song (Slew Foot) about a troublesome bear who boasts a humungous rump, a prediliction for stealing honey and a very quick and agile gait.

I've seen McMurtry in concert numerous times, and I could not shake the idea that it would be intensly funny to rent a bear costume and attend his next musical set while holding a homemade sign reading "Ole Slew Foot."

I would stand near the stage at The Continental Club in Austin to make sure that James could see me, and once he started playing the song (because who could refuse a request from a rabid fan in a bear suit) then I would throw the sign to the ground and start charging around the dancefloor and chasing people around the room until they threw me out.

Just think of the visual.

Now that would be a concert that nobody attending would soon forget. The only problem with my scenario is that I wouldn't get to enjoy the scene as I would be inside a bear costume and unable to see the crowd's reaction.

Therefore, the only solution that makes any sense would be to pay someone else to be in the bear suit and then I could just sit back with a cold Shiner Bock and enjoy the rampage.

I spent all my time from Dallas to Waco thinking about this scene, and I could not shake a smile from my face nor the certainty in my heart that I could make it happen.

Besides, as Dr. Hunter Thompson once wrote, "When the going gets weird, the weird turn pro."

And nothing says professional like a man in a bear suit.

-BDS

I saw the preview for the new Charlize Theron vehicle, "North Country," last week and I can't say that I was too excited about the experience.

The film appears to be one of those Oscar-baiting, strip-mining, well-meaning, lesson-learning plots where Theron must fight to preserve her dignity as well as her right to work in some shithole mine somewhere in the north country where the days are long and the accents are silly.

"North Country" is already generating good buzz, and while I'd bet that it's a quality project, I still have very little desire to see it.

The mine looks dark, dank and depressing (why anyone would fight to work in this pit is utterly beyond me) and since Theron's character spends her days toiling there, she tends to resemble this putrid hovel.

Theron looks extremely average and it's hard to be even remotely sexy when you're covered in mine gunk all day long.

After the preview ended, I was a little sad about Theron's plight concerning this mining issue, but I was even more concerned with her continuation of a disturbing trend where actresses break onto the movie scene with a head-turningly sexy debuts and then spend the rest of their careers shunning the very hotness that caused them to leave their mark in the first place.

Theron first came to my attention after her part in "Two Days in the Valley." I didn't know who she was, but I certainly wanted to find out after watching her pummel Teri Hatcher and hump James Spader like a hyena.

Quite simply, she was phenomenal. She was also blonde and chiseled and wearing a white nightie for large parts of the film.

Theron is by no means an anomaly in this regard, however, as she is merely following in the footsteps of many other big stars who have never again looked as good as they did in their early movies.

A few examples:

Cameron Diaz - In the movie "The Mask," Diaz was voluptous and curvy with all of her facial gifts intact. She has never looked as good again as she has turned to period pieces, bad romantic comedies and apparently lost all her curves even before she started dating Justin Timberlake.

Julia Roberts - She looked great in "Pretty Woman" even if she did use a body double. Regardless, she was still damn sexy, and the only movie where she's come close to rivaling her work as Richard Gere's hooker was in "Erin Brockavich," a film where she played a legal crusader who merely dressed like a hooker.

Jennifer Connelly - Few people saw the Don Johnson classic "The Hot Spot," but it's definitely worth a rental as Connelly is simply smoking. How Johnson got with her and Virginia Madsen in the film is a secret I'd like to know, but Connelly has never again come close to her magic in this film (with the possible exception of "Career Opportunities").

Catherine Zeta-Jones - She is on the fence because she hasn't completely shunned her physical charms thanks to good-looking turns in "Intolerable Cruelty" and "Chicago" (except for the haircut). But for my money, she has never rivaled her role as a sexy Spanish senorita in "The Mask of Zorro."

That is just a partial list, but the message is clear - if you discover a young actress and believe her to be stunningly sexy then you better savor every minute of it because the only certainty is that she'll change.

She'll go period ("Mary Reilly") or Irish ("Michael Collins") or both ("Gangs of New York") or she may simply get herself stranded in the North Country and they never return the same way again.

-BDS

It's good to be a Viking these days.

The football team might be going nowhere this season, but apparently that didn't stop roughly 17 Minnesota players from chartering two boats on Lake Minnetonka that were loaded to the gills with liquor and prostitutes.

The team and state officials are now embroiled in a scandal that threatens their season as well as the very morals of Minnesota after boat crew members complained to the local authorities concerning prostitution and lewd behavior aboard the floating party barges.

The boats were scheduled to take a leisurely 2 1/2 hour cruise on the lake, but the captains returned the Vikings to the dock after less than an hour.

There were reports of open acts of sex, heavy drinking, aggresive propositioning of female boat crew members, and urinating on private property among other lascivious behavior.

The truly fightening thing is that they were able to accomplish all this in less than an hour. I can only imagine in vivid detail over and over again what might have transpired had the entire cruise taken place as scheduled.

State officals were suitably outraged as Gov. Tim Pawlenty declared "If the allegations are true, it's awful. We understand that athletes aren't necessarily role models, but we at least expect them to abide by the basic laws of the state."

And of human decency he might have added.

That kind of morally corrupt behavior is not generally tolerated in public even if you are a rich athlete. The players should have taken a page from the Stanley Kubrick film "Eyes Wide Shut" and realized that the wealthy have been conducting themselves like pure animals for centuries, but they must do it behind closed doors.

And wearing elaborate animal masks might help to disguise the participants.

As it stands, this is a scandal that will hound the team for the rest of the season and beyond. You can already write the Vikings out of the play-offs, although they probably won't care because the off-season will come sooner and there's always a party somewhere.

My recommendation would be to try South Beach the next time they're up for a little debauchery.

-BDS

I generally try to contain my gloating - except when it comes to Chris O' Donnell and Freddie Prinze Jr.

A few blogs ago, I mentioned that these two "stars" were headlining new television shows that looked abysmal and I also predicted that they would struggle to find an audience (or at least anyone who would admit to watching them).

So far, I am at least half-right as O'Donnel's lawyer show, "Head Cases," has already received the ax after only two episodes.

I might have been wrong about O'Donnell having absolutely no talent, however, because I believe that it takes a very real and very special talent to bomb so badly after only two hours on television that the network decided to cut their losses and shut down production.

With the premiere of "Freddie" only a week or so away, I can only hope that he follows in O'Donnel's mighty footsteps and perhaps even surpasses them. It would be pretty special to air just a single episode before being canned.

Unfortunately, "Freddie" might be around a little longer as it is being packaged with "The George Lopez Show" as some sort of Chicano power hour of television.

I believe this is only wishful thinking on the part of ABC execs because while it is technically true that Prinze is part Hispanic; he's still a full-time tool in my book.

-BDS

A few days ago, my brother and I were having pints at the Draught Horse Pub and discussing such weighty topics as the proliferation of weapons in North Korea, a revolutionary mass transit system for the public, the relative merits of pomade and eventually Brad Pitt.

By this juncture everyone in America has watched Pitt's marriage to Jennifer Anniston crumble, and his subsequent romantic entanglement with Angela Jolie to blossom.

The fact that Pitt would leave his wife for Angela Jolie was not surprising because all red-blooded American men and virtually all women would also drop their significant other like a greased pig for the opportunity at a single five minute tryst with Jolie in run-down Spanish bodega.

So while I wasn't surprised by Pitt's actions, I did find the public's relative lack of outrage a little strange.

My brother had no such reservations, however, and he calmly leaned back on his barstool and said "Of course he got away with it - he traded up."

I knew right away that my brother was right.

The truth was simple: When public figures cheat on their spouses with someone who is better-looking they can weather the storm, but when they get caught cheating with a dog-faced substitute they are mercilessly berated.

Hugh Grant learned this lesson several years ago when he cheated on Liz Hurley with a hooker who looked like she'd been beaten with an ugly stick and who was far from Divine.

Grant caught a load of grief not because he cheated and not simply because he got caught with a prostitute. Instead he found himself embroiled in such public shame because he cheated on an exquisite-looking woman with a third-rate hooker who was far from a looker and should have been paying Grant instead of the other way around.

More recently Jude Law experienced this phenomenon when he cheated on the lithe vixen Sienna Miller with his nanny; a woman who doubly shamed Law by keeping a detailed diary describing his prediliction for premature ejaculation.

Like Grant, Law found himself on the wrong end of public opinion after the story broke. And I had to agree because only a dangerous lunatic or a serial pervert would trade in Miller for a poke at an extremely average-looking nanny.

After recapping these shameful episodes, my brother and I both agreed that Pitt realized the error that some of his fellow thespians had made when he considered whether to cheat with Jolie.

He realized the impressive pedigree that goes with cheating up (see Michael Douglas, Harrison Ford, Jennifer Garner) and also that the public will accept a bit of philandering as long as it's not with someone less attractive.

Big-time celebrities would do well to remember this rule because when executed properly it can not only give your career a boost, but it can also get you laid by Angela Jolie.

And it doesn't have to be in some filthy Spanish bodega unless that's the way you like it.

-BDS

Now that Labor Day is over and the dog days of summer are gone, I suppose it's time to turn on my television once again.

After a summer-long hiatus, I'm ready to jump back into the mix even if that means a substantial time drain as well as a recurring case of Tivo anxiety for which I have found no cure.

It's always difficult selecting which TV shows to watch during a given season as there's only so much time one can dedicate to the leisurely pursuit of couch-sitting. Time is far too precious a commodity waste on mind-numbing crap like "According to Jim," "Joey" and "Fear Factor."

I used to watch a few minutes of "Fear Factor" due to my fascination with the nubile, big-breasted halter-top wearing women on the show - but then Joe Rogan ruined my fun.

Rogan looks and acts like some sort of mutant chimpanzee who's been jacked up on too much speed and false bravado. He's also about as funny as a steel-toed boot to the crotch.

It is this combination that makes even a brief glance at "Fear Factor" virtually impossible.

Luckily, there are some intriguing shows that will take up the slack as I plan to watch "Lost," "Arrested Development," "My Name is Earl," "Kitchen Confidential," "Nip/Tuck," "American Dad," "The Simpsons," "The Shield," and depending upon whom I'm talking to "The O.C."

On the other hand, two shows that I definitely won't be watching involve Chris O' Donnell and Freddie Prinze Jr.

O ' Donnell plays some sort of lawyer in yet another show focused on the quirky legal profession while Prinze Jr. will undoubtably be doing something wholly uninteresting in a show that bears his name as the title.

I find these actors about as dynamic as wallpaper or vanilla yogurt, and I can't imagine that their shows will find an audience.

The only show I might watch with these actors would be a combined contest to see which thespian could be more innocuous or bland. Then again I might just watch paint dry in my apartment depsite my morbid fascination with the eventual winner.

I can make room in my schedule to watch grisly plastic surgery, survivors on a mysterious island or the promiscuous activities of the residents of Orange County but I will never have enough time for Joe, Chris or Freddie (although I would clear my calendar for Sarah Michelle Gellar if she ever needed a shoulder to cry on).

-BDS

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