S n a r k A t t a c k

Movin' Right Along

Well.

Let's just say that the self-imposed sabbatical from Blogistan has perhaps paid off:  I found out on Monday that I got accepted to a writers' program here in LA.  I am positively gobsmacked, thrilled, over the moon and generally rendered into an ecstatic puddle of goo.

This is huge.  But let's not talk about that, shall we? For there are other more immediate things to ponder, like the Muppets. (And since I've been remiss in posting of late, this post is more link-a-licious than most for your time-wasting pleasure.  Hey, who knew there was Muppet wiki?  Well, now you do, silly goose.)

Now, when I was a kid I was the Isadora Duncan of our living room.  I would bounce about, limbs made of jelly, moving to the crazy syncopation of Sedaka's Back.  Though you have to wonder about a kid who could create a dance number out of Laughter in the Rain:  Oh, I hear laughter in the rain, walking hand in hand with the one I love.  A ballad, I seem to recall making it a tragic number, nearly starting a friction fire with all the writhing about on our puke and piss colored shag carpet.  (It's as though the interior decorators of 1973 found inspiration after a particularly nasty encounter with a food-borne illness.)  But that all changed as I grew older and we got a turntable for a room which was called Smedley.  (I believe I've mentioned this before but it bears repeating: when you let a certain boy, who was apparently obsessed with a particular sugary cereal, name the newly converted garage, you will end up with a room named after a cartoon elephant who was first mate to the eponymous captain of the ship, and this name will stick for thirty years and counting.  In fairness, had it been my choice, my parents would now be burdened by a room called Monchichi.  A nice room, really. Oh so soft and cuddly.  Though, apparently not so soft in certain Japanese circles.)

Out in Smedley I could blast up the record player as loud as I wanted.  Out there I could turn up the volume on my favorite records:  Village People and the soundtrack to Sgt. Pepper's Lonely Hearts Club Band.  The soundtrack, for those unfamiliar with it, is one of those great-on-paper-at-the-time disasters.   Hey, it was the '70s.  The Bee-Gees are HUGE.  The Beatles are legendary.  I know! Let's do a musical movie based on the album, and let's have the Bee-Gees star in it!  It was bad then, it's execrable now but for some reason I couldn't get enough of it.  Even today, I can't hear Maxwell's Silver Hammer without seeing Steve Martin.  Yes, a terrible movie which somehow rooked a number of folks who ought to have known better into starring in it.  I would include scratch golfer and mascara aficionado Alice Cooper in the mix.

But the record player would see happier days, when my parents bought me the soundtrack to the Muppet Movie. 

As you doubtless remember, the Muppet Show was genius.  There's something inspired (and rare) about a show aimed at children that still works on a grownup level as well.  Of course, this depends on your definition of grownup, as the adult humor was built upon terrible, mind-melting puns - a hotel named the Furry Arms (technically only on Sesame Street), naming a pig 'Link' - or references that I wouldn't get until years later.  Statler and Waldorf were hotels?  In New York?   For a kid reared in the sticks of Northern California, they might as well have been the names of moons on distant planets.  Then of course there was my favorite sketch: Veterinarian's Hospital.  Say it with me:  "And now, for the continuing stoooooooory of a quack - who's gone to the dogs."  Any emergency room where you've got Nurse Piggy and Nurse Janice?  Comic gold.   

When the Muppet Movie came out, I was in fuzzy puppet heaven.  Not only did it have an exciting plot involving someone trying to kill - yes, kill - Kermit for his frog legs (natch), the tunes were catchy and, as I would later prove in the privacy of Smedley, danceable.   But while everyone remembers the Rainbow Connection, for me the go-to song on the album was Movin' Right Along.  A road tune! 

But don't take my word for it.

And - on a completely different note - your new favorite joke.

Where Is My Mind

Let me do you a favor.

Skip the Da Vinci Code. 

Listen, I read the book.  Like everyone else, I hated the prose while loving the addictive plot.  The very definition of a page-turner.  The movie, however, sucked all the fun out of the treasure hunt, through bad music, too-long scenes and strange special effects.  Ron Howard trotted out the same special effects from A Beautiful Mind in order to show how Tom Hanks was figuring out various clues - he sees holograms!  He's got a photogenic memory!  Look how he's 'remembering' stuff from earlier scenes that you slept through! 

Sad when such a fun romp of a book gets translated into such a plodding mess of a movie. 

In other news, the other night I brought this lovely bottle of petite sirah over to a friend's house to enjoy while we watched the Pistons/Cav game on his ginormous t.v.  He's handy, see, and built much of the furniture in his apartment including a bar which has a built-in corkscrew.  The corkscrew has long flummoxed me because you have to hold the bottle under the corkscrew and hold it still while pulling down the lever.  I was determined not to let it break me and thus I found myself kneeling next to the corkscrew, holding the wine bottle tightly while pulling down the lever.  Instead of a nice smooth uncorking, I was greeted by a geyser of petite sirah as the cork was plunged into the bottle. 

Gentle Reader, I got petite sirah in my hair.  And all over the bar.  And, as we later discovered, all over the wall and on a painting.  It looked like CSI in there.  Luckily the walls were already red and the painting was abstract (with a lot of red in it).

T, resplendent in a white oxford, was thankful that at least none of it got on his shirt.  He took the bottle away from me and into the kitchen.

"Whatcha doing?"
"You'll see."
He began rifling through his kitchen drawers.
"You gonna get a skewer or something?"
"Maybe."

T's a big guy and with his back to me I still knew exactly what he was doing and the moment he did it, for petite sirah geyser #2 flew upward, all over the white kitchen cabinets, appliances and - T's white shirt.  He turned around.  It looked like he'd been in a knife fight.

Once we had wrung out the shirt, however, the wine was delicious. 

Park City

I arrived in Park City on Sunday for the Sundance Film Festival.

This is, I think, my third or fourth time here, and my second with my cousin who is, as they say, in the industry. Which is awesome for a variety of reasons, and I don't mean just the comped stuff. There is also the sensational feeling that you are not simply frittering away the day watching movies but working.

Every year I forget that to see movies that you will likely have to stand in a wait list line and that the lines are sometimes depressing affairs with too many people and their too-big coats shoved into a too-small space, the air close and smelling of coffee and intestinal upsets. Then I also forget the comaraderie of the lines and the tiny kindnesses of strangers. As you struggle to figure out a way to sit down in line without spilling your tea/coffee or dropping your book/gloves/hat/banana, someone notices and holds your coat.

I've been surprised at the happy little coincidences I've discovered, like when I found to my delight that every one I've seen reading a book in line is reading the same book I brought - Neil Gaiman's Anansi Boys. As you might imagine, I feel totally validated in my choice of reading. Also, someone noticed how awesome my bag is and asked where she could buy it.

I should also note at this time that the trip has not been all starlight and free chocolate. On Sunday afternoon, some obnoxious older man hit on me as my cousin and I were having a very late lunch. I am obligated to note that he was both drunk, and as we later discovered, legally blind. Thank god my ego is impervious to such slights (because the hair thrives at high altitude).

Like last year there was another Roger Ebert sighting, just this afternoon. He stole into the front row of our last movie in order to get a better view of the Q&A. We denizens of the wait list, happy to get into the movie at all, were seated at the far left corner of the front row so that the entire movie was populated by tremendously skinny actors in stubby little cars. Imagine my shock when they appeared for the Q&A, normal and not at all taffyish. Ebert made my day, though. He took notes, took his own photos of the cast and crew (Terry Zwigoff and Dan Clowes) and during the Q&A he sat back for a moment and just beamed.

Bad Mamma Jamma

I blame a friend of mine for forever ruining Jennifer Garner for me by describing her as looking like she just sucked some bad cock.

Once you get that in your head, no matter how many international spies she slays or foreign intrigues she uncovers - her guileless dimplly West Virginny mug still evokes that one nasty image. Then when she married Ben Affleck, I figured she was irredeemable. I won't even spend two hours on one of his crap-a-thons and here she is, betrothed for all eternity to the Talking Chin. Of course, she seems perhaps - how to say this delicately? - not like the sharpest tool in the shed. Not sharp but nice. She comes off as sweet. Adorable. But when you see her do her 'Thriller' dance in 13 Going on 30, you think, maybe this movie is worth it for this one scene. Who doesn't love a little Thriller action in their life? Exactly no one. But these singing and dancing scenes where everyone knows the choreography and knows all the words and the black DJ begins breakdancing must be one-off affairs. Here's the rule: you're testing our patience with THIS scene. You do not get to follow it up with the other cliche crowd-pleasing scene of everyone lip-syncing at a slumber party and singing into hairbrushes because your audience will never see the ending of this treacle-fest for they will have drowned in a sea of vomit. A sea. Of vomit.

I know what you're thinking. You're thinking that I don't seem like the kind of sailor on the sea of mediocrity that would go for 13 on Thirty. True. (You know me so well.) I have an excuse, though a paltry one:

I am still coming out of my Three Months of Having Only Eight TV Channels which means I feel the need to watch a little bit of every single one of my cousin's four hundred cable channels every single day. A little Noggin? Why not? Some Oxygen? I have the XX chromosomes to prove it, yo. Some ESPN? Sure thing, honey child.

Then there are the countless movie channels which compel me to watch all those flicks I managed to miss over the last, oh, two or three years. Mostly because they're crap. I give you the aforementioned 13 Going on Thirty. I give you Raising Helen. I give you, lord help me, The Day After Tomorrow. Terrible. Terrible. Terrible. What's colder than the glacier devouring New York City? Emmy Rossum's wahini. Brrr!

These thousands of channels are a form of aversion therapy. I am the old photo of the toothless geezer with a hundred cigarettes shoved into his mouth. I am the cabbage soup diet, the grapefruit diet, the Atkins diet. Eat all you want - you'll hate this soon enough and move onto books, magazines, long walks in the park...

A few more days of this and I will never watch t.v. again.

Of course, Battlestar Galactica comes on at 10 tonight. I know it's set in space and all, but really: it's awesome.

Small World

When you think you may be dying of the flu, do not rent crap like The Wedding Date because there will come a point when you decide that death would be preferable to watching what might be the least funny, least romantic romantic comedy since Jaws. I do not get the appeal of Dermot Mulroney, an actor who is more wooden than a Thos. Moser showroom, who just brings every scene he's in to a complete standstill. I spent half the movie waiting for him to wake up. The other half trying to find the remote.

I was thinking this as I walked the DVD back to the video store, a trip that doubled as an outing for the pup and my flu-addled self. Oh, sunshine! Fresh air! Verdict? Overrated. But I did run into the same guy that I run into every time I'm at the Presidio - Thomas, with the pack of large dogs. He was returning one of his dogs, Ruby (because half the dogs in SF are named Ruby, apparently), as we were walking down Sacramento. A small world? Maybe. But then I alit upon a blog that led to a site where you could find out how little you've travelled. Me, I thought I was somewhat well-travelled but apparently I'm a homebody.

Seven percent. I've seen seven percent of the world. Sad.

On Second Thought

The delectably named Manohla Dargis in the New York Times:

Near the big-bang finish of "Batman Begins," the title avenger, played by the charismatic young British actor Christian Bale, scoops up a damsel in distress, played by Katie Holmes, and spirits her away to his lair. Watching this scene, it was hard not to think how nice it would have been if Batman had instead dispatched the infernally perky actress, whose recent off-screen antics have threatened to eclipse this unexpectedly good movie.

In other words, no matter how much you find yourself hating new Thetan Pod Katie, the movie is still really good. You have to love the Scientology press juggernaut. No one promotes a movie like they do. A few more months of Katie on talk shows and Batman would probably have gone straight to DVD, skipping the theatres entirely. Fictional studio head: Yes, well, when we realized that audiences were disappointed that Katie's character wasn't killed in the first ten minutes, we just had to cut our losses.

Even I saw Battleship Earth, Travolta's homage to Scientology's Chief Chee-Chee-in-Charge L. Ron Hubbard, but I believe I saw it on a dare. It still stands out as the worst movie I have ever seen and I have Cinemax. Note to Travolta: it's hard to fear movie villains that look like the members of a Kiss tribute band:

"Help me! The evil intergalactic Kiss cover band, I mean, warlords, are trying to destroy the earth!"
"Beth, I hear you calling, but I can't come home right now...me and the boys are -- DESTROYING THE EARTH -- and we just can't find the sound..."

As for Katie, she's everywhere, plugging the crap out of Tom's heterosexuality. (I recommend that you not parse the preceding sentence too carefully.) "Oh, he's my man," she gushes in a way that doesn't suggest a 1950's picture of domestic bliss so much as someone pretending with all of her might that pocket-sized Tom is anyone's idea of het virility.

Which brings me to my handy-dandy trick for enduring the Katie and Tom show: next time you see Katie, think 'top.' The image is preferable to that of the two of them standing around holding e-meters with Kirstie Alley.

Scary Movie

I just saw a preview for House of Wax.

It looks terrifying.

Two hours of Chad Michael Murray.

I get chills just thinking of it.

Still Fabulous

As I was driving to work yesterday - and yes, occasionally even I have to leave the house for work - I noticed that the man in the car next to me had no teeth and was doing that thing that toothless people seem to enjoy and for which there is no analogue for the toothed: the mashing up of the face. He kept doing it and doing it and I couldn't take my eyes off of it. Boy, did that get the day off to a crappy start.

So let's talk about Sundance some more. The thing is, if you've never been, it's just not a glamorous event. Everyone's walking along in jeans, ski caps and parkas and so while allegedly there are famous people wandering around, it's pointless to look for them because, well, who wants to see them looking like that? Give me airbrushing! Give me distance! That said, I did see that John C. Reilly who is in every single movie ever made. It is just so typical of him to make an appearance in my hotel. Dude, take a holiday already. Even Michael Caine had to take a break after Jaws IV. Don't wait for your Jaws IV, man.

Of all the movies we saw, and we saw a mighty bunch, the one that stays with me is one called Me and You and Everyone We Know, which was a total surprise. Written, directed and starring a woman named Miranda July who seems so unthreatening that she must be Canadian, it was such a treat that we'd congratulated ourselves afterwards for getting up early enough to see it (because it screened at 9:15 in the MORNING and we were out rippin' it up the night before, yo). And apparently Roger Ebert felt the same way. Not about the getting up early bit but the good film thing. Read about it here.

Zin Fest 2005

It's not technically called Zin Fest but ZAP, which stands for Zinfandel Associates and Producers or somesuch. Every year they host an event at Fort Mason featuring over 300 wineries and every year I go with my friends and do our best to try all 300 wines. This last Saturday, I think I got to 299. But seriously.

The key, I think, is to lay down that funky base so you don't get all sloshed or queasy or anything less than sophisticated in your appreciation of the wine itself. Myself, I had grand plans for going to a friend's house to eat carb-laden breakfast treats before heading over to the event. Sadly, I had documentary and then work stuff to deal with Saturday morning and so, fortified with just a meager bowl of cereal - cereal! - I met my brunch-fortified friends at Fort Mason, prepared to meet my fate.

Actually, I'm exaggerating because it's never the event that does me in. It's the AFTERwards part of it that ruins me. True to form, one dinner and two gay bars later, I made it home and what jumped out at me the next morning was that when we had gotten to the lesbian bar that night, there had been a drive-by shooting right before we'd arrived. We walked right past the police tape and the police standing around pointing at the ground, secure in the knowledge that there is nothing safer in this world than a bar full of big strong lesbians. But really, a drive-by shooting? Come on, people.

That is so 2001.

Speaking of lesbians, the documentary is nearly finished - we're just working on finalizing titles and credits, so if you see a short doc at Frameline this year with someone credited as Queen of All That Is Good and Silly, it's mine, and that is me. Oh, and that lovely John C. Reilly makes a cameo in it.

[shakes fist at the heavens] Damn you, John C. Reilly!!!

Beyond fabulous

Occasionally the gods of interstate of travel beam their goodness upon me and say this is the year that you shall have the fabulous trip to Utah and then you think, Utah? What's so fabulous about Utah? I don't want one wife, let alone the three - and then you realize that Utah contains a marvel called Park City which in January hosts the Sundance Film Festival which is one of my most favorite things ever because I love movies and there's nothing quite like watching movies with people who love movies too. Sure, there's the odd Blackberrying in the dark ('I love this movie! Buy it now!') but hey, at least they're there for the film and not to catch up on email or to compare denture creams as is so often the case when I go to the movies here.

So, Sundance. This is my second time going, the first being a couple of years ago with the ex-SO which was during the Belle Epoque of our relationship when most things were hunky dory. Oh, you can go for months ignoring the occasional fissure in the tectonic plates of your relationship. This would include our second day in Park City when she got mad because I didn't tell her what a great skiier she was. (How was I supposed to know every other girlfriend had told her what a great skiier she was? Was there a class? Was there a primer?)

This year I didn't even go snowboarding but devoted myself to movie after movie, all courtesy of my beyond fabulous cousin-in-law, EB, who, like my cousin, is in the industry and thus found herself in the lucky position of having everything comped.

I am so in the wrong business.

Aside from the films and the cold and Park City's Main Street which seemed to get steeper every day, what struck me about Sundance and the film industry is that it's a small industry. Here I'm constantly struck by what a small community the legal community in the Bay Area is - everyone went to the same 10 universities, went to the same 10 law schools, grew up in the same 5 parts of the country and then worked for the same 10 law firms. It's an incestuous world. But, for whatever reason, it never occurred to me that the same dynamic applied to other industries. Somewhere in Cleveland the manufacturer of tiny screws that go on machines I've never heard of is exclaiming to his colleague over a cup of coffee that this world of tiny screws is a small one, indeed.

This was a flawless trip, the kind that almost never happens, where the travel is stress-free and, I dare say, enjoyable, from door to door. A friend was kind enough to take me to the airport and another had gotten me a companion ticket on United. The downside to flying standby is the standing by. The upside is that my ticket cost around four dollars (give or take 80 bucks). I missed the first flight, and did a torrent of work while waiting in the (wrong) terminal the rest of the morning as I watched people board flights to such exotic locales as Medford, Twin Falls and Fresno. And Sacramento. I still can't quite fathom why a person would fly from SF to Sacramento but then I don't understand the appeal of Hot Pockets. My fellow Americans are mysteries to me.

I won't bore you with my flight to Salt Lake (a delight!) or the shuttle ride to Park City (sole passenger!), other than to say how absolutely thrilled I was to see EB, whose eyebrows, it must be said, were perfect. I mean, Ava Gardner perfect. (For those not so inclined to wax their brows, it really does open up the face, and the cuz-in-law gets this.) One of the last times I'd seen her we'd decided it was a good idea to race up and down Market Street in the Castro, which would explain the sore quads competing with my hangover the next day. Accordingly, the bar with her is always set very high.

Thankfully, the trip exceeded expectations.

More later. Work beckons.

And then there's this

I've not seen Team America - somehow it came and went without my getting around to seeing it - but I heard that it was alternately the funniest movie of the year which I must see now or worth waiting until the DVD comes out. In any event, I did think it was pretty funny that they had to delete a sex scene between puppets in order to get an R rating. Hey, they don't have genitalia - how explicit could it be?

Turns out, pretty explicit - see the cut scene here (and sorry, no sound). Now, I'm not sure if it's safe for work - after all, no genitalia but if you think your workplace mores track those of the MPAA, well, then don't watch it (and get yourself a new job).