A few years ago while on a road trip to a friend’s wedding, I happened to pass through one of my many formers towns of residence, Virginia Beach, VA. Feeling nostalgic, I decided to drive by my family’s old house. I had fond memories of that house on Wivenhoe Way. I remembered it to be a grand, luxurious two-story home, located on a sprawling, beautifully manicured lot. It’s amazing what 18 years can do to a memory, as the house that was a palatial estate in my mind, turned out in actuality to be just an ordinary home, in an ordinary neighborhood, on an ordinary piece of land. My reaction to seeing it for the first time in nearly two decades was a resounding, “That’s IT??” After the disappointment of going back to the old neighborhood, one would have thought I’d have learned a lesson. A lesson that specifically says: “You can’t go back. Don’t even try! It’s never the same!!” But alas…I did not heed the warnings, and recently set off on another ill-fated trip down memory lane.
My younger sister decided to spend her spring break visiting me in Los Angeles. Finding fun activities for a college student who has not quite reached the legal drinking age is not the easiest task, but I managed to find an all-ages Jason Mraz show that turned out to be amazing (as usual), and figured that she’d spend the rest of her time lounging at the beach. I was surprised when she suggested a trip to Disneyland, but became excited at the prospect of revisiting a place that, as a child, I considered to be the most wonderful place in all the land. I was enchanted by Disneyland when I was young, and since my father was stationed in Southern California several times during his military career, had many-an-opportunity to walk the streets where Mickey Mouse himself had walked. I loved Disneyland SO much in fact, that I actually collected autographs from all the Disney characters and kept them in a big pink Disneyland scrapbook. As I looked back with fondness on my former adoration for all that was Disney, I began to actually look forward to reliving the experience. The night before our Magic Kingdome adventure, I went to sleep with images in my head of thrilling rides on the Matterhorn and Thunder Mountain, of me snapping silly pictures with Mickey and Donald, and of my sister and me strolling around the bustling streets in the faux French Quarter.
Unfortunately as I stood in the middle of “Main Street USA” at the front of the park the next morning, my reaction to Disneyland was identical to that of my reaction when setting eyes on my former home. “This is IT??” My sister and I asked, practically in unison. I was shocked and dismayed at the sight that lay before us. It was as if someone had taken the Disneyland of my childhood, thrown it in a really hot dryer, and shrunk it down to about half the size that I remembered it to be. True, when I last visited the Magic Kingdom I was half the size that I am now, but this was ridiculous. The Matterhorn and Thunder Mountain seemed so tiny that I’m pretty sure I could have easily climbed to the peak in my flip flops and still not have been out of breath. The Tea Cup ride that I thought was so intimidating when I was young made the Tilt-O-Whirl at Coney Island look like a state-of-the-art modern marvel. The fact that everything was so tiny was bad enough, but just as I began to get over the park’s diminished size, I began to notice other problems, and it started to make me sad. The entire park looked a bit worse for wear. The once-brightly colored plastic mushrooms found sprouting up all over the park were cracked and faded, the rides were creaky and incredibly out dated, and several of the automated characters on the It’s a Small World ride were broken down and appeared lifeless amongst their wriggling, dancing, mechanized counterparts. Even the live Disney characters that once walked around the park hugging children and jovially waving at passersby seemed to be tired and old. In fact, they didn’t even walk around anymore, and instead parked themselves in little viewing stations where kids have to stand in line to pose for a picture. I wasn’t even able to catch a mere glimpse of Mickey because the crowd around him was so large. To top it all off, the once-gleaming Magic Castle that was a focal point in the park, now looked like a dilapidated old building, and was in dire need of a remodel. As a matter of fact, the whole park looked as if it could use a fresh coat of paint.
Despite all the park’s problems, Disneyland seemed to still be doing a bustling business. In fact, business was SO good on a random Tuesday in March, that my sadness surrounding what I saw as the demise of my beloved Magic Kingdom, quickly turned to severe annoyance. By noon, the crowds had swelled to an unreasonable number, a fact made worse since 99% of said crowds were made up of parents and their obnoxious, whining little children. The sight of them inspired me to develop a new ad campaign for Trojan Condoms that involved a picture of four screaming children wearing Mickey Mouse ears, the caption simply reading “Reason enough.” The crowd got so bad as the day progressed that I went so far as to abandon several lines because I just couldn’t see the sense in waiting three f*&king hours for anything, let alone a creaky, old, boring-ass ride. Worst of all, the lines to purchase food were actually longer than some of the lines for rides. When a small child wiped his ice cream cone on me as I was about to purchase a $5 pickle from a pickle stand in Frontierland (the pickle stand being the only food that didn’t require a 2 hour wait), I realized that it was probably time for me to leave the park before I did something that would get me forcibly removed from the Magic Kingdom.
So, after mere four hours of Disneyland fun under our belts, we left the park. I think, I hope, I pray, that I have finally learned my lesson. I vow from this point forward to cut out my visits to old houses, and places that I remember fondly from my youth. I plan to keep my childhood memories intact rather than try to recreate them and ruin them forever. Lord knows I'll never be able to think of the Disneyland the same way again. There is absolutely no way I’ll ever be able to get the image out of my head of that broken-down robot child from the It’s a Small World ride, jerking and shaking as if it was having a epileptic seizure. Gives me chills to even think about it.
I’ve never been a huge No Doubt fan, in fact I used to despise them. I was too scarred by a sub-par live performance of “Just a Girl” on MTV to understand the irony in their first hit song. My disgust with the band’s undeserved fame was cemented during a television interview with Gwen Stefani. When asked about her reaction to the death of Sublime lead singer Brad Newell, the high priestess of SoCal pop replied, “Um, it’s like, really bad that Brad is dead. We, like, miss him sooo much.” From then on, any time I heard a No Doubt song I would express my displeasure with gagging and retching sounds. It would take six years, and one dance song, for me to change my tune.
Okay, so I liked “Don’t Speak”, but I hated Gwen and the boys too much to admit that to anyone at the time. It was “Hella Good”, the infectious dance groove on their late 2001 release Rock Steady that inspired me to purchase their album. Still, I listened in the privacy of my bedroom, too shamed to play it at full volume. It wasn’t until Jerry invited me to their performance in Continental Arena that I finally understood the hype behind the band. Bedecked in colorful outfits, they bounced and strutted without a moment’s rest during their entire two-hour performance. I felt as if a spaceship had landed on the stage and out tumbled No Doubt. Such limitless energy, such flawless skin… the only explanation was that they were aliens. That, or from Southern California. After the concert I felt as if I’d spent a fun-filled day at the beach.
Last night’s performance at the Hammerstein Ballroom was no different. Still dizzy from winning a Grammy on Sunday night, No Doubt delivered a high-energy show that left a room of New York curmudgeons feeling like kids again. Gwen’s thin athletic body twisted into inhuman contortions as she delivered each note through perfect red lips. Tony Kanal plucked his bass with vigor, grinning at the screaming fans at his feet. Drummer Adrian Young’s baby, in red and white striped footy pajamas and sequined earphones, bopped on his mother’s lap in the box seats to our right, where Gwen’s parents also sat, proudly watching the electric performance on stage.
As if this were not worth the price of admission, during the encore, Mike Einziger and BrandonthehottestmanaliveBoyd from Incubus joined the band for a surprise performance of the classic Police hit, “Message in a Bottle.” They covered it perfectly, although I think I reached some sort of altered state in Brandon’s presence, bruising Jerry’s arm with firm squeezes to contain my excitement. Seconds after Brandon left the stage, he was replaced by Gavin Rossdale of Bush, and it was Jerry’s turn to drool. As the British hunk joined his wife in the final song of the evening, it occurred to me that some of the sexiest people in pop music were in the room with us. It was as if the Hammerstien Ballroom had turned into a museum of impossibly good-looking people. They performed, they flashed perfect smiles, and they thanked us for being there. I love them all so very much.
So a few parting words to those of you who, like me, are quick to judge pop music: don’t knock it till you’ve seen it live. And if you’re going to see it live, try to go around Grammy time in New York City. You never know who’s going to turn up.
Universal Studios – A Land Without Open Container Laws By Jen
I recently assisted my good friend Kristin with her application to get into the UCLA MBA program. It was a long and arduous five-essay process, and as a thank you present, she treated me to a fun-filled day at Universal Studios in Hollywood. I am a lover of all types of amusement parks, and was immediately thrilled by the prospect of spending the day learning about the “magic of the movies.” I had never been to a Universal Studios, and my knowledge of the park was limited to an episode of an 80’s sitcom where the cast visits the park. For the life of me I could not remember which 80’s sitcom this was, but did recall from the episode a montage of the cast traveling via tram all about the park, being frightened by movie monsters, flash floods, earthquakes, and JAWS. It was good enough for me.
In an effort to avoid crowds, Kristin and I arrived bright and early on Saturday morning, and avoid crowds we did. Apparently very few people found it necessary to get up at 7:30 am to get to the park when it opened, and the park’s visitors at that early hour were limited to foreign tour groups, a smattering of families with small children, one Tibetan monk, and us. We decided to take advantage of its emptiness, immediately nailed down our plan of attack for the morning, and headed off to the first activity:
Waterworld: A Tidal Wave of Explosive Action
What was a tragically horrific movie has been transformed by Universal Studios into a really cool live show. The action-packed fifteen minute performance was resplendent with loud explosions and burning buildings, ridiculously faux fight scenes, and daredevil jet-skiers who dove under the water, jumped through walls of fire, and continually soaked audience members who were sitting in the seats labeled “soak section.” Note to Universal Studios: You might want to label the “soak section” in several different languages, as there were many Japanese tourists who were shocked and somewhat frightened when the characters in the show “warmed up” the audience by dumping buckets of water on their heads.
After Waterworld was over, we saw that the line to "Back to the Future: The Ride" was a mere five minutes long, and decided it was time “to rip across the past and blast into the future with Doc Brown in his tricked-out, high-flying, time-traveling machine.” As with all rides in the park, they try (and not very hard) to make it seem like the ride is “real.” The gimmick on Back to the Future was that we were supposed to be participating in a scientific study of some kind, and they send you into individual examination rooms with several other people. The members of our study were a young blond couple who didn’t speak, and the aforementioned Tibetan monk. As Doc Brown explained that we were on a mission to save the future, I’m pretty sure the Tibetan monk didn’t understand that we were on a ride rather than participating in an actual experiment. He looked rather confused. As was promised to us, we zipped around Hill Valley in our tricked-out time machines, traveled to the past where we got swatted around by a dinosaur, and then fell into some sort of volcano. Naturally, we ended up saving the day. It was a rather rocky ride, but incredibly fun. As we climbed out of the car on unsteady legs, the Tibetan Monk was only able to muster the words, “That was scary!” He sounded weak and disoriented.
After pausing briefly to take a picture with my head inside of JAWS’ mouth, we headed to The Studio Tour that I remembered fondly from the unnamed 80’s sitcom. This was where things really took a turn for the better. We both agreed we were thirsty, and spied a cart selling refreshments. I was about to purchase a Spongebob Squarepants water bottle, when I noticed that there was beer on the menu. Actual beer. I jokingly asked if we could take a couple of Corona’s on the ride. I expected laughter, and a resounding “NO” as a response, but was startled to hear the woman behind the cart say, “Of course you can.” Despite the fact that it was only 10:30 am, we purchased two beers and, after almost accidentally joining a Spanish-only tour, finally settled down for a ride. The tour of the studios was great, my favorite ride of the day (and not just because of the beer). The facts about movie making were fascinating. For instance, did you know that in old westerns, they built doorways smaller than normal in an effort to make the cowboys look bigger and more imposing? Conversely, they would build other doorways on a smaller scale in an effort to make the women seem tiny and more like damsels-in-distress. Anyway…There’s something sort of cool about sitting just yards from the famous town where from The Mummy was filmed and seeing the lake where Showboat was shot. You would be looking right at The Bates Motel from Psycho, and notice in the background the set of Whoville from Jim Carry’s The Grinch. The special effects displays were also really amazing. We were caught in a flash flood, got stuck underground during an earthquake, were almost taken out by King Kong (who was breathing banana breath), and were nearly attacked by JAWS (who, incidentally, has been lit on fire to spice things up a bit).
The Studio Tour deposited us right in front of another refreshment stand, where we purchased two frozen margaritas and went on our way. That was pretty much how the rest of the day progressed. Margarita, ride, bathroom…Margarita, ride, bathroom. It was like Vegas, but without the gambling. For some reason, in this little pocket of Los Angeles, we were allowed to walk around consuming alcohol right out in the open. It was splendid. Perhaps it’s just the tequila talking, but never in my life have I been to an amusement park, or any performance or public event for that matter, where the staff was so accommodating and personable. The rides turned out to be pretty much as we had expected, but the lines were short, and, thanks to the staff, we bounced from ride to ride effortlessly:
ET’s Adventure: Sadly, this ride was a horrible disappointment. ET was one of the first movies I ever saw in the theater, and I was really excited to get to see him in the flesh, or the plastic, or whatever he is made of. Kristin had also promised me a crazy surprise at the end of the ride. After giving my name to an usher who programmed “Jennifer” into a computer, I hoped the surprise would be that ET would tell me in his halting Speak-N-Spell voice that he loved me and wanted to phone home or something like that. Unfortunately I was in for disappointment, as the ride turned out to be a shorter, less exciting version of “It’s a Small World.” Now, if you have ever been on “It’s a Small World,” you should know how hard it would be for something to be LESS exciting than that particular ride. The surprise at the end also turned out to be a bust. Somehow the girl taking names neglected to enter mine in properly, and everyone in our car got to have ET say goodbye to them except for me. I felt slightly rejected after the ET ride.
Backdraft: The Backdraft attraction’s tagline should actually be “A Pyromaniac’s Dream Come True.” Basically it’s 15 minutes of really cool special effects with fire. Lots and lots of fire. During the final scene it got so hot in the room, and the smell of fuel was so permeating, that I couldn’t help but wonder how setting off explosions a mere 10 feet from 100 people could possibly be legal. The best part of Backdraft however, was the staff working the line. We weren’t allowed to bring our margaritas into the building, and they let us sit on a lovely bench to the side of the line until we finished…then they just let us get back in the front of the line. It was as if our drinks were the equivalent of having VIP passes at a concert. It was wonderful.
The Special Effects Stage: Good experience and cool special effects, but unfortunately I had missed the restroom stop prior to the show, and spent the majority of the performance wishing that it would end. Note: If you are consuming alcoholic beverages at a rapid rate, DO NOT deviate from your schedule of Margarita, Ride, Bathroom, lest you ruin your good time.
Animal Planet Live: I came into this performance expecting ferocious crocodiles and roaring lions and tigers, and was slightly disappointed to find out that the most exotic animal appearing that day was a domesticated orangutan wearing a tutu. Ho Hum. Fortunately, the emcee, a gorgeous animal trainer from LA, was so engaging that I quickly forgot about my expectations and focused all my attention on his khaki-clad body.
We paused on our way to Terminator: 3D, to pose for pictures with Captain America, Spongebob Squarepants, and Curious George. I’m pretty sure Mr. Squarepants tried to grab my ass, but he could have just lost control of his strange swinging arms. I can’t figure that Spongebob guy out. We asked one of the park employees what his deal was, and after a lengthy explanation came away with the knowledge that he was A: Made of a kitchen sponge, B: Had square pants due to the fact that he was a square kitchen sponge, and C: Lived under the water with his friend who was a starfish. This explanation left me more confused than when I simply thought he was a square yellow man.
Terminator2: 3D: A fabulous way to end the day. This show is marvelous from the moment you step into the staging area. Upon entering the room, a hilarious announcer informed us that we were all supposed to be attending a presentation at “Cyberdyne Systems,” the evil company that we all remember fondly from the Terminator movies. The “presentation” is taken over by that scary guy from Terminator: 2 who is made of liquid metal, and Arnold comes to save the day. All of this is performed with combination of live stunts, and an intricate 3D movie. It was so good (and scary) that I screamed loudly several times.
After T2, we were wiped. The combination of a countless number of margaritas, several churros, and a long day of walking led to one thing, and one thing only: Bedtime. As we walked out of the park, we were stopped by The Blues Brothers. The Dan Akroyd character told us that he needed to stop us because, “Rumor had it that we’d been causing a whole heck of a lot of trouble.” “Is this true?” he asked us. “Absolutely,” we replied. “Fair enough,” he said, and sent us on our way. As I walked up to a refreshment cart outside of the studios and realized that margaritas were no longer an item on the menu, I became sad. After a day at Universal Studios, it’s easy to forget how oppressive the real world can be.
The No-Talent Show - Surreal Life / Episode 4 By Jen
Many apologies for not summarizing last week's episode of The Surreal Life. Surprisingly, it turns out that I actually do have a social life, and I was at a friend's birthday party during the majority of the show. I did however manage to catch a short glimpse while I was getting ready to go out. This unfortunately happened over a week ago, and the only thing I seem to remember was the baffling visual of Hammer and Webster sitting chummily on a rock together, surrounded by what appeared to be tents.
From this I deduced that:
A: They roomies were on a camping trip.
And
B: I didn’t miss much.
I did however have the misfortune of catching this week’s episode. For your reading displeasure…a short summary:
Their day began much like any day you or I might have. The roomies shared a cup of joe, and opened up their tailor-made tabloid newsletter to find out how they were to spend their day. “The Surreal Life Gazette” (or whatever it is called) told them that they were to organize, sell tickets to, and perform in, a wacky talent show that was going to be held at the mansion…all proceeds of course going to charity. (The charity likely being “Washed-Up stars in need of cash.”) Apparently, the “winner” of the talent show would win a secret prize!! Shortly after they received this news, a van pulled up to take them all to Hollywood so that they could push their tickets on unsuspecting passers-by. Six out of the seven roomies hopped out of the van, and shamelessly and enthusiastically hocked their wares. Vince Neil appeared to be the sole member of the group to realize that selling $10 tickets to a talent show is slightly demeaning. Instead of selling his tickets like the rest of his idiotic roommates, he simply went to a nearby ATM, took enough money out of his account to cover his required contribution, and gave his stack of tickets to a bunch of kids who seemed super-stoked to be given tickets from Vince Neil of Motley Crue.
After completing their sales, the roomies returned home to rehearse, and came to the startling realization that, with the exception of Vince and possibly Hammer, none of them actually had any talent. Webster at least had the intelligence to realize this, and when told by Andrea Zuckerman to just have “fun with it,” responded with:
"It's supposed to be for fun and humor. I don't find it fun, and I don't find it humorous."
That pretty much sums things up.
The rehearsal went on. Brande asked Webster for advice on how to breakdance, Andrea practiced her kazoo, Jerry wrote a poem, Hammer made dinner, and Corey got totally dissed by Vince Neil.
Corey, we found out, is in a band…a band that apparently had just released a record…and Corey was hell-bent on using both the show AND Vince Neil to shamelessly promote his new album. While Corey was rehearsing his song, he asked Vince to sing BACK-UP for him. Not only did he ask Vince Neil, lead singer of Motley Crue, to sing BACK-UP, he also had the nerve give him advice on HOW to sing back-up for his pitiful little song. Vince declined. Vince also declined Corey’s offer to play harmonica while Vince performed the song that he wrote for the talent show. This made Corey sad, and he stomped off in a huff saying: “Forget about this stupid talent show. I’m planning a wedding…that’s what’s real.”
God he’s an idiot. I hate him so much.
The audience, largely consisting of young street kids and disoriented tourists (who probably thought they had purchased tickets to Universal Studios or something), arrived and took their seats.
Brande opened the Talent Show with gusto, displaying the always popular talent of “Wearing a Cheerleader’s Uniform while Breakdancing.” It was difficult to watch. She should have just stood on stage in a bikini. It would have been far less embarrassing for everyone.
Next, Andrea Zuckerman played “While the Saints go Marching In” on the Kazoo. She was backed up by Jerry and Brande, who marched in place in the background while wearing short skirts and feather boas. It was horrific. I was too mortified to sit through the entire thing, so I went out on my balcony and plugged my ears.
Corey Feldman’s band,”The Corey Feldman Band,” performed next. Corey sang a god-awful song entitled “I Believe Again," a song whose lyrics seemingly were written by a three year old. Vince Neil DID end up singing back-up to Corey, but he looked rather reluctant about the whole thing. In fact, I wouldn’t be surprised to find out that he was somehow blackmailed or physically threatened into performing. He looked scared.
Next, we were introduced to “Clive Rufus Brown” (aka MC Hammer). Apparently Hammer didn’t want his reputation tarnished by the talentless buffoons he was performing with, and decided to create an alternate identity for himself. Clad in a white terry cloth robe, a black wig, and a purple pimp suit, he gyrated around the stage, yelping and shouting unintelligible syllables. So far, it was the best performance of the evening. Webster joined him on stage and danced about while Hammer repeated over and over again: “Manny Mo is in the house, Manny Mo is in the House.” This was a big hit with the audience.
Jerri read her poem. It was not good.
Vince Neil performed the finale; a song entitled “The Surreal Life Blues.” Compared to the other performances of the evening, his was a masterpiece. Best of all, the lyrics made fun of all his roommates:
Jerri's making a cocktail. In Australia there's nothing to drink.
Brande is a lifeguard. With that rack she'll never sink.
Gabby's in the kitchen, and how she likes to rock!
Hammer he's a preacher. He likes to hear himself talk.
We got the blues - The Surreal Life blues.
Manny says he's a fisherman, but he shouldn't use it for his life.
Corey's getting married, but he hasn't told his wife.
Well I'm in Mötley. There's nothing left to lose.
Sitting in a jail I call The Surreal Life blues.
Does anyone else smell a Grammy???
Naturally, the audience voted Vince Neil the winner of the contest, and he was awarded a huge bedroom in the house, all to himself. You could see the sweet look of relief on his face. I can’t even imagine how horrible it would be to share sleeping quarters with Corey Feldman.
Next week:
The kids go carousing in Las Vegas, and Vince tells someone to f*&K off!! I for one hope it's Corey.
Just a mere three days ago I professed my excitement over of one of the many, many reality TV programs gracing the airways this week. The Surreal Life premiered last night, and turned out to be everything I could have ever imagined it to be....and way, way, less.
For those of you who haven't been living on planet earth (or those of you who simply don't suffer from serious reality-tv addictions like myself), The Surreal Life is one the latest reality tv shows, and can simply be described as "The Real World" meets "The World of Washed-up Celebrities Attempting to Capitalize on their Former Stardom in One Last Pitiful Gasp." It's brilliant.
Let's meet the cast:
Corey Feldman
Former star of such great films as Goonies, Stand by Me, and The Lost Boys, Corey now dedicates his life to being a colossal asshole. Though being a colossal asshole is quite time consuming, Corey somehow manages to find time to insult and offend almost everyone around him. He is also is a self-proclaimed sex-addict. Lucky for him, his fiancé lets him sleep with other women, as long as she is in the room. I hate him so very much.
Vince Neil
Lead singer for Motley Crue and Dr. Feelgood himself, Vince Neil has spent his life as THE bad boy of rock n' roll. Vince has seen and done everything, and is nonplussed by the actions and antics of his new roommates. He's jaded, he's cool, and he's my favorite cast member.
Emmanual "Manny" Lewis..aka Webster
Webster looks exactly the same as he did when he was nine years old, but slightly chubbier. His adorable looks have been preserved as if he's been kept in some sort of child star time capsule for the past 25 years. That, combined with the high-pitched squeal he lets loose every two minutes, frightens me to my very core.
MC Hammer
Former rap superstar MC Hammer now spends the majority of his life away from the spotlight, preaching to his church, spending time with his family, and recovering from serious bankruptcy. Though he seems like a genuinely nice guy, his tendency to break into Mr. T - like rants when he gets worked up is rather annoying.
Brande Roderick
Former playmate of the year and Baywatch star, Brande now spends her days...um...well...being blond with big boobs? She also seems to have an unnaturally close relationship to her dog. She's boring. Next please!!
Gabrielle Carteris
Andrea Zuckerman faded from the spotlight immediately following her departure from 90210. They claim she is the host of her own talk show "Gabrielle," but I work in TV, and have neither seen nor heard of such a show...ever. I was once the host of my own talk show too. It was called "Teen Talk," and was produced by my best friend in the eight grade. It was likely seen by more people that "Gabrielle," seeing as I forced all my friends and neighbors to watch it on a regular basis.
Jerri Manthey
Former star of "Survivor: The Australian Outback," and former Playboy Playmate, Jerri is trying to stretch out her 15 minutes of fame as long as is humanly possible. She is a self-proclaimed "bitch," and strangely enough is one of the most likable cast members.
And so it begins...
Corey arrived first, kissed his fiancé (who is WAY too good looking for him) goodbye, and then promptly entered the house only to immediately call her and tell her how much he already missed her. Vince Neil arrived next, dropped off his stuff, popped open a beer, and plopped down on the couch. Webster, Hammer, Brande, and Andrea Zuckerman arrived in rapid succession.
Hammer and Webster immediately initiated a disturbingly close friendship and agreed to share a small orange room. Hammer got the top bunk. All joking aside...MC Hammer is actually sleeping on the top bunk of a bunk bed. While unpacking, Webster pulled a People's Choice Award out of his suitcase and began polishing it. Hammer laughed, reached into his own suitcase, and trumped Webster's People Choice Award with one of his very own Grammy's. The two new BFF's giggled, and prominently displayed the awards on a shelf in their room.
As the roommates gathered around the table for a meet and greet, they realized that they were still missing one member of the group. Despite the 700 pictures of her scattered about the house, it still took all of their collective brain power to discern that the last roommate would be Jerri Manthey from Survivor. This incensed Corey Feldman for some reason, who stated over and over that she was not "one of them," and did not belong or deserve to be on the show. They were, after all, big superstars, and Jerry was just a contestant on a reality show. Um, Corey? NEWSFLASH!! YOU are a contestant on a reality show.
As the roommates got adjusted, a small envelope containing $500 for groceries and supplies magically appeared, and the group decided to make a trip to the supermarket. Andrea Zuckerman lovingly prepared a specific list of food and supplies that they would need in order to survive the two weeks. Sadly, and despite all Andrea's motherly good intentions, when the group arrived at the supermarket the list was forgotten altogether and the organized shopping trip quickly became a wild free-for-all. Each roommate took a cart and barreled around the store, tossing food and supplies into their carts willy nilly as if on a celebrity version of Supermarket Sweep. Ten frantic minutes later, they all met at the cash register and spent about sixteen hours figuring out what they should and should not buy. Corey was a horrible nuisance, constantly yelling and bitching about the fact that he was a vegetarian and he could starve (STARVE!!!) if they didn't purchase him the proper food. While all this was going on the other supermarket patrons stood around, mouths agape, murmuring to each other and remarking on the ridiculousness of the scene. One women's cell phone conversation was overheard. "It's MC Hammer and Webster," she said with a disgusted and perplexed tone. "It appears that they're fighting with Corey Feldman about what groceries to buy."
Upon the roomie's return to the manse, the real fun began. Corey and Andrea had a knock-down drag-out fight about vegetarianism. Corey's argument made so little sense that I find it difficult to even convey, but I will try. The short and long of it was that he was a staunch vegetarian for moral reasons and NOT health reasons. He thinks animals should be loved and petted and not killed EVER, for any reason. He then proceeded to tell Andrea that she was basically a horrible animal killer. She was surprisingly gracious, brushed it off, and told him that he was welcome to his opinions. She then noticed his shiny leather shoes, and asked him how he rationalized wearing leather if he was a vegetarian for "moral" reasons.
"Leather," he screamed, "Has NOTHING to do with being a vegetarian for moral reasons." "Plus," he explained, "they were a gift, so it doesn't count."
"A gift?" Andrea asked with a condescending note in her voice. "How about if I give you a big fat steak as a gift, then will you eat it?"
"IT'S NOT THE SAME!!" Corey whined, and stomped off to call his fiancé for what seems like the 100th time that day.
I'm liking Andrea more and more. I actually thought she was being rather generous offering him a steak. At that point in the show all I would have been willing to offer him as a gift would have been a big fat kick in his gigantic head.
Jerry Manthey of "Survivor" showed up soon after the argument. She was greeted with lukewarm hellos from her fellow cast members. Corey made it a point to be excessively rude, seemingly following her around for the sole purpose of putting her down and making her feel like a "lesser" star. Brande, Jerri's fellow Playboy Playmate, was the cattiest of the females...stating that she was incredibly disappointed that the seventh roommate was a "nobody."
After a touching heart-to-heart in the living room, followed by a chorus of Kum Bah Yah...the roommates went to bed and the world was at peace for eight hours or so.
They next morning the roomies got up and discovered that the "Surreal Life Fairy" ( aka the producers of the show) had left them a "Surreal Life Newsletter" and several pans of brownies. The "Surreal Life Newsletter" kept them abreast of the goings on in the house, and basically spread gossip in the manner of the National Enquirer. The headline of the newsletter screamed "Brande says, "Jerri Manthey is NO Robin Givens." Huh? I must have missed something because I have no idea what that means. I don't feel so bad, because it didn't appear that the roommates knew what the headline meant either. It certainly sounds scandalous though doesn't it? One of the other "stories" in the newsletter was entitled "New Roommates give Brownies to Neighbors."
About 10 minutes later, somebody said, "I have a great idea! Let's go deliver brownies to the neighbors."
What followed was one of the saddest, most pathetic scenes I've ever borne witness to. The seven roommates marched along the street, pounding on doors, and thrusting plastic pans of brownies in the faces of their wealthy neighbors, many of whom sensibly did not open their doors. Webster and Hammer led the group, like two mismatched drum majors directing a band of nerds. I felt sorry for them. So sorry for them in fact that I could no longer watch, and changed the channel for about ten minutes to catch part of a rerun episode of Queer as Folk on Showtime.
After a healthy dose of gay soft porn, I was ready to return to our friends on The Surreal Life.
I don't know what I missed, and frankly I don't care. When I returned to the show, the roommates were readying themselves for some sort of dinner party. They arrived in the backyard, and found that the producers had prepared a lavish feast of sushi for the group. Hammer, Webster, and Corey were disgusted. Why were they disgusted you may ask? Well, this was no ordinary feast of sushi. This sushi was elaborately displayed atop a scantily clad, and very well endowed, Asian woman. Again you may ask....Why were those three men disgusted? Saki, sushi, and near nude females are usually not something that most normal men oppose to. It has been well established however that Hammer, Webster, and Corey are nowhere near normal. Not liking sushi, loving god and family, and not wanting to exploit women were some of Hammer's reasons for fleeing the scene and running back into the house. Webster was made so uncomfortable by the situation that he couldn't stop giggling like a hyena. He immediately joined Hammer back in their room. Corey also begged off, stating that he wasn't allowed to enjoy the company of another woman unless his fiancé was present. He also made it a point to let us know once again that he was a VEGETARIAN and couldn't have enjoyed the food anyway. (I swear, if I hear him say that one more time...) Always the hypocrite, two seconds later he let us in on the knowledge that if his fiancé WAS there, he would have been able to enjoy both the woman AND the food.
Corey's Rules of Vegetarianism:
Killing of animals is immoral and wrong. Addendum 1: You can wear leather if it is a gift. Addendum 2: You can eat meat if sex is involved.
Do I have that about right?
The four remaining roommate's attempt to enjoy their meal was thwarted by the three opposers, who, continuously throughout the meal, returned to the table to tell the diners how immoral and wrong it was to be gawking at a near-nude woman. These sentiments failed to ring true with me, as all three
naked-sushi opposers gaped and stared the "poor exploited women's breasts" during the entirety of their diatribe.
Some drinking happened after that, and some more fighting. Corey placed about 43 more calls to his fiancé, during the last of which he asked her to marry him on live TV during the last episode of the show. "Honey," he said, "Just think, our marriage will be seen by the entire world!"
Corey, I have some news for you..the "entire world" is a bit of a stretch. Keep acting as you have, you'll be lucky if all seven members of the cast show up for the ceremony.
The episode ended with what I'm sure was intended as dramatic revelation, but turned out to be nothing more than Corey Feldman trying to get some camera time. Corey gathered his roommates around and announced with gusto that he would be getting married on the show!!! Brande looked confused. Vince Neil yawned and popped open a cold beer. Hammer and Webster missed the announcement entirely as they had tucked themselves into their bunk beds promptly at 8pm.
The End.
Next week on The Surreal Life:
Some nudity may be involved, bikinis are definitely involved, and Vince Neil drinks more beer. Most importantly, someone makes Corey Feldman cry.
I will put myself through he pain of watching this show again for the sole purpose of finding out who caused Corey's pain. I plan to send that person a heartfelt letter of congratulations and thanks.
My name is Jennifer, and I am a reality TV addict. By Jen
I have been a reluctant, yet avid, fan of reality television since its onset many years ago. In 1992, I watched with innocent eyes as MTV premiered The Real World to skeptical audiences. Unknowingly beginning a trend that, 11 years later, has spiraled wildly out of control. I unfortunately have been caught like a deer in headlights for the entirety of this 11 year evolution. I watched each season of the Real World with religious fervor, and when MTV decided to add Road Rules to its reality repertoire, I jumped on the bandwagon without skipping a beat. Embarassed, I kept my addiction quiet, though it was quickly revealed that I wasn’t the only one watching. It soon became clear to producers that TV viewers as a whole seemed to be a voyeuristic lot, and it therefore came as no surprise when the major networks finally opened thier eyes and eventually picked up on the trend. With the premiers of such shows as Survivor and The Mole, reality television broke through into broadcast TV, and there was no stopping it. The onset of each new season brings us a seemingly endless supply of this increasingly sensational and entirely ridiculous world, and my addiction is constantly fed.
It was fed especially well last night.
JOE MILLIONARE WHO IS OUT FOR LOVE? WHO IS IN IT FOR MONEY? Romance and reality intertwine as 20 women travel to France for a whirlwind romance with a man whom they think is a dashing millionaire. What will happen when the truth is finally revealed that he is a just a regular "Joe" and his wealth is a facade? Will his true love accept him for who he is, or reject him in search of greener pastures? As this handsome, young, eligible man begins his search for "The One," he discovers which of these women are out for true love and which are just interested in his bank account in JOE MILLIONAIRE…
Will his chosen companion reject him once she learns the truth, or will true love win out?
Following ABC's wild success with The Bachelor, FOX too has decided to hop aboard the love train, throwing in the aforementioned exciting new twist to make things really interesting. In the premier episode last night, we met Joe Millionaire (aka Evan), and watched as he bumbled around his borrowed chateau, clumsily pulling the wool over the eyes of 20 gold digging women who were so busy mentally tallying up their fortune that they failed to notice that Mr. Moneybags didn't know his middle name, let alone how to properly mount a horse or waltz around a ballroom. After the end of a nauseatingly boring, yet strangely compelling hour, Evan narrowed down the field to a mere 12 ladies, a choice seemingly based solely on breast size. Next week...Catfighting and crying!! Meow! Sign me up.
Sad that you missed Joe Millionaire? Don't fret! Network television never disappoints! Premiering in the upcoming weeks are a whole slew of bad reality programs in which you can get your fix.
The Bachelorette
Not missing a beat, ABC picks up right where The Bachelor left off, with ...The Bachelorette. This gem of a show stars Trista, the rejected finalist from the first season of The Bachelor. She's not letting being dumped on national television get her down! Trista is "still single and optimistic about love," and looking to find a man. Good luck Trista. Good Luck. Hopefully one of the men you spend two weeks with will ask you to marry him and you will live happily ever after. Realistic AND romantic. Sigh.
Meet the Folks
Those crazy matchmakers at NBC are at it again. Meet the Folks is back, and badder than ever. Have you ever liked a guy, and thought to yourself, "Gosh, I really wish I could compete for his love with eight other girls, have frightening secrets revealed about myself on national television, go through a lie detector test in a scary basement, and then have his parents tell me that I am or am not good enough to be with their son." ?? Then this is the show for you. See the website for details about how you too can be humiliated in front of millions of viewers.
High School Reunion
Ever want to re-live high school for all eyes to see? Well the WB is letting 17 former classmates from the Oak Park/River Forest, Illinois Class of 1992 do just that on their new reality series High School Reunion. The tagline reads: 17 Former Classmates; 14 Days on an Island; 11 Lingering Crushes; 6 Old Scores to Settle; 5 Amazing Transformations; 3 New Loves; 2 Knock-outs; 1 Marriage Proposal.
I watched the premier. I saw: 1 day on the island, 3 makeout sessions, 2 dates, 1 breakup, lots of tears, 3 washed up jocks with beer bellies, receding hairlines too numerous to count, and a bunch poor saps willing to whore their lives out for a shot at being on national television.
The Surreal Life
Saving the best for last, I reveal to you...The Surreal Life. A brief description says it all:
The recipe for The Surreal Life is a simple one: Take seven bigger-than-life celebrities from every genre of the entertainment industry - rap music, heavy metal, feature films, sitcom, drama, and even reality television itself. Throw them together under pressure. Stir.
Trapped without transportation, cell phones or personal assistants, they must interact with each other, share bedrooms and bathrooms, do household chores, go grocery shopping and prepare meals together. The cameras never stop rolling, so the power struggles and personality clashes are all captured on film - along with the very real new friendships.
The familiar faces include:
MC Hammer, Emmanuel Lewis, Brande Roderick, Corey Feldman, Gabrielle Carteris, Vince Neil, and Jerri Manthey.
A group camping trip, "Naked Sushi" night, a softball game, a unique backyard talent show and a surprising Hollywood wedding ... it's all part of everyday life - and it's always surreal.
I have to give The WB the blue ribbon on this one. Never has a reality show combined everything I look for in bad reality television and thrown in washed up celebrities to boot. It's too good to be true. This is the ultimate, the best, the Sistene Chapel of reality TV. The possibilities are endless. Just imagine... What will happen if rap star-come-preacher MC Hammer has to share a bathroom with Motley Crue's Vince Neil? Will Webster get the top bunk or the bottom bunk? What will Playboy Playmate Brande Roderick wear to bed? Will Corey Feldmen get laid? Hopefully on January 9th at 9pm all these questions, and more, will be answered. I for one know I will be watching.
Still a fan of the old standards? Not to worry. In addition to all of these exciting new and innovative series, you can rest assured that you will still be able to view all your favorites. Survivor, Fear Factor, Big Brother, American Idol, The Osbornes...They're all returning once again to rot our minds and provide thrilling water cooler conversation. Best of all, and most important in my eyes, The Real World still continues to plug along in its unprecedented 12th season. Minus, of course, is any semblance of reality whatsoever. The time is long past when we witnessed roommates inhabiting sparsely decorated apartments and scraping together money for food. These new kids live in an Ikea showroom on the 20-something floor of a posh Las Vegas Casino. Their biggest hardship seems to be the fact that they stay out too late every night dancing, drinking,and media-whoring. In and of itself, that's not so bad, but their hangovers render them so exhausted that they are too tired to behave dramatically enough to merit extended periods of camera time.
In “The Day I Turned Uncool – Confessions of a Reluctant Grown-Up”, essayist Dan Zevin gives a witty account of his personal experiences with aging. Through twenty-four confessions ranging from “I take pride in my lawn,” to “Expanding my horizons isn’t worth the hassle anymore,” Zevin juxtaposes his adult days with a wilder, less responsible time.
Not your average adult, Zevin makes the clear distinction between “regular” grown-ups and reluctant ones. “Regular grown-ups lead regular lives,” he explains. “They fret about their 401(k)’s and lose sleep over their receding hairlines. They use words like ‘interface’ and ‘multi-task’, and they are not even kidding.” Zevin, a self-proclaimed reluctant grown-up who still wears sweatpants he owned in college, admits to such reluctant grown-up behaviors as hiring a cleaning woman, joining a health club, and going out for dinner as a replacement for going out. Each confessional chapter paints an amusing image of the author, who would rather walk his surrogate daughter, a labrador named Chloe, than visit his friends with children.
Zevin is a pupil of the world, bumbling his way through etiquette courses, wine tastings, and golf classes. “I liked Ben,” he says of his golf instructor. “He had a pleasant laugh and the patient demeanor of a special ed teacher. Which was a very good thing, since I was going to be his pupil.” In “Back to School”, he incredulously relates his first experiences as an adjunct instructor at a local college:
On my first day of school, the kid sitting next to me raised his hand and made the following inquiry: “Professor, does that count toward our final grade?” I, for one, was taken aback, not so much by the question, but by the odd understanding that it was being asked to me. He may has well have called me Your Honor, or Captain, or some other title best reserved for serious, responsible figures of authority. “Professor”? That would suggest I have something to profess.
But he does have something to profess. Not many people, reluctant grown-ups or “regular” ones, are as undaunted as Zevin by the beckoning hand of Father Time. His ability to laugh at his fears makes him fearless, and his humbling tales lessen any misgivings we readers may have about our own advent into adulthood.
Zevin spins his tales from suburbia in a manner to which anyone can relate. In “The Grass Is Never Greener”, he laments his codependent relationship with his lawn:
Whenever I am faced with a looming work deadline, I’ll seize the opportunity to procrastinate with a little mulching. The effect is a lot like doing laundry: it’s never what you should really be doing, but it makes you feel like a productive and worthwhile human being nonetheless.
You don’t have to own a lawnmover to nod your head in empathetic appreciation.
Zevin joins the ranks of a refreshing new breed of writers who straddle the worlds of non-fiction and fiction through their humorous memoirs. Like fellow essayists David Sedaris and Amy Vowell, Zevin showcases his talent for storytelling, cleverly introducing a motley assortment of characters from neighborhood handymen, passive-aggressive etiquette instructors, and anti-social dog-walkers.
In one of the most entertaining selections, “Not My Junior Year Abroad”, he visits his brother, who is spending a college semester in Spain. Suffering from an unfortunate eyeball injury, Zevin compares his experiences as an early-to-bed, visually-challenged adult traveler with embellished entries from his college journal. The adult-aged Zevin watches HBO in his hotel and soaks his eye in tea, while the college-aged Zevin pens idealistic prose from his semester abroad in Copenhagen. College Zevin’s marijuana-induced journal entries reveal the truths of life, (“NEIL YOUNG = GOD”), whereas reluctant grown-up Zevin’s do not carry the same zeal. “The most intense drug experience I’ve had in recent memory involved double-dosing on ibuprofen,” he admits, “which, incidentally, you’ve got to try if you – like me – have been jonesing for a mind-blowing anti-inflammatory.”
Readers looking for earth-shattering subject matter need not look here. Zevin admits to steering clear of politics, philosophy, and just about any topic other than sports and his dog. Although some may prefer more socio-political commentary from their reading list, in an age of global warming, imminent war, and human cloning, Zevin’s sophomoric confessionals offer refreshing asylum from the world’s problems.
Zevin’s anecdotes strike the perfect balance between realism and hyperbole. He challenges us to rage against the dying of our youth, and reminds us that although we all grow older, with the right attitude, we can remain young at heart. Despite the book’s title, Zevin’s uncanny ability to make us laugh at the absurdity of adult life makes him anything but uncool.
Crying on My Own Dime - With a Little Help From the White Rapper By GxxP
Disclaimer: I am not a film critic, nor do I play one on tv. I don’t know all the fancy tricks to keep a movie’s secrets intact while writing about it. So if you don’t want to know anything about 8 Mile, stop reading now. Bookmark the page and return after you’ve seen it too.
I almost never go to the movies, maybe because of how I feel right now after seeing 8 Mile. Of course I knew before the film began that there would be a rap showdown and that Em’s character Rabbit would triumph, but that didn’t make it any less wonderful when it happened. Formulaic? Maybe. Worth spending $10 and 2 hours of your life on? Absolutely.
What I liked about the film. For starters, Eminem is hot. I’m a fan but I don’t watch much television, so I never get to see Eminem in interviews. More to the point, I never get to see him just being a person – cracking jokes, feeling sad, being himself. And after all, this movie is all about Marshall Mathers being himself. His brooding silences, his raw talent, his tenderness – this is what makes him hot, much more so than a shirtless photo on the cover of Spin.
I was impressed by every character in this film. The supporting cast did a fantastic job, from the inspiring yet straying love interest Alex, to the wayward mother, her deadbeat boyfriend, Rabbit’s motley posse, and his best friend Fortune. When Fortune and Rabbit fought I felt genuine sadness, the sadness I’ve felt when I’ve misunderstood or hurt my own friends, or when they’ve done the same to me, no matter how good our intentions were at the time. In the end, Fortune was a true and forgiving friend, and the beauty and purity of unconditional friendship moved me.
I really liked that Alex was going to leave Detroit in the end, that Rabbit wore a tattered shirt and went back to work in the factory after the rap-off. I like that no one walked off into the sunset, because that’s the way life is, that’s REAL.
Which brings me to what I didn’t like about the film. I didn’t like that for the majority of the film I felt the hopelessness, the angst, the ennui of Rabbit’s life. Of course this only means that the film was doing its job, because those ugly moments are reality; it just happens to be the reality I don’t often think about. Those are the moments and the feelings that I tend to put aside – I mostly write about the funny nuances of life, because that’s the side of life I prefer to think about, the world I strive to live in. Humor is what gets me through watching loved ones suffer from cancer, friends dying, unavoidable wars brewing, the men I love not loving me back. Without humor, reality would tear me apart, and I’d be crying all the time like I was when I finally got home and was able to show my true reaction to the film. Maybe that’s why I don’t go to the movies very often – because there’s so much sadness in the world that it seems unnecessary to pay $10 to feel more of it.
Perhaps this film hit me at just the right time. Sure, it was just a movie, and a somewhat predictable one, yet I enjoyed – and didn’t enjoy – it nonetheless. Life is about all the things 8 Mile exposed – oppressive, suffocating sadness, and unadulterated, exalting happiness. One almost cannot exist without the other. The film made me want to write for a living, to send my essays to journals, websites, anybody who will give me a chance to speak. Rabbit's decision to pursue his rap career, and to do it on his own, is the artist’s way. And deep down we’re all artists, we just don’t always let that part of us out. This film reminded me how important it is to let the artists inside us shine. To be expressive, thoughtful human beings, not just in our songwriting or painting or writing or rapping, but in every aspect of our lives – even during those hours when we’re sitting in a cubicle and doing the last thing we feel passionate about, so that we can have homes to dwell in, food in our bellies, and experiences that become the fodder for our art.
That’s why I created this site, that’s why I carry a purple notebook with me everywhere I go. Even if what I write doesn’t seem like art to anyone else, it sure seems like art to me.
If Eminem can make me cry, what can I do to affect someone else, even if for a brief moment? And more importantly, what can you do? Just as Rabbit discovered, it’s best we go find out, rather than sit around talking about it. So take off those pen caps, check those mikes, and show me, don’t tell me, baby. Wurd.
We attended a Stevie Wonder concert last night. Well...actually, let me rephrase that. We were supposed to attend a Stevie Wonder concert last night.
A few weeks ago Gina IM'd me with some wonderful news. "STEVIE WONDER IS PLAYING AT THE BEACON!" she excitedly yelled at me in capital letters. "YOU'RE KIDDING ME!" I screamed back. Sure enough, Stevie Wonder and friends were playing on October 28th. Tickets were purchased, and my expectations were high. The lineup of acts included Stevie (of course), Faith Evans, Roberta Flack, and DMX...not too shabby. I had visions of Stevie sitting regally behind his piano, singing his heart out all the classics that I love. I pictured his "friends" joining in occasionally, mixing things up with interesting arrangements of "Sir Duke" and "Superstition;" DMX throwing down raps, giving props to the King himself. Unfortunately, upon our arrival at the Beacon, I realized that perhaps my expectations were too high.
As we walked up the stairs to the balcony, I spied a poster telling us that not only were the aforementioned performers going on last night, but we were also to be treated to performances by Montel Jordan and Naughty by Nature. I expressed to my fellow concertgoers a concern: Since there were so many acts on the bill, I was worried that there were only two possibilities. Either each performer would get only about 20 minutes for their set, or we would be there till about 4am waiting to see the (alleged) headliner, Stevie Wonder.
We sat down in our seats to the strains of Montel Jordan singing "This is how we do it." (A nice little blast from the past, but not exactly one of my absolute favorites.) Montel, clad in a tight sleeveless shirt and sporting a single spandex glove, bid us adieu, and the emcee ran onstage.
Rather than immediately introducing the first act, he treated us to the first of many diatribes regarding the coalition that had been the catalyst for last night's performance, the AEC (The Artists Empowerment Coalition). From what I gather from the countless lengthy speeches that were given throughout the night, the AEC is a group of musicians brought together to champion the causes of other musicians. I'm sure it's much more involved than that, but to be honest, largely due to the fact that I was so excited to see Stevie, the whole thing was completely lost on me. Finally the emcee stopped his speech and introduced the next act, Naughty by Nature.
Now don't get me wrong, ain't nothin' wrong with a little "OPP" or "Hip Hop Hooray" to get a party going, but for the life of me I could not recall any other hits that they could possibly dazzle us with. Sure enough, Naughty came out rapping "OPP," followed that up with about 10 minutes of filler, and closed (shirtless) with "Hip Hop Hooray." No surprises there.
We were then treated to another emcee (possibly a politician) extolling the virtues of the AEC, and finally Roberta Flack was announced. I thought..."Okay, finally, here we go." Unfortunately for Roberta (and may I emphasize, NOT her fault), her performance was pretty bad. I don't know who or what to blame more. The faulty sound system? Definitely. The fact that her band was likely provided by the theater and had quite possibly never rehearsed with any of the performers? Of course. How about the fact that Roberta's back up singers were chatting amongst themselves throughout the entire performance? Roberta looked great, and could still belt it out, but unfortunately the feedback from the microphone was so horrible that it seemed to be causing her visible pain. The sound was so bad that she basically threw in the towel for "Killing Me Softly," leaving the audience to sing the majority of the song. I don't blame her one bit, we probably sounded quite good considering the fact that we didn't have the faulty sound system and half-assed back up singers to contend with. While we half-heartedly applauded as she left the stage, I felt bad for Roberta, but mostly just hoped that they could get their act together before Stevie went on.
When the next emcee was finished with his speech about the AEC, the next act was finally announced. I expected DMX or Faith Evans to follow, and was quite surprised when it became clear that Stevie Wonder was the performer he was hyping us up for. Stevie was led on stage to his keyboard and (after a quick little snippet about the AEC), began to play. On a positive note, he sounded as good as ever, and looked great. Mostly, I was awed that I was actually in the same room as him. Sadly, the positives ended there. The sound problems that occurred during Roberta's performance were largely fixed, but the performance itself was so disorganized that I found it difficult to even look at the stage. The main problem was that there were no fewer than 143 people joining him for his performance. It appeared that everyone, from the back up singers to the clean up staff, had somehow ended up on stage with Stevie. I like to think that Stevie gave them all permission to join him in his performance, but Gina wisely stated that it was entirely possible that they were only up there with him due to the fact that he couldn't actually see that they were up there with him. I felt as if Stevie had been taken advantage of. I had no doubt in my mind that all the backup singers and musicians (and Beacon Theater ushers) that had snuck on stage would all be going around bragging that they had performed with Stevie Wonder. Fortunately for the audience, an intelligent sound technician had sensibly turned off (or turned down) all the backup singer's microphones, so we thankfully could not hear what I'm sure was a horrendous cacophony of 143 voices singing along in unison. His performance was short, a couple of songs, and then a quick medley of some of his biggest hits. As he walked on stage I felt incredibly disappointed. There was a whole hell of a lot of buildup for just 15 minutes of Stevie Wonder. What was most disappointing was the the realization that came to me a few moments later when we saw that the concert was not over, and were floored to find out that Stevie Wonder was not the headlining act.
Faith Evans performed next, and she was fine, though the feedback problem seemed to have returned.... I wasn't really paying attention. I actually left during the middle of her performance and completely missed DMX. I just couldn't get over the shock that Faith Evans and DMX received better billing than Stevie Wonder. I wonder if perhaps this is the beginning of the end? Are eventually all the great performers going to be relegated to being sandwiched between a semi-washed up Hip Hop act and a gangster rapper? Who will be the next one to fall? Is Stevie's next stop going to be playing carnivals? I'd like to think that this is not so, and that perhaps Stevie was simply doing his duty as a musician by lending his well respected name to a cause that he felt strongly about. For the sake of all the great musical artists, I hope that it's the latter not the former. I have high hopes, but I did just hear some disturbing news from my mother after relaying this story to her. Apparently The Beach Boys recently performed at the Lynden County (population 8000) Fair this summer. Ouch.
Last night I had the good fortune of seeing Jason Mraz perform at Mercury Lounge. In addition to being Stevie's good friend, Jason is a very talented entertainer. Stevie had played Jason's music for me before, but my appreciation for it exploded upon seeing him live. His stage props are limited -- one guitar, one back up singer/djembe player (a curious character named Toca who sports a waist-long mane of black hair and wears sunglasses at night). These, and a perfect honey-sweet voice, are the only tools Jason needs to create a mosaic sound of folk-scat-pop.
Jason's songs are beautifully simple. His voice is gentle yet strong; his lyrics are poetic yet humorous. His "less is more" performance is replete with anecdotes between songs and playful bantering with Toca. With his red baseball cap atop his head and his Grand Old Opry t-shirt on his back, Jason looks a bit like the goofy kid that everyone loved in high school. And, according to Stevie, he was. Hopefully his label Elektra won't file him under "boy sensation"; with John Mayer and an enthusiastic gaggle of female devotees in attendance at Monday's show, one can see how easily it can happen. But Jason is so much more than a one-man-boy-band. He's an exceptionally talented artist who doesn't take himself as seriously as he takes his music -- important ingredients for a successful career, which Jason seems just on the verge of realizing.
Jason is touring across America now, and his studio album is scheduled for release on October 15. If you’re near a destination city on their itinerary, you are one of the fortunates who can experience both Jasons – the album Jason and the on-stage personality. Make sure you do both if you can.
Four or five years ago, when I first attempted to watch the HBO original series “Sex and The City”, I was bitterly disappointed with the program. I thought that the constant parade of bed jumping and label-whoring displayed by the characters on the show was a false representation of what life for single women in New York City is really about. Now, thanks to my friends (who more or less coerced me into giving the show a second chance), I can say that I am a regular viewer of the program. Unlike the show’s characters, I’m not a socialite, I don’t live in a fancy apartment or go to the Hamptons on the weekends, and I don’t have a zillion pairs of strappy shoes that I wear about town. I do however find striking parallels with some of the things that happen to the SATC gals and my own friends – contrary to my original impression, I think the show does a decent job portraying snippits of New York City living, the sex part and otherwise.
This season’s schedule was abbreviated, and as Sarah Jessica Parker’s womb grew they scrambled to tape episodes that wouldn’t show Carrie with child (what a doozie that would have been to work into the plot.) A shortened season warrants a shortened review, so here are my top-level thoughts on Carrie et al:
Carrie – Jen and I agree, Sarah Jessica is getting, for lack of a better word, a bit campy this season. Most of her lines seem to be delivered in anticipation of a ba-dum-dum-tsssssh. It’s as if she’s become a caricature of herself. Still, Carrie can be witty, charming, and in spite of her occasional neuroses (the Aiden episode? Yeeesh, that was painful), she’s an endearing character. Favorite moment – when she scared away Burger at the Gay-Straight wedding. When he meets her later on the dance floor, I found the moment, although a bit contrived, sweet. After having a recent brush with the butterflies myself, I can say that she portrays a hurt-before but head-over-heels-in-crush dreamer… perfectly.
Miranda – Miranda has become my favorite. Perhaps it’s the brilliance with which Cynthia Nixon portrays her – I find her to be the most believable character on the show. I’m also a big fan of dry wit, and Miranda’s about as dry as the desert (I know, I was just there.) She definitely scores laugh out loud points with me every episode. But there is also a sadness to Miranda, as she develops into a caring mother while her friends struggle with the adjustment to having a baby around to spoil their good time. She had some challenging moments this season, but we’ve seen her successfully return to work, and even get laid a few times. Way to go, Miranda. Favorite moment – during one of their breakfast chats, she encourages Samantha to think of the baby carriage as a big purse. She was also quick to interject, while on the topic of sex – “Use a condom!”
Samantha -- For some reason, whenever I used to take those silly online quizzes about which SATC character you are most like, I would be paired with Samantha. Maybe it’s my liberal attitude towards sex and relationships that align me with the queen of the one night stand. Either that, or it’s the vibrators. Favorite moment – returning the Sharper Image neck massager. Up until this episode, I was going to write about a similar experience I had with a Brookstone “massager”. Thanks to this episode, I don’t have to. (Why won’t they admit the true purpose behind this product? WHY?! Pick up a Brookstone catalog and look at where the models are rubbing these items… their elbow, their neck, their back. Anywhere but where the product was designed to be used. It’s like Victoria’s Secret denying their catalog is for men. Wake up!)
Charlotte -- Charlotte has never been my favorite character, probably because I find her prim demeanor boring and two-dimensional. She’s always dreaming about romance and all the fluff that people like me are skeptical of. But this season, she turned herself around, and got a poorly dressed, sloppy, bad mannered bed buddy. Obviously this guy was her exact opposite, but her fears about being in public with him remind me of some anxious moments I’ve experienced before introducing Jerry and Stevie to guys I’m interested in (or just having sex with.) Somehow having good looking gay friends puts a lot of pressure on a girl to bring the hotties home. The boys have kept me in line… so far… but I can see how a guy like Charlotte’s can sneak in under the radar. Favorite moment – when she plants a kiss on Harry in his bedroom just moments after turning her nose up at his love den.
So that’s it, the highlights and the lowlights of Sex and the City this summer. Too brief for anything important to develop, it was a fun little season, and ended too soon. I just hope I don’t start watching the Anna Nicole Show now that it’s over.
The New York area has hosted an abundance of concerts this summer, and I’ve gone to every single one I could muster the cash for, usually with Jen in tow. Since June I’ve seen George Clinton, Morcheeba, Incubus, Moby, David Bowie, Eminem, Me'shell N'degeocello, The Roots, Outkast, Polyphonic Spree, Mary J. Blige, and more – everything from funk to glam rock to gangster rap. We have a few remaining concert tickets in our possession, but for the most part the summer concert series is coming to a close. It ended on a perfect note this Saturday in Prospect Park, and we, along with some drenched fellow music appreciators, were there to soak up the music and the rain.
The Celebrate Brooklyn benefit concert was somewhat ironically entitled the Unlimited Sunshine Tour, and featured Cake, De La Soul, some bands I had heard of (Modest Mouse, The Flaming Lips) and some that I had not (Kinky and the banjo-strumming filler act – I think they may have been called the Hackensack Boys.) The proceeds from the nearly $40 ticket price went toward supporting the free concerts and activities in Prospect Park throughout the year, so we felt good to be doing our part to keep events free for our fellow New Yorkers. Because it was raining on Saturday, Jen, her 19-year old sister Julia and I decided to arrive late to the show, rationalizing that if we were going to get wet, we’d prefer it to be while dancing to the bands we wanted to see the most. With hats on our heads and mini-umbrellas in hand, we set off for the Prospect Park Bandshell, and were blessed with overcast, yet dry skies, upon our arrival. The banjo boys were warming up the crowd before De La Soul. We surveyed the 4,000 person long line to the beer tent, concluded that we didn’t need a drink that badly, and found a place to stand before De La took the stage.
De La Soul played a decent enough show, but they’ve clearly lost a bit of vocal range since Me, Myself and I hit the airwaves back in 1989. (You know that Woa oh oh oh oh oh part? Well, they could only hit “Woa oh”, and left the remaining oh oh’s to the crowd. Not pretty.) It was fun but maybe I’m just an old fashioned girl that prefers a little live music at a concert rather than 3 guys walking back and forth across the stage. Regardless, the DJ spun all of our favorite old school tunes and the obligatory special guest sauntered in from stage right – in this case, Dres, the lead singer from Black Sheep, added some vim to the set. Still, it wasn’t quite as exhilarating as I’d expected, and by the end of it we decided to face the challenges of the beer line and get a bit of a groove on for the rest of the show.
When the Flaming Lips hit the stage the sun (what sun?) had set and the night sky was a perfect backdrop to their ironic style and unusual stage presence. The lead singer, Wayne Coyne, sported a tan fitted suit and clearly had a penchant for the macabre, as witnessed by the fake blood dribbling down his face during one of the songs (forgive me for not knowing the name of the song, but up until this show, I wasn’t much of a follower of this band.) He threw glittered confetti onto the stage and into the crowd, and an extremely close up camera attached to the mike stand allowed us to follow his every facial expression, which were varied and entertaining. Apparently the band had enlisted several people dressed as large animals, just like the ones you see at a kid's birthday party or an amusement park, who bounced around both sides of the stage and danced little jigs. We liked the chick and the cow, although the penguin, pig, and frog weren't bad. Between the animals, the dry ice, and the images projected on the huge screen behind the band, there was a lot to take in at this show. If that weren’t enough, they covered Can’t Get You Out Of My Head by Kylie Minogue, and the looping image on the video screen of a naked woman falling down just about summed up the empty repetitiveness of the song (although, I still love it. I really do.) The Flaming Lips were interesting, funny, and they sounded good too. I was pleasantly surprised.
By the end of their set, the skies had darkened and the rain was coming down. Hard, this time. Really hard. At least half of the audience split, and Jen, Julia and I conferred to discuss the options. Jen and I had seen Cake before, but it had been at Roseland, and the sound and the crowd had sucked so badly I had considered writing an apology to the band on behalf of all the bridge and tunnel assholes at the show, asking them to give New York another chance. It wasn’t necessary, since they were the brainpower behind the Unlimited Sunshine tour, and as the headlining act, they also had to deal with a torrential deluge during their show. Julia really wanted to see the band, and on a trip to the porta-potty, confided in me that the conditions at the show were superior to those of most fraternity parties she'd been to that year. I realized she was right, and we decided to stay. Our hats and umbrellas were no longer doing us any good – the rain was coming down so hard that even the inside of my closed purse was soaked (still is a bit damp in there… ugh.) Miraculously, the beer line disappeared, so we bought ourselves some cool ones and hung out in the rain. There were occasional lightning bolts in the distance but nothing big and bad enough to get in the way of a good rock concert. We befriended the remaining fans, namely a couple of cuties who brought us up to the front with them, and had one of the best visceral concert experiences ever. With the rain pouring down our backs and faces, the music sounding so good, and the young boys lavishing such attention upon us, we had the time of our lives. And Cake didn’t have to ask us to finish any of their lyrics for them. We were singing right along the entire time, sans invitation - the only true indicator of a supurb show you really need.
Shifting T.V. into high gear, it's FASTLANE! By Eric
In the "watch it while you can" category, Fox has served up another meatball of a show. There is no doubt that the show's eulogy will soon be found buried in the back of Variety magazine, with a predictably ironic headline: "FOX In the FASTLANE to cancellation".
With that said, I, the world's biggest Tiffany Theissen fan, will still be there watching. Try as they may to shuffle the show around in a series of terribly inconvenient time slots, they won't be able to shake me, my VCR has a timer.
So break out the lotion and kleenex, boys! You won't have much time to peel one off when FASTLANE peels out of Fox's parking lot.
I’m a Bruce fan. If you’re a Bruce fan than I don’t need to explain. You know that the word FAN takes on a whole new meaning when placed directly after the word SPRINGSTEEN. If you’re not, well you’re probably as big a mystery to me as I am to you. I concede that there are those rare few that fall in the middle of this equation. They look at the Bruce disciples with a bemused look on their face and marvel at their zealousness. This is because they are music fans and are therefore no more blind to Bruce’s impact on rock and roll than the horticulturist who admires the skill and nurturing essential to the growth of a marijuana plant, even if they do not care to indulge in or understand its intoxicating effects.
So falling into the Bruce fan category, you can imagine my state of elation upon hearing of the impending E-street band reunion, album and tour and then my bitter disappointment upon discovering I would be in the throws of a wedding ceremony when the tickets for the NYC area shows went on sale. Yes, I would be wiping the forced tear from my eye and desperately trying to contrive a sentiment slightly more original than “You two just seem so happy” to offer the newlyweds at just the moment Ticketmaster would be opening its phone lines. (If I sound cynical I assure you these comments are not necessarily directed at the institution of marriage itself, but more at its intrusion upon my summer and its larceny of about 50% of my weekends.)
Well, I shrugged it off, vowed to work every angle I had and waited for the release of The Rising. On July 30th, I woke up bright and early for The Today Show to catch my first glimpse of what had been hyped by the media as nothing short of the second coming of Christ (or Born to Run…same difference.). I was disappointed. Not disappointed enough to not purchase the damn thing that very day, but I was having doubts. After one listen, I was still disappointed. But again not disappointed enough to talk myself out of heading over to Madison Square Garden the night of August 12th and placing myself at the end of a 500-person ticket drop line. (To clarify for the non-fan, Bruce traditionally drops a large chunk of tickets at the box office the day of the show to minimize scalping and give all of us shutouts one last-ditch effort at getting into the show.)
I knew that the majority of the people in front of me had probably been there about 30 hours, received their bracelets and had actually paid their dues. My chances of making it to that ticket window were slim to none. I can’t explain it though. I just had this feeling, like when you can smell the rain and know it’s coming long before the clouds even roll in. I’ve had good concert karma in the past, but I just felt especially confident about this night and knew if nothing else, I had to put myself out there where the action was.
So I started to make friends and size up the crowd. It’s tough in these situations because it’s important to make alliances but at the same time you can’t commit too soon. Let’s face it, you’re out here battling solo and while you want to prospect the chances of that elusive Rosalita as much as the next guy, you know you’re a mercenary and will turn on these fellow soldiers as soon as the words “One for face value” make themselves audible. In this particular case, something did fall my way. I was working on getting a single ticket from a woman in front of me and while it looked promising, there were still many variables at play making the purchase anything but a sure thing. So when I felt a tap on my shoulder and turned to see a familiar face, my sensors were out and I was ready to pounce. “I just need one,” I blurted. No niceties here! This was a friend of a friend. While we had bonded over a particularly hairy incident involving a stolen purse, the incarceration of an innocent man, and a raced rental car up the NJ Turnpike from an abandoned Greyhound to the NY District Attorney (another story for another day), we weren’t exactly close friends. Therefore, my Bruce enthusiasm could have been construed as rudeness, but he didn’t bat an eyelash. He simply said he’d be right back. “$75?” he stated upon his return. Was he joking? Did he really phrase that in the form of a question? Hell yeah! My colleagues from line patted my back, cheered for me and bid me farewell, as I broke free from the line ready to claim my prize. I knew this was my night!
“So who has the ticket?” I asked John as we headed back to congregate with his friends. “Well, it’s not really a ticket. We’ve got a deal worked out with some of the guys in the Garden,” he explained, as visions of lost opportunity flashed before my eyes. Did I abort too soon? That other lady’s ticket was in the bag! As these panicked thoughts floated through my head, John handed me what appeared to be a ticket. It had all the makings of a Ticketmaster Rip-off Du Jour, but where it should have been emblazoned with BRUCE SPRINGSTEEN AND THE E-STREET band, it had the words VOID VOID VOID and SHAHANI/RUSTOM/P 434 Monmouth St. Jersey City, NJ. Huh?
“OK, here’s what we do!” The ringleader of the group was now speaking. He was another familiar face, but I knew him about as well as a handshake and a “Good to meet you”. Survival instincts kicked in. Whatever this guy was about to tell me, I knew it was going to pertain to something highly illegal. The question was did this guy look like someone who could pull it off, and more importantly could he take me along for the ride. (Hey this was Bruce we were talking about!) I listened as he spelled out the plan. “Cover the ticket and flash it as you go through security. From there, it’s all prearranged. We go to a ticket taker at Gate X who will scan these tickets and let us in.” (Let’s just say Gate X for the story. I mean I’m no whistleblower. Maybe the contact at Gate X wasn’t even in it for the money. Maybe he was simply protesting the plight of the throngs of ticket takers across the country by sticking it to the MSG machine. This guy could be the next Casear Chavez for all we know.)
“Sounds good so far,” I thought, quickly weighing the risk/reward quotient in my head when a light bulb went off. “Where are we going to sit once we get in?” I asked. I mean call me pessimistic, but I didn’t think showing my stub with SECTION ____, ROW_____, and SEAT _____ would go over too well with an usher who wasn’t in on the take. “We’re getting in to general admission,” he said. That was enough for me. It was getting too close to concert time to dissect this too much. Hey anyone with a cache of fake tickets must have the plan thought out well beyond Gate X!
We all got through security, no problem. My heart was racing at this point and I couldn’t tell whether it was nerves or the fact that I had just placed significant distance between myself and the scores of other non-ticket holders outside. I was that much closer to The Boss.
The crowd at Gate X was thick. It was a balancing act…stick together as a pack or try to spread ourselves out? It turns out the decision was made for John and me. We watched our “gang” go effortlessly through Gate X while we splintered and were carried off by an eager pack of Bruce fans. I was still confident. I figured John knew some prearranged code word or at least how to furtively slide a wad of cash into our boy, Chavez’s hand. No such luck. “What are you doing?” I heard Casear ask John. “Come back later.”
Okay no major worries yet. He probably just wanted to spread us out to make it less obvious. We got back in line. (Looking back on it we probably should have let a little more time pass before our second attempt. I don’t know, maybe 45 seconds rather than our designated 30. “You think we’ve waited long enough?” “Yeah, You?” “Yeah, Let’s Go.”) Well, needless to say Round 2 went just about as well as the first.
Shit! I had a piece of crap ticket, a wad of $20’s in my hand, and an activist with cold feet …not a lot to go on. As images of Bruce pulling up a Courtney Cox look alike from the exact spot on the floor where I would have been standing began to cloud my judgment, John whipped into action and turned to the trusted weapon of any self-respecting New Yorker, his cell phone. “MMMM…. Oh Okay”, I overheard, as a look of awakened possibilities passed over his face. Apparently, the key to our entry was not the cash but the uttered phrase “We’re friends of TJ”. In fact the cash was our downfall. For all you future ticket scammers, lesson number one. When the fix is in, no cash exchanges hands at Gate X. Apparently the players (and yes there were many in this case) divvy up the score behind closed doors. We had simply been flashing the risk of imprisonment in front of Chavez’s face and not as discreetly as we had thought.
Third attempt equaled success! I ran through Gate X like a child coming down the stairs on Christmas morning. We were in. The group reconvened and began talking in hushed whispers once again. I gave John $80 and went to the beer line. I have no idea who finally got the money or how, and at this point, I couldn’t have cared less about Phase II of the plan. I could walk laps around the Garden for the duration of the show for all I cared. I had gained entry into this intimate room of 20,000 that included Bruce, Clarence, Patty, Nils and Max. As far as I was concerned my $80 had been well spent and that was enough for me. I heard the opening notes of Lonesome Day, and bolted through the entrance to the arena. As it turns out laps around the arena it was. We had become instantly engaged in a cat and mouse game with special forces MSG…aka the ushers. (Apparently, it’s somewhat obvious if you don’t have a seat in a sold out stadium.)
Did I mention earlier I was feeling the concert karma that day? The beautiful end to this scam came when John and his friends bumped into yet another friend. Now THIS guy had yet ANOTHER friend who was a security guard. I think some more money exchanged hands (but again I don’t want to jump to conclusions--perhaps it was an act of charity) and next thing you know the whole posse is being escorted down under the stage and into the General Admission area! Now here we could blend in with these folks. Not only did we now belong, no longer discriminated against because of a few misspellings on our ticket, but we were standing dead center stage and Bruce was in my sights about 75 yards away. Never have I been, nor ever will I probably be again, this close to the man himself.
Within 15 minutes Bruce and the E Street Band wiped away all notions of disappointment over the new album. Had the songs changed? No, but the delivery had. I saw the timelessness of Bruce’s relevance. Perhaps the songs and production of the album were not quite as fresh and instantly gripping as I had hoped. But that is who Bruce is. He experiments within his comfort level and fortunately for his fans the results always stem from a sincerity and passion that few can rival. He is not going to go out and get the Neptunes for his next project or collaborate with Redman to broaden his appeal. The Rising is not going to win Bruce many new fans. (As if he needs them.) And while I may not consider it the opus it has been touted to be in the media, the bottom line is that it is a riveting composition, wrought in empathy, hope and yearning. The fact that I needed to see these songs performed live in order to want to own them and be a part of them does not diminish their appeal. Once I saw him and the band perform these songs, I instantly loved them because it was so clear that they loved them. And if Bruce and the band love these songs than that is enough for me. I’m a convert.
Maybe my potentially cataclysmic journey into the concert had something to do with my romanticized view of the night. Ethical? Moral? Legal? I can safely say “no” to all of these. I could rationalize another 4 pages about why I don’t feel bad about it though. After all I can’t think of many characters in Springsteen’s songs that wouldn’t have jumped at the opportunity to do the same. Eddie, Wild Billy, Bobby Jean - Not only would they have taken the risk, they’d have known in their hearts that by doing so they’d made the experience just that much sweeter. After all, who do you cheer for - Maximum Lawmen or Magic Rat and barefoot girl? Well, last night this barefoot girl made it free and clear down Flamingo to the house of Bruce, where yet again he opened the door and let her in.
Who Is Responsible for this Anna Nicole Nonsense? By GxxP
Everyone is talking about the E! channel’s latest contribution to the seedy underbelly that is reality television programming – The Anna Nicole Show. Not to be left out, I checked out the program for myself this week, and was shocked by what I saw.
Yes, Anna Nicole is big, and yes, Anna Nicole is a mess. I think however that she is still very beautiful, and now that she’s a self-declared “big-boned girl” with her own television show, maybe there is hope that our culture could move away from the ectomorph-worshipping we find ourselves guilty of today. Maybe large-bodied women can be revered and emulated in art again as they were in Rubenesque paintings. If that indeed were to happen, then we could say that something, anything came out of this embarrassment of a show. Something, that is, besides discomfort in its viewers and ultimately Anna’s teenage son, who must be returning to school shortly, the poor, unfortunate soul.
On one hand you can say that Anna’s weight gain has its companion health threats, but so do the lifestyles that some models embrace in order to be a size 2 (they don’t call them “heroin chic” for nothing.) Although I must admit that Anna Nicole’s drug abuse – and clearly it’s there – is of genuine concern to me, especially since she seems unable to clean herself up, even with the television cameras rolling. Over the weekend Jen and I, along with the rest of the viewing public, I would imagine, made guesses to what on earth she is on. Painkillers, prescription downers, yet something to keep her moving (cocaine?) are among our ideas. Lots of booze, Jen thinks, even though I pointed out her lipstick is never smeared from excessive drinking. I postulated that she’d snorted some ether, thinking back to some of the wacky shit Hunter S. Thompson used to dabble in. Whatever it is, I feel bad watching it, as if I recognize someone needs help yet there’s nothing I can do to help them.
Anna Nicole’s fragile state (which consists of her bumbling around, followed by a motley crew of people whose sole purpose seems to be making sure she doesn’t fall on her face), in addition to the obvious and sudden weight gain and her slurred and disconnected speech, remind me of Elvis Presley’s final concerts that I watched on television as a girl. In his white sequined jump suit with a 30-piece orchestra supporting him, the King, severely bloated and obviously confused, stumbled through his lyrics and poured sweat like a… well, like a drug addict. He died not too long thereafter, which is why if Anna Nicole is in even half the trouble Elvis was in, it seems unethical of E! to exploit her situation. I’m not saying death is knocking at her door, but I am saying the woman has clearly fallen on some hard times. During one of her muffled speeches, Anna lamented the fact that the news is always covering situations “where shit happens and you die.” When she pointed out that the real hell is in the lives of people “where shit happens and you live,” I realized how unhappy this woman really is. Cindy Adams may have summed it up best – Anna Nicole needs a guardian. Not a television show. If no one's willing to stop it, the least I can do is stop watching.
Eminem at Jones Beach - A Musical and Sexual Experience By GxxP
On Friday Jen and I regressed in age and attended the Anger Management Tour at Jones Beach Amphitheater. Our primary motivation was to see the headlining act, Eminem, whose latest CD is receiving lots of airplay in our respective stereos. If given the choice I’d much rather see a show in a small venue – the Supper Club, Bowery Ballroom, Irving Plaza, even the floor of Hammerstein Ballroom are all more intimate venues than the colossal Jones Beach Tommy Hilfger (blech) Amphitheater. I am however of the belief that if an artist comes to town and I have their CD and can afford to go to the concert, then my attendance is a must.
Thus Jen and I found ourselves at Jones Beach on Friday, a venue where the list of the items forbidden inside the “compound” walls is about 30 long (weapons, umbrellas, backpacks, food, bottles – you name it, it’s not allowed.) In spite of its prohibitive rules, Jones Beach hosts a star-studded concert series this summer – Area2, Mary J Blige, and Smoking Grooves are among the stellar acts performing over the next few weeks. Luckily we knew about their no-booze policy and crammed two small bottles of vodka (a little bit of weed mixed with some hard liquor…) into Jen’s bag, which made it in past the security check (unlike my backpack, which we parted ways with at the door.) We immediately purchased ourselves a $8 nacho platter and $4.50 sodas to mix with our vodka, and surveyed the crowd.
The Anger Management ticket holders were primarily white and under the age of 21, which I suspected would be the case but was still surprised by once I was in the middle of it all. Jen and I parked ourselves on a bench outside the amphitheater and people-watched throughout the opening acts. Not only were we met with a number of seatus-interruptors (New York kids are bold – I’ve never been hit on by so many people in one day in all my life), but I was told by a 22 year old boy that I reminded him of his aunt, and that he was afraid I was going to yell at him for being drunk. I informed him I was as drunk as he, and not to worry. It was a moment plucked right out of Sex and the City, but somehow since it happened to Carrie in the Fleet Week episode, I didn’t feel so bad. At least he didn’t tell me I reminded him of his mother.
Eminem’s lyrics make even more sense now that I’ve seen his followers. They really are white suburban teens. Some were accompanied by their parents, and I couldn’t help but think, what are the parents doing to protect their children's virgin ears during the “When I say fuck, you say that -- Fuck…THAT! Fuck… THAT!” portion of the warm up act? Judging by the kindred looks I was getting from the smattering of attendees over the age of 25, I am definitely of the older demographic targeted by Em’s music. It’s not a club I want to be a member of, but if in order to dance to some good rap I have to look at little out of place, so be it.
Of course none of this mattered when Eminem took the stage. Although our seats were so high up I was scared (I actually imagined myself taking a wrong dip during a dance move and rolling over the lower bowls of people and into the Long Island Sound), thanks to the immense computer screens to either side of the stage, we were able to see Eminem as clearly as if we’d been in the third row. I am sure that Jennifer has bruise marks on her arms from the many times I grabbed her screaming “OH MY GOD. OH MY GOD,” while I gazed at Eminem’s visage. I know how the 14 year olds at Beatles’ concerts circa 1963 felt. He seriously looked so hot it took my breath away. How old am I again?
Jen and I are suckers for extravagant shows, and in this vein, Eminem joined the ranks of Madonna and Marilyn Manson. The stage was adorned with a Circus marquee displaying “The Eminem Show”; a Ferris wheel rotated at stage left, and a 25 foot platform adorned stage right, where Em and his collaborators would take breaks from bopping across the stage and rap from atop the platform. The show opened with "Square Dance", whose dark gothic chords were the perfect soundtrack to the circus-like setting. The songs were punctuated with pyrotechnics and Eminem changed outfits about three times. It was exactly the type of show we paid to see, and we danced and ogled to our hearts' content.
There were some disappointments however, the most obvious of which was poor sound quality. When we first sat in our seats and surveyed the gargantuan theater around us, I commented that I would be happy to just listen to the CD pumping out of the immense speakers. Wrong. I might have been better off synchronizing my Walkman with Eminem’s songs – I’m accustomed to hearing every note, every bass line, and I’m afraid the 3-story-high speakers did not do the songs justice. Not only that, but the music often overpowered Eminem’s lyrics. (This could also be because we were practically in the very last row of the uppermost bowl – still, we paid a lot for our tickets, and expected better sound than what we got.) I was also a bit disappointed in Eminem’s compression of his songs – one of the other sticky rules about Jones Beach is that shows must wrap up by 11 pm, so in order to fit as much in as possible, Eminem abbreviated most of his performance. I realized that a lot of my favorite lyrics come later in his songs, and was sad that the post-song fireworks hit before I could hear “Lyrics lyrics, constant controversy, sponsors working round the clock to try to stop my concerts early…” Technically, it was Eminem who was stopping the concert early last Friday, or at least the songs.
Highlights of the night included "When the Music’s Over", where his collaborators jumped around the stage with him, including an artist that I will refer to as the “Shower Cap Rapper”. Although this too was cut short, the song was fun, and with such a large stage, it looks better to have more people up there, rather than Em pacing back and forth (and looking, from our seats, like mini-Eminem). He pummeled a Moby doll during “Without Me” and got nasty with his female counterpart in “Superman”, a song which is quickly becoming one of my favorites, because it’s so schizophrenic and hilarious that I can’t help but think Em is a lyrical genius for writing it. (It was during this song that I found myself bellowing, “Fuck ME. Fuck ME,” in spite of the parents and teens around me. Shameful.) I seriously considered finding a security guard after the show and telling him, “Please tell Eminem that Gina and Jen are here to have sex with him. We’ll wait right here for him. Thank you.” I didn’t do this, but instead picked up my bag from the coat check and made my way to the bus. Sad.
Eminem isn’t for everyone, but he’s definitely for Jen and I, and didn’t fail to deliver last Friday night. It was well worth the trip, the smuggling of booze, and the fielding of 21-year old suitors to enjoy this experience. Unlike our kiddie counterparts, however, the show depleted us of our energy, and we went straight to our respective beds like a couple of 45 year olds. Maybe it was the energy of the show, and maybe it was the vodka, but we both slept well, with visions of Eminems dancing in our heads.
While watching TV this weekend I was delivered the most amazing piece of information… A revolutionary new product has rocked the world of painting! Dutch Boy Paint has created a miraculous line of paint cans with an easy pour spout!! I was treated to a: 30 second commercial that showed a slew of smartly dressed woman easily opening up cans of brightly colored paint. The Ladies flashed us a winning smile, and poured the paint into their trays with a flourish, all seemingly without spilling a drop (Or messing up their perfect manicures). Wow. Incredible. It’s about time.
Hardly! What a waste. I just recently painted my entire apartment, and I can tell you from experience that the act of pouring the paint into a tray was the least of my worries while accomplishing this task. I was much more concerned about the hours of backbreaking work I knew would immediately follow the 10 second act of pouring paint into a tray. Perhaps Dutch Boy should focus their efforts on more pressing issues regarding paint. How about inventing paint that easily washes out of your hair after it drips on your head while painting the ceiling? Oh! Maybe they could invent paint that turns out to actually be the SAME color on the wall that is it is the can, so you can avoid ending up painting an entire room fluorescent yellow. Even better, how about coming up with a can where, when you open it, four handsome professional painters pop out like genie’s, paint your entire apartment for you, and then take you out to dinner afterwards. Just an idea...
Let me just say that the new Eminem album is pretty damn good. It’s a journey; a session on the couch of Eminem’s shrink replete with Ice Cube-style power rap, angry lyrics about those who have wronged him (ranging from his mother to Tipper Gore), yet tender near-ballads tipping his hat to his daughter Hailie, whose name appears in the lyrics nearly as much as the dastardly United States government. I liked this album from the moment I pushed play - the beats laid by Em and his collaborators such as Dr. Dre are catchy, and the emotionally drenched lyrics are enthralling. I find myself just wanting to listen to the album -- not as a backdrop to reading a book or other activities -- but listening to the album as an experience in and of itself. Some songs make you want to get up and dance (like the first radio hit, Without Me), others lure you out of your seat in fist-pumping shared rage (such as the album opener, White America.) Eminem lays it all out for us -- what's happened to him, his family, and his country since his 2000 release, the Marshall Mathers LP.
Eminem has been regarded as a controversial artist for years. I don’t think the controversy he spends so much time lamenting is as undeserved as he claims – through his lyrics, videos, and his headline-making personal life, he’s cleverly manipulated the media into giving him lots of free press. He’s even cooked up alter egos to share the spotlight with. But it’s a method that works. Whether positive or negative, every time his name is mentioned on television or in print, more albums are sold. The Emninem Show has spent six weeks at the top of the charts, and not without good reason. In listening to the album the overriding feeling I walk away with is that it’s so very honest - it’s funny, it’s angry, and at times even scary. People are taking notice and spending their money on it.
The album’s first single Without Me kicks off with the addictive lyrics, “Two trailer park girls go round the outside, round the outside, round the outside” and only gets better as it goes on. He raps in double-time over catchy old school beats of how everyone from the FCC to MTV brings him down but the world feels so empty without him. And you know something? Now that he’s back with such force, I realize how empty it really is without him. Even Moby isn’t safe from his lyrical wrath in this selection, yet even to the lyrics that I don’t completely agree with, I find myself tapping my toes.
In Hailie’s Song, the ode to his daughter, he actually takes a stab at singing, confesses to his insecurities and his softer side, and pulls off a slow song as well as any of the brasher works on the album. He talks about wanting to give Hailie a better life than his, lending a tender side to the often otherwise misogynistic lyrics elsewhere in his work.
White America is a wake up call about how race is still prevalent to record sales, how artists are accountable for the messages they transmit, and how we must constantly fight for our freedom of speech. These messages and more are delivered with in-your-face, frenetic vocals from Eminem. In speaking of the secret of his success, Em refers to his audience’s approval of his Dre-backed music. “That’s all it took, and they were instantly hooked right in, and they connected with me too because I looked like them.” As I learned throughout this album, the lyrics speak for themselves and summing them up seems superfluous, like trying to rewrite Shakespeare. As Eminem stated in a recent interview with Rolling Stone when asked where he is his most honest, “In the songs. ... Why do I have to sit here and explain myself? Just listen to the fucking songs. They will tell you everything.”
Eminem dares to say what others only think about, and he has grown not just as a person but as an artist, with this album, right before our ears. The music itself is likeable, even if unremarkable - it acts as the waves on which his vessel of message sets sail. There are some ol’ standards present – the signature “duet” (this time in Sing for the Moment he partners up with a sample of Aerosmith’s Dream On ), and of course no rap album would be complete without an STD song (Drips). Still the music is powerful and addicting -- soaked with catchy riffs and beats. It will make people angry, it will make people think, but ultimately it will make people dance.
It’s a refreshing change to have an entire album that impresses - The Eminem Show has been on continual loops in stereos since May when bootlegged copies circulated weeks before the album’s actual release. The listening audience is fickle, though, and it’s tough to say how long this album will reside at the top of the charts. Who knows, it could be a repeat of the Beastie Boys’ Hello Nasty, which we all raved about and danced to non-stop upon its release, but within three months we had completely tired of it. Even Eminem’s nemesis Moby was on constant repeat with his last album Play, but when I hear it now I run from the room. As long as it doesn’t get driven into our ears ad nauseam in the months to come, The Eminem Show will be a noteworthy album in many collections years from now.
And now, let’s take Em’s advice and let lyrics speak for themselves.
-And suddenly it seems like my shoulder blades have just shifted – it’s like the greatest gift you could get, the weight has been lifted (about being awarded custody of his daughter in Hailie’s Song.)
- I’m just playing America, you know I love you. (surprising disclaimer at the end of White America)
-There’s no such thing, like a female with good looks that cooks and cleans (Business)
-Keep kicking ass in the morning and taking names in the evening. (Cleaning Out My Closet. Also listen for the clenched-teeth “Ma”s he punctuates his statements to his mother with. Ouch.)
-Lyrics lyrics, constant controversy, sponsors working round the clock to try to stop my concerts early. Hip hop is never a problem in Harlem, only in Boston, after it bothered the fathers of daughters starting to blossom. (White America)
-Look at these eyes, baby, blue baby, just like youself. If they were brown, Shady lose, Shady sits on the shelf. (White America)
-I’d slice my gums, get struck by fuckin’ lightning twice at once and come back as Vanilla Ice’s son, and walk around the rest of my life spit on, and kicked and hit with shit everytime I sung, like R Kelly as soon as “Bump and Grind” comes on (when reflecting on the worst case scenarios in My Dad’s Gone Crazy)
-I do know one thing though. Bitches, they come, they go. (Eminem’s bi-polar relationship in Superman)
-Psychotic, hynoptic product, I got the antibiotic (From Square Dance –also listen for the gothic piano and strings in this one.)
-What's gotten into me? Drugs, rock and Hennessey. (Square Dance)
By now you’ve probably gathered that I’m involved in a love affair with New York City. And just like a human love affair, it’s riddled with highs and lows. For everything that I love about her, the city seems to have an equal and opposite downside. So far the negatives have been greatly overshadowed by the positive, but sometimes I have to reflect on the big picture, to assure myself that I’ve made the right place my home.
Pro – I live in an apartment building with a 32nd floor roof deck with a glorious midtown view of the city. Con – I’m almost 30 years old, and share my less than 700 square foot apartment with a man I’m not sleeping with.
Pro – I have access to every musical act that passes through town (and almost all do). Con – I have to miss some, as the ones I’m going to are breaking me, or it least making it impossible to save for my future.
Pro – There’s a hotbed of cultural and historical interests and events in every neighborhood of the city. Con – Everyone else wants to see them too, such that, coupled with the communal living situation, you’re rarely alone.
Pro – I’m surrounded by diverse, driven, ambitious people from all walks of life. Con – They’re driven, ambitious, and ultimately very busy people, therefore making friends is not incredibly easy to do. Once you’re lucky enough to make a friend, their ambition drives them to move away.
Pro – There’s always a store open. In fact, why bother with going to the store? Just about anything you want can be delivered to your door. Con – In the same way that people in the Midwest shop at 12,000 square foot compounds, we in NYC with our delivery services aplenty could be taking the easy way out.
Pro – With a remedial knowledge of the subway, bus, and train schedules, you can access beaches, swimming pools, state parks, and mountains. Con – Once you get there and spend a day with suburban families, you want to come right back to the city.
Pro – We have three international airports within 45 minutes from midtown, meaning access to the rest of the country and world is always within our reach. Con – All of our money goes to rent. Who can afford a vacation?
Pro – We experience diverse seasons, each one filled with its own distinct pleasures (the first day of spring when everyone talks to each other, the technicolored foliage of Central Park in fall…) Con – It was 95 goddamn degrees today. Subways are as stuffy as saunas. You’re sweaty before 9 am. Sometimes summer in the city just boils down to garbage cooking on the sidewalk.
The other day I became acquainted with the site www.findyourspot.com. It’s not what you’re thinking (or, at least it’s not what my gutter-mind was originally thinking) -- it’s a site where you answer a series of questions and at the end are awarded with a list of all the ideal cities for you to move to in the country. Not only that, but it can help you find a roommate, a job, and buy your damn plane ticket to your new home. Apparently the site is funded by local listings and helpful services for the movers-to-be.
My sole purpose for visiting this site was sheer curiosity. The survey only takes 10 minutes to fill out, if that, and I had to know what sort of questions led to the answers that would determine where I should be taking up residence in this country of ours. (Since it doesn’t cover cities outside of the US, I figured it couldn’t give me any practical relocation ideas anyway.) Embarking into the survey, I aimed to be as truthful as possible, confidant that any question I answered with honesty would lead me to destination New York City, my chosen home for the past six years of my life.
Then I saw the questions. The first set related to climate. You are given five levels of possible answers, ranging from strongly agree to strongly disagree. It’s your basic aggravating multiple choice test where you answer something strongly in one direction and know it will have an impact on the results contrary to what you want or expect. Basically, I found myself telling little white lies by question #3:
Summers are meant to be long and hot, like good chile peppers.
Considering it was 95 degrees outside when I took this test, and considering I knew by affirming this statement I was saying I wanted to live in a city with oppressively hot summers, I agreed. Not strongly, but I agreed.
I moved on like this, going so far as to say that I had no opinion either way on whether or not I’d love to be able to play tennis in January without a roof - or mittens. Although- duh! Who wouldn’t like that? But I suppose that’s what summer is for, so I wasn't really lying, per se, by saying I don’t care.
I was similarly neutral on the safety issue (Of course I’d like a safe place, but it’s no more important than things like economic, recreational, and cultural opportunities) and the taxes issue (You take the bad with the good - taxes are a necessary evil that I can live with as they are), even though the socialist inside me cringed. I was similarly neutral in selecting what part of the country I wanted to live in or whether or not there are religious groups or political associations present. But for the obvious ones, I was opinionated as hell. Yes, I want to live in a big city! Yes, I want to be near airports and major medical centers! My hometown should have plenty of public transportation! What more do you need to know about my opinions on home schooling and winter sports? I’ve told you all you need to know. Just take me to my destination, the only place I’m meant to be – New York City, baby.
I pressed the magic key that would lead me to my spot and was met with the following results:
San Diego, CA (not a bad place at all, but number one?) Orange County, CA (aren’t we sort of getting at the same thing here, folks?) Albuquerque, NM (um… isn’t that the place where Bugs Bunny always took the wrong turn?) Honolulu, HI (now we’re talking) Las Vegas, NV (must have been that “strongly agree” response to the “I love the nightlife” question) Portland, OR (I see they call it the City of Roses. That, and the fact that the kid who sold me pot in college used to live there, is about all I know of Portland, OR)
There were six entries per page for a total of four pages. I had precisely 18 more chances to be united with the thing I love most about America (besides my parents and freedom). I cruised along in search of her, but was only met with Oakland. LA. Boston. Baltimore. Providence, RI. New Haven, CT (um, aren’t we going in the wrong direction here, folks?) Long Beach, CA. San Jose, CA. New Orleans. Hartford, CT (what the?). Little Rock, AR. DC. San Fran. Sacramento (ooookay, I think we’ve covered all of California now). Milwaukee, WI (aaaaaagggggggghhhhhh, do you know who you’re talking to?!) Chicago. Santa Fe, NM. Las Cruces, NM.
That’s it. End of story. Please click here to find a roommate or a job. But no mention of a little island on the south east edge of New York state that to some is the center of the universe.
I took the test with Jerry and Stevie, neither of whom received NYC as a result either (and Stevie concentrated in only two parts of the country – the northeast and the southwest.) By this point, we were sure there must be some mistake, a glaring omission had been made. Either they didn’t put New York in the database, or they were using all the wrong criteria for matching a person to the city of her dreams. We theorized that the cities that got the highest listings paid the highest ad dollars – and that when approached by the sales force from FindYourSpot.com, the New York tourism bureau said, “Screw you. We don’t want anybody here who needs a website to find us. Send those sorry bastards to Albuquerque.” Any explanation was possible, that is, anything but the fact that perhaps New York didn’t fulfill all the things we loved in life, and that some other town in the south or the midwest was just as great (and half the price!)
I decided to have a little fun with it and opted for the “Find A Roommate” function. Upon seeing the photo of Jamie in Phoenix AZ – he has a bedroom open for $500 and one hell of a head shot – I immediately told Jerry about it (he approached it not unlike a dating service- I saw him ogling Soho Chad right before I grabbed him for lunch.) We laughed about how we’d be quitting and moving to Phoenix next week to live with Jamie, and forgot about the site for the day.
But today, it bothered me that New York didn’t make my profile, and I tried to outsmart the system. I tried multiple combinations of survey answers that I thought would better suit a NYC match. For anything even remotely weather related that would not work in the city’s favor, I was neutral. I even changed my tax answer to If anything, we need to foster stronger government programs, even if that means more taxes (the socialist in me nodded.) I raised the target rent to as high as it would go ($1500), told the system I was from Peoria (in case it’s so smart it doesn’t recommend the city you live in now). I even offered to buy a house. At long last, I made it to the final page, and was recommended, in the 24th slot, New York City.
And just seeing it there, the City that never Sleeps, with its $600,000 cost for an average house, population 9.3 million, annual precipitation of 41 inches and snowfall 25 inches, made me happy, proud, matched. I had found my spot. I clicked through to learn about this great city I love, and was met with an image of the “skyline” – and my mood took a bit of a downturn. It looked so sad to me. Without the twins, we look just like my boss described when we drove into Manhattan from New Jersey after a business meeting – we look like any other city (no offense, Empire State Building.) The article goes on, citing a US News and World Report proclamation (no date attached) that New York was the “Comeback City”. Undergoing a renaissance of epic proportions, today the big Apple is cleaner, safer, and more prosperous than ever before. Well, thanks and everything, but isn’t all of America? Hasn’t economic prosperity been good to every strip-mall- and chain-restaurant-infused speck on the map from Maine to California? Why are we all of a sudden the Bad News Bears in the league of American cities?
Perhaps for the reasons stated earlier in FindYourSpot.com’s homage to my home – that the Sinatra song applies – if you can make it there, you can make it anywhere. New York, in spite of all of the characteristics that make it wonderful, can also be a very tough place to live compared to most of the cities in America (watch this space for future musing on this topic). The article goes on to cite our “comeback” as being only a few years old, and although it says glowing things about our peoples of many colors, our recreation, our business, our art – it is still keeping us at arm’s length. And that’s probably what the rest of the country does too. In fact, it’s what I used to do. My most popular remark about my experiences in the big city after my first visit in ’94 was, “Great place to visit, but I could never live there.” For a myriad of reasons, two years later my opinion changed. I took the plunge and moved here, and my life will never be the same.
I suppose it’s the feeling of being misunderstood by the rest of the country that is so confounding to us New Yorkers. After all, most people’s impression of this place is fueled by the entertainment industry and media. In the 70’s most people associated NYC with the urban decay touched on in films like Taxi Driver and Mean Streets. In the 80’s, Wall Street and the Brett Easton Ellis genre defined us – slick-haired Gordon Gecko types were our poster children, and not many people can relate to that. The innocuous television programming of the 90’s sitcoms helped improve our image – after all, who doesn’t love Seinfeld or even (cringe) Friends? But now, in 2002, I’m afraid the image that most people can’t shake is of our precious towers ablaze, and the loss of so much human life on that fated day. In this day of government warnings about the safety (or lack thereof) of our precious landmarks like the Statue of Liberty and the Brooklyn Bridge, the message to many is proceed at your own risk. We may be the “Comeback City”, but there are probably still a lot of people who are unwilling to come back for a visit, let alone to make it their home.
But that’s okay with me. I worry about the things I can control, not the things I cannot. If FindYourSpot.com and the rest of the country think that Albuquerque is a more desirable place to live, they’re entitled to their opinion. I just know that right now, NYC is the place for me, and it’s going to take a lot more than being snubbed on FindYourSpot.com to make me change my mind.
IncuBUST or Why I HATE Madison Square Garden By Jen
Last Friday, Gina, Jayme, and I set out on an adventure that I was sure would be a visual and listening extravaganza the likes of which I’ve never borne witness to before. It was…INCUBUS at MADISON SQUARE GARDEN. The event of the summer! The concert of the decade! An evening of music and lust!!
Somehow, in the past year, Gina, Jayme, and I had developed a preteen-like obsession with the band known as Incubus. Or, more accurately, a preteen-like obsession with the band’s Lead Singer: Brandon Boyd. The hottest, sexiest, and, for lack of a better word, coolest, lead singer in the whole wide world. (Inculust: The act of becoming unrealistically infatuated with Brandon Boyd of Incubus. Manifestations of said condition include purchasing the “When Incubus Attacks” DVD and three of their latest albums in the span of 2 weeks, as well as dreaming that you will use Mike the guitarist to get to Brandon.) Upon finding out that the band would be gracing the stage of Madison Square Garden in our very own hometown, New York City, we immediately logged on to ticketmaster (who then charged us 30% of the price of the ticket in fees + our first born sons), and purchased the tickets. Granted, the seats weren’t in the first row, in fact, they weren’t even in the 311th row, but that wasn’t important to us. What was important to us was that we were going to be in the same room as Brandon Boyd. I immediately began practicing my swooning techniques, and four long arduous months later, tickets in hand, we headed off to the concert.
Out of habit we arrived late to the show. Usually a tardy arrival to a concert does not result in any sort of trouble. Due to the fact that rock stars are notoriously late to anything and everything, and the fact most shows are general admission anyway, we usually make arriving late a goal to achieve, rather than an obstacle to overcome. There’s nothing better than showing up at a concert at the precise time the main act goes on. None of that waiting around and listening to opening acts for the likes of us (Unless, of course the opening act is our reason for being there.) As seasoned concertgoers, we were fairly confident that we’d perfected the whole process. However, compared to most concert venues, Madison Square Garden is a completely different animal. First of all, due to the fact that the workers who set up and clean up the show are unionized, the concerts MUST start and end on time. A fact that I found out last year at an Aerosmith concert, when the lights came on just as “Walk This Way” was really picking up steam. Even the pleadings of a sequin-clad Steven Tyler and the gyrating, shirtless Joe Perry could not convince the union workers to send us back into darkness for the remainder of the finale. The second reason that we should have arrived on time was due to the simple fact that we had to locate our seats. This accomplishment may not sound difficult in and of itself, it turned out however to be one of the most difficult tasks of my life. Why you ask? I will tell you why…
After we arrived at the Garden, we began the long and arduous journey up to the 300 level where our seats (allegedly) were. Much to our chagrin, as we stepped into the 300 level corridor, we heard our beloved Brandon singing his heart out. We glanced at each other in horror and ran immediately to section 312, the home of our (alleged) seats. After purchasing some semi-flat beer in plastic cups, we entered the arena. There he was. Live and in the flesh. It was too good to be true. Giddy as schoolgirls, we asked the Usher where we could find our seats. She pointed ambiguously up a flight of very dark stairs, into the abyss of the crowd. Section 312, Row K, Seats 1-3. How hard could it be to find the first three seats on the aisle you ask? Well it’s extraordinarily difficult. Extremely, ridiculously, absurdly, difficult. I’ve been to the Garden for sporting events many a time, and even then, with the bright lights shining overhead, you STILL need someone to point out where your row is. After searching for a while in vain, we decided to sit down on the steps and try to enjoy the concert as best we could. For a blissful 30 seconds or so we got to watch our darling Brandon sing us a song. I was singing along to a lovely ballad when I was interrupted by the girl in the seat next to me. (Which, incidentally, could have likely been MY seat.) She tapped my shoulder and nastily asked me to get out of her way. I watched her tromp down the stairs in her cheap stilettos and too-tight jeans and walk right up to the usher. I knew straight away what was going down. The usher looked up at us and immediately began attempting to blind us with her flashlight. Rather than using her flashlight for the intended purpose of SHOWING PEOPLE TO THEIR SEATS, she had instead decided to use it as a weapon in her quest to prevent people from enjoying themselves. Regardless, the message was clear: We were not allowed to be sitting on the steps. We gathered our belongings and walked down the stairs. The beeeyatch that told on us stood triumphantly as we tried to explain the reason why we were sitting on her precious steps. We told the Usher that we were trying to find our seats and that we simply couldn’t locate them on our own. “Please help us,” we pleaded. While she inspected our tickets with skepticism, I made the mistake of telling the little tattletale that got us in trouble that she could have simply asked us to move if we were bothering her. The bridge-and-tunnel-wannabe-Incubus-fan told us that Jayme had apparently spilled beer on her too tight jeans, and that is was UNACCEPTABLE that we sit on the stairs. She informed that SHE paid for her seats, and she didn’t deserve to be disturbed. This further fueled my rage, and a small verbal battle ensued. I admit that it was stupid on my part to engage this fool in a battle of words, but I couldn’t help myself. The concert was going on before my very eyes and I was missing it. As she stomped back up the stairs, I kept hoping she would fall down. She did not.
Jayme, Gina, and I then tried to convince the Usher to do the job that she was being paid to do, and show us to the seats that rightfully belonged to us. She refused. We asked the other usher standing right next to her. He refused. We made the decision “look” for the seats again, headed out, and promptly started down closer to the stage in an effort to find somewhere to sit. We found another set of stairs to hang out on, and again enjoyed a few moments of Incu-bliss. But alas, the reverie was interrupted by yet another evil beam of light, and we were promptly kicked off THAT set of stairs. I ran up the stairs away from the light, thinking that Gina and Jayme were following closely behind me. Unfortunately I was mistaken, and I was alone. Thus began my solo quest to watch the concert that was rightfully mine to watch.
The remainder of the evening basically consisted of me saying the same thing OVER and OVER and OVER again to people who could really care less about my plight. My first step in this quest was to attempt to locate Gina and Jayme. I had a vague idea of what row I had left them in, although when I tried to go back to find them, I was stopped by Usher #312. I explained to her that I was trying to find my friends; she then looked at my ticket, told me that I was going the wrong way and asked me to go back to my seat. I said, “Okay. Yes, please…I would love to go back to my seat. Unfortunately I have never been to my seat. I cannot find my seat, and I would appreciate your help in accomplishing this task.” She said she couldn’t help me. “How then,” I said, “ Am I supposed to go back to my seat?” She did not know. “Where then,” I said, “Am I supposed to go?” She informed me that if I weren’t going to go to my seat I would have to stand behind “That Line.” She pointed to the floor where there was clearly no line at all. Completely exasperated, I went out into the corridor and found that Gina had left me several messages inquiring as to whereabouts. I had several abbreviated conversations with her trying to explain where I was and what had happened to me. (I couldn’t really explain at that point, seeing that I did not even understand what had happened to me.) From our short and somewhat confusing exchange, I gathered that she and Jayme had found seats very near where I had originally lost them. They informed me that they had a great view of the stage, and would stay put till I found them. Since at that point I really had nothing to lose, I decided make another go at it. I attempted to go through an alternate entrance to avoid the evil usher who guarded the gate at section 312. Unfortunately the guard at 314 was also spawned from Satan, and wouldn’t let me through. He said that he could only let me through to the seat listed on my ticket, which, OF COURSE, he could not show me to. So…I stormed back to aisle 312, where I was again blocked by Evil Usher #312. It was at this point that I really began to get upset. With tears in my eyes, I pleaded my case for what I sensed would be the last time. I begged her to do the job she was being paid to do, and to show me to my seat. She refused. When I asked to see her supervisor, she grabbed my arm and walked me through the corridor, right out into the stairwell. “So now you’ve decided to play the roll of Usher?” I said as she “ushered” me right out the door. She informed me that it would be best if I went home. I then saw a security guard standing by the window. “AT LAST,” I thought, “Someone reasonable to deal with.” As I walked up to him, Usher #312 informed him that she thought I was drunk and that he should escort me out of the building. (I was NOT drunk by the way, and even if I was, that surely can’t be a reason to deny someone their right to sit in their own seat.) At this point, I realized that it was over. Finished. It just wasn’t meant to be. With my head held high, and tears in my eyes, I informed the rent-a-cop that he need not escort me anywhere. I would leave on my own. And leave I did.
On the long walk down the stairs many thoughts were running through my head. First and foremost I just couldn’t believe what had happened to me. In the name of all that was fair and just, I certainly had every right to see that concert. I did get a little belligerent towards the end, but what normal person would not have. The whole evening had turned into an Abbott and Costello routine. It even crossed my mind that perhaps an elaborate joke had been played on me. Maybe I would walk out the doors of MSG and find a camera crew from some sort of silly reality game show. “Ha! The joke’s on you!” they would say. Then perhaps Gina and Jayme would pop out of a bush; balloons in hand, and tell me that I was being videotaped the entire time. They would bring the usher out, ask me to look into her nametag, and tell me to “Say hello to the viewing audience!!” We’d all laugh and hug. I’d be embarrassed, but also a little bit relieved. Maybe I’d even be rewarded a prize for surviving the night. Right? No…Wrong. This did not happen. Instead, I walked out the doors into the beautiful summer night, and was greeted not with cameras and prizes, but instead by a deserted plaza right outside of the building. Only a smattering of people was gathered in the area outside of Madison Square Garden. The concert was still going strong…why the hell would anyone leave now?? Perhaps they got kicked out too? Who knows? I sat outside for a bit, left Gina several lengthy voicemail messages about the horrendous experience, and walked dejectedly to the subway.
The subway ride home was long and aggravating. (Clearly a theme for the night.) For a brief moment, I blamed Incubus, but then quickly decided that that was a silly decision. I’m sure the boys in the band didn’t know how atrociously the evil MSG employees were treating their loyal fans. No, no, I decided that the entire force of my blame would rest solely on the very large shoulders of Madison Square Garden and it’s employees. Damn you all to hell! You ruined my night!! You ruined my concert!!! You almost ruined my love for Incubus!!! I then questioned myself about what to do about this horrible incident. I decided my first course of action was going to be to write a letter to The Garden, telling them exactly what had happened to me. In this letter I will implicate Ushers #312 & #314 as perpetrators of unspeakable wrongdoing. I will indicate that these two so-called “Ushers” failed miserably at their jobs, and should be punished, or at least made to feel a little bit bad. I’d settle for either one. More importantly though, I made the command decision to never set foot in Madison Square Garden for a concert ever again. The scars were too fresh, and the depths of my hatred ran too deep. MSG will join the other concert venues that currently occupied my boycotted venue list. (Actually, Roseland is the only other venue on this list. This is due to a horrendous experience at a Cake show a while back. Again, the band itself was great. It was the patrons, not the ushers this time, who made the experience horrible. They stood around chatting with each other as if at a cocktail party instead of a concert, treating the band as if there were merely playing background music at a wedding reception. Incidentally, that was the 3rd or 4th time that this had happened at Roseland. ) I do suppose though that if I keep adding names to this boycott list, I could potentially end up with no place to go see live music, which could be a major problem. Unless of course, in the near future I become very wealthy, and can afford to pay rock stars large sums of money to play private concerts for me and my 10 closest friends. Since the likelihood of this occurring is slim to none, perhaps I need to start being less critical about the venues hosting these concerts. If I’m not careful I’ll end up by myself in my apartment watching “Incubus, Live from Belgrade” on my little 13-inch television set. Hardly the rockin’ night. Perhaps instead I can add an addendum to the boycott list, making it okay to go to these places if it is a band that I really, really, really, want to see. For the time being though, I will remain steadfast in my conviction. Madison Square Garden…SHAME ON YOU!!
Pretentious Wannabe Filmmaker's Take on Mainstream Film By Jen
Attached is a movie “review” that was written by a man that is married to a former coworker of mine. A short introduction to the couple is necessary in order to accurately convey the absurdity of the situation at hand.
About Bobby (The Author) & Missy (The Wife who apparently forced him to view the "Mainstream" Film, which is the subject of his essay.)
1.He is a short, unattractive, Italian man who thinks he is the second coming of Martin Scorcese. He has actually used the word "genius" when describing himself to others. She is a tiny little blond woman who actually uses the word "genius" when describing Bobby.
2.He writes these letters (at least one of these per day) from his office at home. (Read: Tiny, bug infested, one bedroom apt on the Upper East Side where he cohabitates with his young wife Missy.) Missy thinks he is at home working on a script that is to become the Next Big Thing. He doesn't forward these messages to Missy, and she appears to be completely unaware of what he actually does throughout the day.
3.Bobby disappeared for an entire week right after they got engaged. Missy spent most of the time he was missing very upset and trying to contact him. When he returned (with no explanation) she took him back with no questions asked.
4.Bobby has no income.
5.Missy basically funded his last movie.
6.His last movie showed only once at a tiny theater downtown. The audience consisted of mostly friends and family who were more or less coerced into attending. The film was not picked up by a studio.
7.Bobby refuses to take public transportation because he doesn't like to "mingle with the commoners." (Exact quote)
8.In an effort to disguise her identity and protect her "reputation" Missy changes her shoes when she has to go to the restroom to relieve herself. God forbid someone think that she is human and actually would do something as horrid as going to the bathroom.
9.When I was Missy's assistant a few years ago, I asked her if she could possibly give me a little more responsibility. Some of these new and exciting tasks included: Making copies of a textbook for Bobby so he didn't have to pay for it, getting coffee and a bagel for her in the morning (one time I accidentally got regular milk instead of skim, and had to go back to the deli), and covering for her when she called in sick and was actually at a wedding in Cape Cod.
10.Missy’s car caught on fire once when she was driving to “The Cape.” She pulled over to the side of the road and ran out of the vehicle. Upon realizing that her fur coat was trapped inside the car, she risked life and limb, re-entered the burning vehicle, and pulled the dead animal pelt out of the car right before it exploded. (The car, not the fur coat)
11.In an effort to trick Bobby into marriage, Missy threw an incredibly expensive surprise birthday party for him. Missy hoped for a marriage proposal by the end of the night. What she got instead was a drunken Bobby who forgot so say thank you, and was actually angry at the extravagance.
12.A couple of months later. Missy proposed to Bobby, and gave herself her Grandmother's wedding ring.
And now the review: (I’ve left all spelling and grammatical errors intact)
Ben and Company,
Friday night I attempted with all my heart to watch a mainstream film with
Missy called "The Contender." It was brought to my attention by the
Charlie Rose Show during an interview with one of its stars Gary Oldman.
Gary was politely trying to avoid bad mouthing the films producers Spielberg and Katsenbaum totally disagreeing with the heavy handed politics behind the filmmaking.
Aware that Oldman is one of "three" living conservatives in the American
film scene, I expected him to have some what of a reaction to the typical
feminist revisionism-of-male-perception "thing", but this was a bit much.
It was difficult to watch the film because of the one-sided nature of the
content. Some one once said that a one-sided drama is actually propaganda
and that is exactly what this was. On top of that, this film was made
during the election with Al Gore and directly paralled the sexual exploits
of Bill and his trials.
One thing this showed was once again Hollywood is from Venus and doesn't
understand Mars. The constant barragement of claims as to a woman's right
to choose without ever considering how the other side might honestly feel
compelled to protect an unborn baby is preposterous! The constant
separating of character from government service as if they could be
separated is beyond naive: a great writer once said character is destiny.
Also, the belief that the only way to exact change on your world is
through politics. Politics are the answer to the human condition--politics
to reshape public opinion. This is a sign of what many including
Toqueville and later Carl Jung called America's "effeminization."
I think people generally mean well, but at times are misguided, but I
think the politicking in this film was over the top. It showed that
Hollywood is another mouth piece for the democratic party and
unfortunately for a lot of bad art. Fortunately, we have Ridley Scott and
Gladiator to remind us once again, why we are artists and human beings!
It took 3 years before I caught wind of the High Times annual entertainment awards, but last night I was finally able to participate in the extravaganza that is the Stony Awards. The event was held at B.B.King’s Blues Club on West 42nd Street, in that neon-sparkled monument to consumerism, the avenue-long stretch connecting Times Square to what is apparently becoming the New Times Square, a shit hole of a neighborhood formerly known as Port Authority. It was on this sensory-overloaded patch of urban ground that my friends and I waited for nearly an hour and a half to gain entrance (apparently behind hordes of people who arrived later than we did) to the event of the season in the lives of pot smokers everywhere. Some attendees traveled as far as Boston to honor their idols of pot culture, and some recipients such as Snoop Dogg and Ice T left the west coast for a night of east coast props.
As a novice to the Stony Awards, I wasn’t entirely sure of what to expect. Part of me envisioned a ghetto-style Oscars night, where bejangled rap artists and hangers-on gave acceptance speeches in front of an adoring crowd. But the fact that it was an awards show dedicated solely to pop cultural drug references gave me another visual image altogether, one in which boisterous drunks and the smog of the billowing joints overwhelmed any attempt to distribute awards. I pictured the whole thing dissolving into a very large college party, one in which Snoop Dogg may or may not join (knowing Snoop’s history for the no-show, I didn’t really expect him to be there.)
Tickets were $50, which translates to $59, for those of you who don’t speak “Ticketmaster.” It’s a pretty penny to pay for the possibility of an evening with Snoop, but with the allure of free drinks and food for 3 hours and the promise of being in the room with someone, anyone whose name started with the letters LIL (the possibilities were endless), my attendance was a no-brainer.
I was standing at the doors of the club, attempting to resolve a ticket discrepancy with a marijuana leaf wreath-clad bouncer, when two high-topped black vans with Jersey license plates (MUSICG and its partner MUSICK) pulled up to the curb and a buzz infiltrated the crowd. I knew enough to sense that something big was about to go down, and in a matter of minutes the doors of the vans opened and a cape clad, pimp hat-topped Snoop emerged with an entourage a dozen or more people strong. Among these people were a man in sparkle sun glasses and a lime green suit and matching hat, and an older man in a tiger print leather suit. In the confusion of the moment Snoop made his way towards the wrong door, and was led by the bumbling bouncers and posse to the entrance of the club, where I was able to snatch an image of His Dopesty as he sauntered in, late, but at least he made it.
This sighting gave me newfound hope, and I rejoined my friends in one of the two long lines of anxious attendees, representing such walks of life as Long Island high schoolers, dazed hippies, gangstas and glamsters. Minutes passed like hours, as we challenged ourselves to recall the last time we waited in line for anything. These moments of frustration were interspersed with moments of hope that kept us from going home. Ethan Hawke and a slew of messy-haired Gen Xers stumbled out of a cab, and George Clinton emerged from a large silver bus adorned with a badly air brushed Marilyn Monroe. Apparently B.B. King’s doesn’t have a “back door”; either that or this was their weak attempt at the red carpet entrance of Oscars fame. Either way, the end result was that those of us waiting were able to catch fleeting glimpses of the stars as they swaggered into the event.
We were constantly reminded of the long, painful passage of time by the computerized screen situated between Madame Toussaud’s wax museum and what appeared to be a multilevel food emporium with such palate pleasing restaurants as Jody Maroni’s Sausage Kingdom and Chili’s. A press conference was under way inside the club that needed to wrap up before we could be let in. Because all of the celebrity guests were running late (presumedly smokin’ up?) the doors did not open until about 8:30 pm, an hour and a half later than scheduled. Somehow my friends and I in spite of being among the first to arrive ended up being quite possibly the last people to enter the club.
Because of the poorly managed waiting process, we were among the slew of $59 ticket holders who didn’t actually get a place to sit. Still, that put us closer to the bar, where we continually refilled our house-vodka-drinks, beer, and wine in an attempt to make up for lost time. We were pleased to note, that true to what the suit from NORML and his Libertarian gubernatorial candidate friend had informed us before the lights went down (yeah, they were an interesting bunch), that as long as you brought your own, there was an all you can smoke policy as well. In no time we were toking in the hallway in front of the bathrooms (where an Mtv-VJ-Jessie lookalike told us he saw “Ethan Hawke take a piss”) and eventually smoking in the middle of the club, leaning against the wall for support. We snatched free cocktail weenies and mini egg rolls as they passed by on trays carried by the apathetic servers. I think I consumed 59 calories, not $59 worth, but oh well. That’s what you get for not shoving everybody in front of you in line in a mad dash to enter the club. Assholes.
The award show was somewhere in the middle of the scenarios I had expected – there was a host and awarders and acceptance speeches, but it all seemed so, for lack of a better term, half-baked. Jim Breuer, known for his Saturday Night Live character Sheep Boy, hosted the event, and was either very intoxicated or just not funny (or both). But as the bouncer had explained to me earlier in the night, it was a “mellow crowd”, and most people were satisfied enough with a pot reference a minute and the occasional sound of a bleating lamb from our evening’s host. Personally I couldn’t stand him, and soon understood why my roommate would leave the room whenever his sketch came on tv. That, and pot jokes, and a flagrant attempt to amuse us with his large belly, appear to be Jim’s schtick. Next, please.
To be frank it didn’t seem that the people in attendance paid much attention to the awards—this includes the awardees themselves. When Daniel Franzese (I think that's his name - the "fat" kid from Bully) was called to the stage to accept the best actress award on behalf of Bijou Phillips, a good minute or more passed before he actually made it onto the stage. If the front of the house was having as much fun as I and my friends were, I can only imagine what was going on behind the scenes. When Snoop accepted one of his two awards, he brought Ice T and the green suited man (apparently a famous pimp of sorts – and when I say that, I really mean pimp) and other members of his entourage. He gave an acceptance speech that was punctuated with a toke from a huge joint, and he thanked High Times and gave props to the night’s event, where he was “hanging and smoking” and generally being Snooper-cool.
I know that Ethan Hawke looked pretty messed up when he accepted his award, that the Bully kid had to come up to the stage something like three times (he was guilty of some-look-at-my-fat-belly nonsense too), and that Snoop won two awards. For the first I think he won best actor, which is likely, mainly because he was in about three films last year, thereby increasing his chances dramatically over the competition. For the second, the coveted Stoner of the Year award, he was awarded by George Clinton, and I was especially excited to see Atomic Dogg and Snoop Dog on the stage at the same time. So excited that I made my friend take a picture of me and another friend in front of the stage (which was really far from where we were standing, so we’re not expecting it to turn out) where George and Snoop were standing. I have a feeling the photo is going to be a lot of smoke and not a lot of Snoop. Not unlike the award show itself.
I did get my own personal hint of Snoop, or something akin to Snoop, when the tiger-leather clad older gentleman approached me as I lounged against (read: was held up by) the wall near the bathrooms. He identified himself as Snoop’s uncle and invited me back to their hotel. In spite of the SRO turn out the awards show had an air of intimacy, and with the warm glow of a good buzz coursing through my veins, I actually imagined that my friends and I would adjourn the Stony Awards in a miniature after party at the Omni Berkshire Hotel. In a logistical snafu this didn’t end up happening, and in the reality of sobriety I realize now that’s probably a good thing.
All in all the Stony Awards tickets were expensive, food was scarce, seats were limited, and the host was almost unbearable. For those who were not in a cab in search for the Snoop party during the performance following the “ceremony”, they may have felt they got their money's worth. For me, the evening was fun but something I need not repeat anytime soon. Thankfully they only come around once a year.
(Disclaimer: This “review” was written based solely on a single viewing of the trailer of the film. I am in no way implying that the information in this “review” is accurate in any way whatsoever. In addition, please note that NO stunt huskies were injured in the process of formulating this trailer review)
I was innocently watching TV the other day, when I was involuntarily thrust into the cruel world of anthropomorphically-oriented inter-species cinema. My “Real World: Back to NYC” marathon was rudely interrupted by a trailer for a movie starring Oscar-Award-Winning-Actor Cuba (pronounced: Kooba) Gooding Jr (of Jerry McGuire Fame). It seemed innocent enough at first, although it looked rather appalling. Cuba (Kooba), was basking in the sun on the shore of a magnificent beach. He was clearly well off and accustomed to “the good life”, a fact not stated clearly, but instead made apparent by his leisurely attitude and frothy drink in hand. Suddenly, and seemingly without any explanation, Cuba (Kooba) was all wrapped up in a fluffy parka and assorted snow gear. As the camera panned away from him it was revealed that he was definitely NOT on a fancy ski vacation in Aspen as one might expect. He was instead standing at the helm of a dog sled, with 8 beautiful huskies harnessed and ready to pull him smoothly over the icy tundra...or so we were made to think. The camera once again closed in on Cuba (Kooba), and he said something to the effect of, "This has gotta be just like driving a snowmobile." Just after he made this foreboding remark, there was a close-up on the lead sled dog who winked mischievously at the other dogs, and took off running. Naturally Cuba (Kooba) was not ready for this and tumbled comically off the sled. The voice boomed again: "Are YOU ready for Mush Hour." (It was at this point that I began to get flashbacks of a similar movie I once watched on a flight to Seattle called MVP: Most Valuable Primate. MVP: Most Valuable Primate told the story of a plucky little chimpanzee who took a liking to ice hockey, and helped a rag tag group of kids win a championship.) Perhaps I was in shock that this movie wasn't a joke (I checked twice that I wasn't on Comedy Central and was mistakenly viewing a back episode of SNL), but it wasn't made clear at all exactly how Cuba (Kooba) came to be the driver of a group of sled dogs. I'd be willing to bet a pretty penny on the fact that he inherited some shack in this undisclosed snowy locale, and had somehow gained custody of said team of sled dogs. More likely than not, this team of sled dogs was a champion team of sled dogs. This is all, of course, merely speculation on my part. We were then introduced to the dogs (I was frantically scribbling this down, so forgive me if they are incorrect): Deisel, Scoop, Nanna, Yodel, Sniffy, Mack, Duchess, and Demon. Demon appeared to be the leader AND the troublemaker - go figure. As one might expect, the personality of each individual dog was directly related to the NAME of each individual dog. Diesel appeared to be fast, Nanna - the voice of reason, Duchess seemed rather regal, and Sniffy...well, you get the picture. The rest of the trailer was rather unclear, but as you can imagine, the dogs were trouble from the word “MUSH”. Cuba (Kooba) was not a natural sled dog racer and went through the standard trials and tribulations that one might expect a man to go through when faced with the challenge of learning to race sled dogs. The dogs definitely had it in for Cuba (Kooba). They were constantly rebelling and being exceedingly wild. I MAY have even seen one of them smoking a cigarette while attending a raucous party that one of the dogs was hosting, but I'm not quite sure. It seems a bit far-fetched, although after MVP: Most Valuable Primate, nothing really surprises me anymore. I suppose it could have been one of those horn-type things that you blow on at birthday parties, but a cigarette just seems so apropos. I do have to note that throughout the trailer, we are treated to snippets of the dogs actively plotting against their intrepid new sled driver. Playing tricks on him, driving him off cliffs, wearing funny hats, that sort of stuff. I've never seen such a spectacle. In addition to having to constantly combat the plotting and scheming of the sled dogs (especially Demon - he's particularly naughty), Cuba (Kooba) also had a rival in an old curmudgeonly fellow that was apparently trying to take the dogs away from him. Towards the end of the trailer, it appeared that the dogs had begun to take a liking to Cuba (Kooba), and all had become ostensibly hunky dory. I don't know exactly how the movie ends, but we all know that this ain't rocket science, and once again I'd be willing to make bets on what happens. Perhaps there is a final sled dog race that is very important. Perhaps Cuba (Kooba)'s ownership of the now beloved group of dogs, Diesel, Scoop, Nanna, Yodel, Sniffy, Mack, Duchess, and Demon, rides on this race. Perhaps, he will lose his dogs and sled to the old man if he doesn't win. Perhaps. Regardless, I'll wager that he DOES win; as the final shot of the movie is of Cuba (Kooba) and his team of 8 huskies leisurely sunning themselves on the very beach that Cuba (Kooba) sunned himself on at the beginning of the trailer. The dogs, of course, were all wearing matching bathing suits and visors. Despite the fact that they had obviously been ripped out of their natural habitat, they seemed rather happy. One can only hope.
Are YOU ready for Mush Hour?? Are you???? I know I am.
Our first submission from Mark, our Paris correspondent! Read on...
00.47, June 21st 2002, Paris, and the city is on fire. I have to share this with you.
Taking place outside my bedroom window as I write this, is La Fete de la Musique, an annual music festival that takes over the streets of Paris, takes over the pavements, the squares, the boulevards and avenues, in a melee of seemingly uncontrolled musical hysteria that brings out the wild and life loving side of everyone around.
I have enjoyed many nights out in this amazing city, but this evening has been special.
A night of constant and ever changing beats, pitches, tones and tempos, that on almost every corner manifests itself as the best night out in Paris.
Walking, no dancing through the narrow streets, I have come across such a tapestry of sounds as to be uncertain as to which I like best. The roughness of the Indy band with its lyrical and fresh, though inaudible rhythm; the just-as we-like-it romance of the jazzy quartet with their homely and innocent look; the two little girls, no more than 12 years old, playing the flute to perfection; the fantastic color of the Gay jungle sound, surrounded by hoards outside the Open Bar in the Marais where, the street packed with chanting boys, all whooping at the heavy dance music, a sprightly young lad dances provocatively up a lamp post, suggestively wiggling his bottom.
Black, white, homo, hetro, young and old....who gives a damn, the streets are packed, the drinks are flowing, the air is filled with a hint of grass and hardly a policeman to be seen, this truly must be the best music event ever held outside of a field.
The only people having a nightmare of course are those driving. They can't move, and we pedestrians love it. Honk your horn all you like because we aren't moving, at least not out of your way. This another of those beautiful Parisian nights when anarchy takes over and 'the sensible' be damned. If you have somewhere to go, go tomorrow. Tonight it's about release, and in Europe anyway, no-one does release better.
It’s happening again. Someone has invented a completely superfluous product and has purchased air time on Animal Planet to entice me to purchase. Although I had the volume off for the duration of the mini-informercial, it is clear to me what PILLOWREST is, and what evils and annoyances it has been created to destroy. The 30-45 second clip is replete with examples of people with incredibly frustrated expressions on their faces as they lay back in bed onto two flat, unruly cotton slivers of pillows, or those pesky cumbersome armed reading pillows, ala those covered in brown courderoy and impossible to find in any home furnished after 1979. But soon these offensive excuses for a pillow can be purged from your life, for with two simple down paymentsof $19.95 + shipping and handling, the PILLOWREST and its alluring satin sheath (a $20 value, but yours free!) can be yours. The PILLOWREST can be manipulated into an upright or slanted position, and judging by the faces of the people on tv, will rid you of fitfull sleep at the hands of badly constructed pillows forever. Or at least until the day that you donate them to Goodwill after taking a look at your bed, a very long hard look at the PILLOWREST, and realizing that you must have been pretty stoned when you ordered it. Either that, or very, very tired.
Someone on tv is trying to sell me an automatic butter spreader – the Butter Butler. The commercial shows bumbling, disgruntled cooks and eaters slapping chunks of cantankerous oleo on their corn (a red slash slices through this image in the event that we didn’t realize what a BAD thing butter chunks can be) and mauling a slice of white bread while trying to spread more disagreeable blocks of bad better. An offensive butter dish on which rests a yellow chunk coated in crumbs and one with dark congealed corners are thrown in the trash. All this to sell me a $19.99 contraption that makes spreading butter EASY, PAINLESS, and APPETIZING. I thought the epil-stop-n-spray was scary, I found the abdominzor too good to believe, but this – this is just downright insulting. Butter Butler and the evil mastermind behind your existence – be damned!
