Gotta Break a Few Eggs: James Carville, Democratic strategist and splosh enthusiast.
Author: matt
These Days, the College Bowl Is Filled With Milk and Cereal, by Lisa W. Foderaro, Nov. 14, 2004.
Somehow, yet again, they’ve ruled out terrorists.
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Russell Jones, 1968-2004
Mr. Courageous: O.D.B. (AKA, Big Baby Jesus, Osiris, Dirt McGirt)
Rapper ODB Dies in Studio
“Number one, I got shot. It made me understand that I do only have one life to live and that it can happen to me. And shit happens when you be in the wrong place at the wrong time. The bullet went through my back and it came out my front. It ruptured my spleen, but it didn’t hit no bones or nothing. The doctors don’t even know how that happened, so that’s all praise due to Allah. It just lets you know that I was meant to be here. And anyway, I wasn’t going nowhere because ain’t nobody take me off this motherfucker till I’m ready to leave this motherfucker… Hell no. I don’t play that dying shit.”
(Quoted from The Nutty Confessor, by Rob Marriott, SPIN, circa March 1995.)
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What Makes Ratner Run?
Brett Ratner’s talent, such as it is, is bullshit.
The director, whose most recent piece of pandering, formulaic pap, After the Sunset, will probably be number two at the box office this weekend, could comfortably be described as a bullshit artist, or, more charitably, a complete and total bullshit artiste.
If his critics are to be believed (and in this case, they are), his artistry doesn’t lie in filmmaking, a craft for which he is frightfully unskilled, yet tenaciously and gainfully employed. Ratner has no particular intuition for camera placement, editing, or working with actors: His films are about as enjoyable as a vigorous session of C.B.T.
What Ratner is good at—what he unquestionably excels at—is bullshit. Take the mini profile of him in Saturday’s New York Times ‘Arts’ section, A Hollywood Early Bloomer, Bringing It All Back Home, by Lola Ogunnaike, which is chockablock with Ratner’s bald-faced lies and egomaniacal bullshit.
Meatball Run?: The lovely Chief Inspector Laura Ciano and her sidekick, Superintendent Vincenzo Bizzarro
“It is not a toy, they swear, but a serious piece of police gear, no matter how many Japanese tourists stood at a highway rest stop here snapping away in awe.
“‘It’s a responsibility to drive it,’ said Chief Inspector Laura Ciano of the Italian highway police.
“Paolo Mazzini, a highway police commander, said: ‘Italian people are not always friendly toward authorities. They are curious, so they accept the ticket more readily.’
“‘It’s not for fun,’ he added.
“Still, Superintendent Vincenzo Bizzarro wore a satisfied look on his face when he gave a reporter, fingers dug into fine leather seats, a small taste of what the force’s new Lamborghini Gallardo patrol car can do: nearly 100 miles an hour in just a few seconds, with a row of tollbooths approaching awfully fast…”
From, Whoosh! For Speeders, Speedier Justice, via Lamborghini, by Ian Fisher, The New York Times, Nov. 12, 2004.
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Somehow They Ruled Out Terrorists
“It wasn’t clear if the off-message message was an inside job or the work of a high-tech prankster. A Transit Authority spokesman said the agency was investigating the incident.”
“Token booth clerk David Romero, who notified the TA command center of the bogus message, speculated that someone broke into the TA’s computer system.”
–Ugly Sign Misses the Mark in Subway, by Celeste Katz and Pete Donohue, The New York Daily News, Nov. 12, 2004.
Roger Friedman, FOXNews.com’s usually spot-on gossip monger (and by ‘spot on,’ I mean joyfully, hilariously bad, and by ‘gossip monger,’ I mean Miramax party fixture) has an item on Mission: Impossible 3 today. Since he (or the associate producer who formats his column for the web) phoned the headline in, I thought I’d offer some help.
Here’s Friedman’s:
Cruise Out of Control on Impossible Mission
Not horrifically bad (FOXNews.com’s fishwrap sister publication has ten worse every day), but it’s not quite… good enough.
Here are some suggestions:
A Few Not So Good Men Top Gun for a Legend
Minority Report on Cruise’s Risky Business
Do Outsiders Have All The Right Moves, or Is Cruise’s Vanilla Sky Turning Into Days of Thunder as the Color of Money Taps the Legend to Hit The Firm Cocktails as He’s Losin’ It?
Yeah, you’re welcome.
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O.C.D.
As everyone knows, today is a special day. It’s a day when we take a little time to think about the brave people who give their all and pay the ultimate price for us to live better lives.
No, I do not mean the veterans. (Don’t you read the right side of this website? We fucking hate the soldiers and we’re huge supporters of the insurgents: I have a picture of that dreamy Muqtada al-Sadr hanging in my cubicle.)
I’m talking about The O.C., of course! Today is episode two of The O.C.‘s second season, and I, for one, am excited.
I’m so excited about The O.C., I can hardly think of anything else. This past week’s news cycle is just a blur to me: Is Yasser Arafat alive or dead? Did someone in Bush’s cabinet resign or get fired or something? Honestly, when I get the paper, I just turn to the TV section to see if there’s an article on The O.C., like a cool lifestyle piece on people having parties to watch the show, or style pieces on fashion inspired by the wardrobe, or some sort of medical study on how watching The O.C. can clear up your skin. How come no one has written these pieces yet? What are journalists focusing on that’s so much more important than The O.C.?
Here’s what I like about The O.C.: It’s an escape, okay? I can put aside my own life for a little while and immerse myself in the lives of some truly amazing characters. You might find this hard to believe (especially coming from someone who puts his thoughts on the internet for the world to read—sans payment), but I’m happy not to think about myself for a little while.
When I watch The O.C., I almost never think about that mole on my shoulder that’s been getting bigger and becoming bumpier, or the fact that skin cancer runs in my family, and I don’t have a doctor or health insurance. I don’t have to think about the fact that I had to buy new pants one waist size larger than my last, or that the last time I did any exercise was in high school gym class, and even then, I mostly faked stomach aches so I wouldn’t have to change in front of all those vicious jocks who’d snap me with towels and call me a “queer.” (Me, a queer? I wasn’t the one who was walking around half naked, patting my teammates on the butt and saying, “Good game, big guy.” I mean, so what if I had a picture of that dreamy Moammar Qaddafi hanging in my locker? I have a soft spot for dynamic, photogenic despots, okay?)
What was I talking about? Oh yeah, The O.C.. I also like that while watching The O.C., I can use my mind to manipulate space and time, opening a portal to an alternate universe better than our own. What? You don’t do that?
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Make the Pain Stop
Hugh Grant Signals End to Acting Career
I don’t know if I can take any more bad news.