Just got my hands on a copy of MTV’s Spankin’ New, the new MTV Magazine. It’s just like Pulse, the free magazine Tower Records used to give out (some overlapping writers, too). Only I had to pay $5.95 for SN. Talk about value-added!
Everyone and their mother has been heaping shit on Gregg Easterbrook for his now infamous Kill Bill: Vol. 1 and the Jews blog entry. Frankly, I’m bored with this whole thing (so bored, I’m not bothering to link to Easterbrook’s original essay, his apology, or any of the excellent commentary out there on sites like Radosh and The Antic Muse or to The New York Times article), but all this talk of Gregg writing faster than he thinks, not arranging his thoughts well, etc. reminded me of something Jean-Jacques Rousseau wrote in his Confessions way back in the early, early days of blogs in 1782:
When I write, my ideas are arranged with the utmost difficulty. They glance on my imagination and ferment till they discompose, heat, and bring on a palpitation; during this state of agitation, I see nothing properly, cannot write a single word, and must wait till it is over. Insensibly the agitation subsides, the chaos acquires form, and each circumstance takes its proper place. Have you never seen an opera in Italy? where during the change of scene everything is in confusion, the decorations are intermingled, and any one would suppose that all would be overthrown; yet by little and little, everything is arranged, nothing appears wanting, and we feel surprised to see the tumult succeeded by the most delightful spectacle. This is a resemblance of what passes in my brain when I attempt to write; had I always waited till that confusion was past, and then pointed, in their natural beauties, the objects that had presented themselves, few authors would have surpassed me.
So, if Gregg had only waited for his thoughts to form properly (and cleaned the pipes regularly like Spanky Rousseau), he might not be in all this trouble now.
For some reason, Yahoo felt the need to post 64 images of Scarlett Johansson today.
If you’re a man, comfort yourself with the fact that Scarlett told The Times recently: “Men have no aid to tell them that they’re getting older. They just see their bodies decaying. A young, fertile, fruitful woman can help you across that bridge.”
If you’re a woman, try not to hate her for saying, “For older women, death happens inside. What comes with that death is a kind of liberation.”
Scarlett Johansson will turn 19 on November 22.
I’ve been a fan of George Gurley’s New York Observer work for years now. I love his calculatedly tossed-off writing style, his relentlessly Gurley-centric approach to New York, and his transparent desire to talk to as many attractive women as possible every time he puts on his Press hat.
This week, Gurley continues his special brand of journalism by asking women (and some ‘famous’ men like Macaualy Culkin and Tad Low) about their vaginas.
In the past, Gurley has used his Observer credentials to talk to sexy female bartenders, talk to women about their feet, sit down with pseudo-actress Tiffany Limos, share some time with a b-movie actress, go out with 21 year-old socialite Elisabeth Kieselstein-Cord, talk with Ultra-V rocker Maggie Kim, look longingly into the eyes of digital pornographer Natacha Merritt, say “ahhhh” to some hot lady dentists, muse on women over 50 he’d like to nail, spend the day with gorgeous nobody Elle Eklund, go clubbing with Taylor Stein, explore Brazilian bikini waxing, approach random women and tell them how beautiful they are, and ask women why they love Manolo Blahniks.
But of all the girls he’s loved before, none compare to his true dream girl, Republican pipe cleaner, Ann Coulter.
Every phone box and bus stop in midtown is smeared with the cartoon face of Robert Evans, so I feel it’s my duty to inform you that Kid Notorious is on tonight at 10:30 PM EST on Comedy Central. I don’t know whether the show’s good or not, but the presence of a sassy Black maid and an anime-like cat called “Puss-puss” on the Kid Web site doesn’t bode well.
Anyway, here’s some advice for all you aspiring starlets from Uncle Bob’s book:
Speaking to the ladies: If you’re ever approached with the line ‘You ought to be in pictures, I’m a producer,’ tell the guy to fuck off. He’s a fraud, and the picture he wants to put you in don’t play in theaters. ‘You ought to be in pictures’ just ain’t the M.O. of a legit producer. Quote me if you want.
Consider it done, Bob.
Not to steal thunder from Slate‘s Rob Walker, he of of the infinitely enjoyable Ad Report Card, but I just wanted to say, apropos of Kevin Smith’s new commercials for Panasonic DVD recorders: better he makes commercials than movies. The slogan, however, should have been, “The Panasonic DVD recorder allows you to move the camera more than twice during a scene, which is more than you can say for any of my movies!”
Be sure to read all the responses to the ads in the link for some important fan insights into Smith’s hair.
Let’s say you’ve got a movie coming out with a lead actor who might be a bit of marketing gamble.
Maybe you’ve made a conventional narrative-flouting musical mystery, starring an actor widely considered to be among the most talented actors of his generation, but he’s also a convicted felon and something of a recidivist? And what if your star is usually associated with rom-com fluff and bad plastic surgery, not gritty, erotic thrillers?
The answer is simple: you hide them!
The Singing Detective and In the Cut open this week. They each star… somebody.
Surgeon General’s Warning: Looking directly at Bob Guccione may cause dizziness, nausea, and vomiting. You are strongly advised against using this image as your desktop pattern.
Today’s journalism lesson from Page Six is how to out a public figure and avoid lawsuits: simply quote another media outlet (or another media outlet quoting a comic strip, as it were) and you’re in the clear. Hey, The Post didn’t ask if Condoleeza Rice is gay, Richard Blow did!
Read and learn: Rice Dish.
Coming soon to a development hell near you: Hooligans (or whatever they’ll call it when it’s changed two or three times), the touching story of “A wrongfully expelled Harvard undergrad [who] moves to London and makes friends with a man who introduces him to the violent underworld of football hooliganism.”
Finally, something we can all relate to. Who wants to take bets that the school becomes something generic like “Worthington College,” London becomes Brooklyn, the sport becomes boxing, the hooligans become wizened older Black men, and the undergrad becomes Amanda Peet. Oh, and that the script becomes a paper towel when some D-girl spills her chai latte in her cubicle.
Good luck with the movie, fellas.
Earlier thoughts on hooligans from low culture.