Christian Bale goes shithouse on a crew member during the making of Terminator:Salvation, which is opening May 22. (How else is a Schwarzenegger-free Terminator flick gonna get any press?)
Frankly, I think he's good enough to say whatever the cock he wants. If you want proof, put The Machinist and The Prestige at the top of your Netflix queue. Plus, he's BATMAN.
Thursday, February 5, 2009
Wednesday, February 4, 2009
Really Evil Knievel
Christina Raines, the 24-year-old "fiancee" of Drew Peterson, said they were never engaged and the whole thing was a publicity stunt.
Publicity stunt? Rock Of Love is a publicity stunt; Sarah Palin is a publicity stunt. Getting engaged to a girl while you're still a suspect in your last wife's disappearance isn't a stunt- it's a testament to Peterson's arrogance. He still doesn't think he's getting enough publicity. Any rational person in his position would want to stay OUT of the media spotlight and SHUN publicity. Hole up in your house with a year's supply of Rockin' Rye and Hot Pockets, and shut the fuck up. Peterson remains convinced that if sufficient time passes, all that "dismembered-my-wife-and-stuffed-her-into-an-industrial-drum" conjecture will dissipate, and public opinion will begin to favor him as a cuckolded husband.
For reference materials on another genius who was convinced he beat the system, see also: Simpson, Orenthal James.
Publicity stunt? Rock Of Love is a publicity stunt; Sarah Palin is a publicity stunt. Getting engaged to a girl while you're still a suspect in your last wife's disappearance isn't a stunt- it's a testament to Peterson's arrogance. He still doesn't think he's getting enough publicity. Any rational person in his position would want to stay OUT of the media spotlight and SHUN publicity. Hole up in your house with a year's supply of Rockin' Rye and Hot Pockets, and shut the fuck up. Peterson remains convinced that if sufficient time passes, all that "dismembered-my-wife-and-stuffed-her-into-an-industrial-drum" conjecture will dissipate, and public opinion will begin to favor him as a cuckolded husband.
For reference materials on another genius who was convinced he beat the system, see also: Simpson, Orenthal James.
Tuesday, February 3, 2009
Covering The Spread
Comcast in Tucson had to apologize for a porn clip that was accidentally inserted into Super Bowl XLIII. If you've ever been to Tucson (derived from an old Spanish word meaning "imminent suicide"), you know it's the most exciting thing ever to happen there.
See the video- (NSFW)
See the video- (NSFW)
Monday, February 2, 2009
Artificial Light
Our last, best, angry men are gone.
After 9/11, I was being interviewed by Pittsburgh Magazine for an article on "heroes". I chose my mom, because she's badass. I also noted, as I consider myself a bargain-bin iconoclast and wordsmith, that my artistic heroes were Warren Zevon, Norman Mailer, and George Carlin. I'm not one given to hero worship, so I had no second string- when these singular voices and weary hearts were gone, I was tapping out. Zevon died in 2003, Mailer in 2007, and Carlin (in a completely random gift that I will cherish forever) died on my birthday last year. I identified with them so strongly because, while all three men were unparalleled at their craft, they were inveterate pricks in their personal lives. Mailer was married six times, with several mistresses and kids; Zevon, a violent alcoholic and narcissist of the highest order; Carlin was a drug addict and tax evader. Now, I'm in no way comparing myself artistically to any of them- I'd be unfit to haul their luggage- but I share their unfortunate tendency to cut a swath of destruction in the lives of those around me. As such, I embraced these men as if their art held secrets that could answer my own questions. Before spinning off into the ether, they had each made peace with both their libertine nature and the people most adversely affected by their sins. I admired their suspicion that there's redemption to be found in unflinching honesty, even if it's ushered in only after a litany of lies, betrayal, wanton disregard, and the disintegration of one's own moral compass. They gave me hope that those of us with even the most fractured character could be humbled and transformed by staring into the dark.
An old adage says, "religion is the last refuge of the scoundrel". These men didn't find god in their last days, because their salvation didn't have to be faked. My heroes are gone, and there are no pretenders to the throne, but they left us their maps. Now we're on our own. Rest in peace, gents.
After 9/11, I was being interviewed by Pittsburgh Magazine for an article on "heroes". I chose my mom, because she's badass. I also noted, as I consider myself a bargain-bin iconoclast and wordsmith, that my artistic heroes were Warren Zevon, Norman Mailer, and George Carlin. I'm not one given to hero worship, so I had no second string- when these singular voices and weary hearts were gone, I was tapping out. Zevon died in 2003, Mailer in 2007, and Carlin (in a completely random gift that I will cherish forever) died on my birthday last year. I identified with them so strongly because, while all three men were unparalleled at their craft, they were inveterate pricks in their personal lives. Mailer was married six times, with several mistresses and kids; Zevon, a violent alcoholic and narcissist of the highest order; Carlin was a drug addict and tax evader. Now, I'm in no way comparing myself artistically to any of them- I'd be unfit to haul their luggage- but I share their unfortunate tendency to cut a swath of destruction in the lives of those around me. As such, I embraced these men as if their art held secrets that could answer my own questions. Before spinning off into the ether, they had each made peace with both their libertine nature and the people most adversely affected by their sins. I admired their suspicion that there's redemption to be found in unflinching honesty, even if it's ushered in only after a litany of lies, betrayal, wanton disregard, and the disintegration of one's own moral compass. They gave me hope that those of us with even the most fractured character could be humbled and transformed by staring into the dark.
An old adage says, "religion is the last refuge of the scoundrel". These men didn't find god in their last days, because their salvation didn't have to be faked. My heroes are gone, and there are no pretenders to the throne, but they left us their maps. Now we're on our own. Rest in peace, gents.
Wednesday, January 28, 2009
Pater Familias
Today is my dad's 64th birthday, and it's more important to us than usual. In May, he was diagnosed with something called severe auto-immune aplastic anemia. It's a rare condition that essentially means the body's own immune system attacks your tissue and suppresses blood cell production. He's had eight months of transfusions and bone-marrow biopsies, along with the requisite poking and prodding. For a guy who's never been sick a day in his life, getting news like that at a routine checkup came as quite a shock. When a diagnosis like that comes down, you assume the worst- is this his last Christmas? Will he see another birthday? All the while, trying to stay as optimistic as possible.
My dad is one tough cat. Army vet, self-made man, engineer/science guy- one of the smartest people I've ever met in my life. And he's been married to my mom for 39 years, a feat that both of them chalk up to being inordinately well-matched, and I have no reason to doubt their word. As someone who lasted a tepid six years on the matrimony train, I see my parents' marriage as proof that anything's possible with the right person.
To look at him, you'd never know my dad was sick. He doesn't have a self-pitying bone in his body, and my mom keeps him in good shape, with all due credit to his doctors. As a naturopath for 30 years, she knows from whence she speaks when calling bullshit on the aforementioned medical professionals. My dad is holding steady and we hope that he will remain the bright spot in what looks to be an otherwise daunting year. When a guy as solid as he is falls ill, while karmic defectives like myself still roam affliction-free, it makes one wonder what, if any, master plan rules this existence of ours. I hope I still have the time to become even a fraction of the man my father is.
Happy Birthday, Pop. I love you.
My dad is one tough cat. Army vet, self-made man, engineer/science guy- one of the smartest people I've ever met in my life. And he's been married to my mom for 39 years, a feat that both of them chalk up to being inordinately well-matched, and I have no reason to doubt their word. As someone who lasted a tepid six years on the matrimony train, I see my parents' marriage as proof that anything's possible with the right person.
To look at him, you'd never know my dad was sick. He doesn't have a self-pitying bone in his body, and my mom keeps him in good shape, with all due credit to his doctors. As a naturopath for 30 years, she knows from whence she speaks when calling bullshit on the aforementioned medical professionals. My dad is holding steady and we hope that he will remain the bright spot in what looks to be an otherwise daunting year. When a guy as solid as he is falls ill, while karmic defectives like myself still roam affliction-free, it makes one wonder what, if any, master plan rules this existence of ours. I hope I still have the time to become even a fraction of the man my father is.
Happy Birthday, Pop. I love you.
American Idle
It's the return of the best comedy on television (at least the audition episodes).
For the past week, I've spent the bulk of my days online- looking for jobs, posting resumes, mp3s, etc. Usually, I'll have CNN on as background noise. Even when the news is bad, I refuse to be one of those people who stay blissfully ignorant of what's going on in the world. Except that it's ALL bad news. All of it. Sure, they'll have some cringe-worthy, "better her than me" distraction about a woman whose fertility drugs "blessed" her with eight little cabbages, or the ubiquitous water-skiing squirrel, but otherwise- BAD news.
So, I'm tapping out for a bit. Thank God for the return of Simon, Randy, Paula, and Seacrest. It's mindless entertainment; empty calories for the brain. Watching these poor, deluded kids find out that their parents have been lying to them about their "talent"? It's like candy for the soul.
We've always watched the show to feel better about ourselves. Right now, we need it more than ever.
For the past week, I've spent the bulk of my days online- looking for jobs, posting resumes, mp3s, etc. Usually, I'll have CNN on as background noise. Even when the news is bad, I refuse to be one of those people who stay blissfully ignorant of what's going on in the world. Except that it's ALL bad news. All of it. Sure, they'll have some cringe-worthy, "better her than me" distraction about a woman whose fertility drugs "blessed" her with eight little cabbages, or the ubiquitous water-skiing squirrel, but otherwise- BAD news.
So, I'm tapping out for a bit. Thank God for the return of Simon, Randy, Paula, and Seacrest. It's mindless entertainment; empty calories for the brain. Watching these poor, deluded kids find out that their parents have been lying to them about their "talent"? It's like candy for the soul.
We've always watched the show to feel better about ourselves. Right now, we need it more than ever.
Thursday, January 22, 2009
Got Any Spare Change?
Could we stop the lame complaining that Obama is recycling former Clinton-ites in his administration?
Today, he tapped Richard Holbrooke (former Ambassador to the U.N.) to be his Hefner overseeing the bitchy twins of Pakistan & Afghanistan and former Senate majority leader George Mitchell was named Middle East ambassador. Conservatives are already crying foul about recent appointments like Hillary Clinton and Leon Panetta, trying to foist the idea that populating the White House with some of the best minds from the Clinton era contradicts Obama's message of change. Hardly an iron-clad argument; it's not like Monica Lewinsky is being vetted for the Secretary of Interior gig. Scouring the public record for contradictions where there are none, talking heads on the right have equated Obama's promise of "change in leadership" with "people you've never heard of before". Hell, there's already some of that (I'm looking at you, Timothy Geithner!), but this is no time for rookies (now I'm looking at YOU, Alberto Gonzales!)
After the last eight years, it's time to install people who actually know what the hell they're doing around the world. Now, if we could just find something for Dee Dee Myers to do. If you're gonna keep digging into the Clinton bag, pull out the brainy hottie with a stripper's name. Change, indeed.
Today, he tapped Richard Holbrooke (former Ambassador to the U.N.) to be his Hefner overseeing the bitchy twins of Pakistan & Afghanistan and former Senate majority leader George Mitchell was named Middle East ambassador. Conservatives are already crying foul about recent appointments like Hillary Clinton and Leon Panetta, trying to foist the idea that populating the White House with some of the best minds from the Clinton era contradicts Obama's message of change. Hardly an iron-clad argument; it's not like Monica Lewinsky is being vetted for the Secretary of Interior gig. Scouring the public record for contradictions where there are none, talking heads on the right have equated Obama's promise of "change in leadership" with "people you've never heard of before". Hell, there's already some of that (I'm looking at you, Timothy Geithner!), but this is no time for rookies (now I'm looking at YOU, Alberto Gonzales!)
After the last eight years, it's time to install people who actually know what the hell they're doing around the world. Now, if we could just find something for Dee Dee Myers to do. If you're gonna keep digging into the Clinton bag, pull out the brainy hottie with a stripper's name. Change, indeed.
Burn Notice
Eleven weeks after starting work in the sales department of WNUA, I was one of the dozens of unfortunate souls blown out in the Clear Channel bloodbath on Tuesday. Having been off the air at Q101 since August of last year (when my contract became a casualty of the parent company's plummeting stock price) I figured I would try my hand at sales. It wasn't a dream job, but if I was gonna have to wear a tie, it might as well be in the industry that I know. I'm lucky to have made it 37 years without working an office job, but- in the immortal words of Chicago pop-meister Richard Marx- when you're trying to make a living, there ain't no such thing as pride. After a long interview process, WNUA took a chance on me and I appreciated it. I'm always down for learning a new skill set, but in my gut, I knew I wasn't charting a new career path.
It sucks being unemployed again so soon, but I feel worse for the veterans who were unceremoniously dismissed on Tuesday. People on-air and in sales for decades who were escorted to the elevators, carrying whatever they could fit into a box or a bag, per corporate policy. I was still the new guy; I knew I wouldn't survive the corporate scythe and I didn't care enough to be insulted by walking the green mile to the elevators. If economic upheaval dictates that these decisions must be made, then the companies desperate to maintain their rapidly disintegrating control should at least afford their overworked and underpaid minions a modicum of dignity on the way out. Are you really worried that we're gonna go back to our desks and pull a Jerry Maguire on the office? That would require emotional investment, which doesn't exist in corporate broadcasting today. Employees are forced to retreat into a bunker mentality, invested emotionally in each other, not the job itself.
Chicago gem and WNUA 20-year vet Rick O'Dell said it best: "The survivors are worse off than the people who were let go". In 21st century corporate media, the living truly envy the dead.
It sucks being unemployed again so soon, but I feel worse for the veterans who were unceremoniously dismissed on Tuesday. People on-air and in sales for decades who were escorted to the elevators, carrying whatever they could fit into a box or a bag, per corporate policy. I was still the new guy; I knew I wouldn't survive the corporate scythe and I didn't care enough to be insulted by walking the green mile to the elevators. If economic upheaval dictates that these decisions must be made, then the companies desperate to maintain their rapidly disintegrating control should at least afford their overworked and underpaid minions a modicum of dignity on the way out. Are you really worried that we're gonna go back to our desks and pull a Jerry Maguire on the office? That would require emotional investment, which doesn't exist in corporate broadcasting today. Employees are forced to retreat into a bunker mentality, invested emotionally in each other, not the job itself.
Chicago gem and WNUA 20-year vet Rick O'Dell said it best: "The survivors are worse off than the people who were let go". In 21st century corporate media, the living truly envy the dead.
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