Thursday, February 23, 2006

Because Writing 20 Pages About It Clearly Isn't Enough

My apologies in advance to anyone not interested in this kind of in-house record keeping. I'll be getting back to another song list you can mock soon enough.

Now that the American Idol season has reached the vote-out rounds (read: the good part), my TWoP co-recapper, editor, and I have decided to make it interesting. Each week, we will make our picks as to which AI contestants will be sent home. We'll earn one point for every correct call, the points will accumulate throughout the season, and in the end, the loser have to buy the winner something nice and shiny from their Amazon Wish List.

Why am I telling all you [dis]interested parties this? Um. We needed a place to keep score? That's pretty much it. It's an in-house kind of thing, so I don't blame y'all readers for ignoring these posts with a vengeance. As for my colleagues-cum-competitors? It is so fucking on!

Speaking of which, the participants in the 2006 American Idol "Fuck Pride, I Want a DVD" Vote-Out Pool are …

Jacob Clifton: Recapper, word monger, Cylon apologist, troublemaker.

Sarah Bunting: Editor, cat tormentor, Jersey apologist, Matthew Buckstein stalker.

Joe Reid: Scorekeeper, correction magnet, Ayla Brown apologist, eventual winner.

Week One Picks (4 eliminations)

Jacob: Bobby Bennett, David Radford, Stevie Scott, Melissa McGhee.

Sarah: Bobby Bennett, Patrick Hall, Becky O'Donahue, Heather Cox.

Joe: Bobby Bennett, Gedeon McKinney, Stevie Scott, Heather Cox.

Eliminations tonight at 8pm. May the best me win.

Sunday, February 19, 2006

Please Accept My Apologies in Advance

Everything you never wanted to know about Kid Rock and Scott Stapp but were afraid to find out.

I'm pretty sure I got VD just thinking about that.

My favorite part is how, shockingly enough, neither Rock not Stapp have taken any measures to block distribution of the tape. That sure surprises me. Why would they risk the white-hot and flourishing careers they've got going by allowing a sex tape to surface?

Anyway, now that you've read that, get your ass to a church or a clinic, whichever is closer.

Wednesday, February 15, 2006

Sticking the "Triple Props" Maneuver

First off, I'm taking part in Nathaniel Rogers's first annual Oscar Symposium over at The Film Experience. Watch me try and hold my own with cinematic minds far superior to my own!

Next, it's been almost a week now, but still do yourselves a favor and check out my friend Aaron Cameron's last column for Inside Pulse. Watch him blubber all over himself about how great it was to work alongside yours truly. I know, Cam. I know. And while you're there, check out Mathan Erhardt's triumphant return column. He remembers the greatness of Homicide: Life on the Street. That's enough.

Finally, join me in congratulating Low Resolution's adopted Olympic athlete Johnny Weir, who kicked a good amount of ass in his short program skate and is holding onto the silver medal spot (the gold is ... not happening, for Johnny or anyone else who isn't that Russian dude with the brick wall face). Thursday is the long program. Fingers crossed, you awesome role model, you.

Thursday, February 09, 2006

Call This a Gift for Cam'ron's Last Column

So, I love Deadspin like crack cocaine. I read it every day, and every day they point me to something that makes my life just a little bit happier. Like, say, this photo of Jason Giambi that made me laugh for thirty minutes straight (quote from my friend Sarah: "Why does he look like Elvis?"). Today, Deadspin went so far as to make my Olympics, because today I got introduced to Johnny Weir. Johnny is, like, the best male figure skater in the country, which explains why I'd never heard of him. And yes, the Deadspinners quickly got a little jock locker room homophobic about our guy, but immediately I was sold. Sold! I will be watching Olympic figure skating this year. You're welcome, Torino.

Here's the thing: I don't watch figure skating. Never have. Well, okay, like everyone I tuned in during the Lillehammer games to see if Nancy Kerrigan and Tonya Harding would have a huge throw-down at center ice, but then the one broke a lace and cried and the other turned out to be a bitch anyway, and Oksana Baiul wound up schooling them both. But otherwise, no. And I'll pretty much watch anything if it's the Olympics. That's the greatest thing about the games, right? How for two weeks we can be absolutely glued to sporting events we could give two shits about the rest of the year. Gymnastics, swimming, the Super Giant Slalom (dude, the Super Giant Slalom! I can't fucking wait!), the one where they have to shoot at a target while wearing showshoes as their spittle freezes on their faces. All gold. But figure skating never grabbed me. That's not a value judgment. That's just the way it is with me.

But now, I've got Johnny Weir. For one thing, he just makes me want to say "Pretty lady. Pretty, pretty lady," all the time. He looks like how Rufus Wainwright might've looked ten years ago and without the lifetime of cigarettes. Second of all, he's prone to saying shit like how a competitor's skating was "a vodka-shot, let’s-snort-coke kind of thing." Fuck Bode Miller, that's my favorite quote by an Olympian. He's the bitchy figure skating friend you never knew was essential to your life. He's a Kelly Clarkson fan, he's a Velvet Goldmine fan (one look at his costumes and ... yeah, he totally is), Project Runway, the whole nine. Fourth, he's apparently pretty kick-ass at what he does. Which helps.

So, yeah, bring on the Torino games! Johnny Weir for gold!

Monday, February 06, 2006

Reese Witherspoon Will Cut You

I just read this today, but apparently the photographer who harassed Reese and family at Disney’s California Adventure back in September has been found dead in his apartment. Damn, that chick is so hardcore. I don’t know about you all, but I’ve completely created this image in my head of Reese as this cold-as-ice power monger ruthlessly climbing the social and professional ladders in Hollywood and crushing any-and-everyone who stands in her way. And, yes, I do realize that is this entire mental image is two parts Elle Woods, three parts Tracey Flick, and a dash of Becky Sharpe. But it’s fun to imagine: she debases herself by filming that preposterous roller-coaster scene in Fear, but her career blossoms while her director’s career tanks; she acquires the pretty-but-dim husband who looks nice on a red carpet but doesn’t ask too many questions; she stalks June Carter Cash until she dies, at which point Reese consumes her essence for Walk the Line. Okay, maybe not. But come on, bitch is stone cold and you know it.

As for the photographer guy … did Reese really have him taken care of in order to get even? Sure, the likelihood is that this guy -- with his history of child-shoving and petty-thieving -- probably came to his end via his own shady dealings. But perhaps Reese had her Serial Mom moment with this scumbag. I hope she thanks him in her Oscar speech.

Sunday, February 05, 2006

Some Weekend Housekeeping

[Sorry I haven't been posting as much here lately, people who actually read my blog. I've been keeping my sidebar fairly up-to-date, though, so if you're looking for something, anything to do besides actual work, you can check that out.]

Okay, first off, go watch me get all political and cinematical and up in Michael Medved's grill with my latest piece at The Film Experience. It's exhilaratingly obvious!

Also, I finally got to watch Space Camp this week. Sarah was totally right: Joaquin Phoenix is really annoying in it. But he's, like, ten years old and kind of looks like Wonder Years Jason Hervey, so we'll give the kid a pass. Once he lost the baby fat he became pretty cool (Joaquin, not Hervey ... duh). As for the rest of the movie, I have to say my favorite part was when they would up getting launched into space by accident. Or else the robot who saves the day. Or perhaps it was Kelly Preston, who did her able best to sport every single '80s fashion trend at once. The big hair, the Swatches, everything.

Honestly, I make fun of it now, but back in the day I was all about Short Circuit, you know? Fuckin' Flight of the Navigator. I would have devoured this movie back then. Even if I do continue to hate Tate Donovan with every fiber of my being. Lea Thompson, on the other hand, probably should have been in every single movie made in the '80s. She was perfect for the times. I continue to wonder how David E. Kelley hasn't signed her up for a nostalgia trip on some show of his. Bottom line: decent movie, for what it is. Even if it can't hold a candle to Adventures in Babysitting. Don't make promises you can't keep, Netflix.