Worst Thing Ever?

The next time you feel like saying that your day, or a movie, or a celebrity plastic surgery fiasco is the “worst thing ever,” ask yourself this question:

Is it worse than a Nazi AIDS-rapist?

Because I’m pretty sure that even a Nazi AIDS-rapist would agree that he’s a lot worse than Jack Black in Gulliver’s Travels.  He might not be the worst thing ever, but he’s certainly a lot worse than anything that ever happens in your day-to-day life.

Is your hairdo really worse than a Nazi who intentionally infects people with the AIDS virus by raping them?  I don’t think so, princess.

FOOD FOR THOUGHT.

I Don't Think I Have a Sex Drive Any More

I used to.  I used to enjoy fucking, and I did it as often as possible, performing admirably after a period of start-up shyness that I’ve never outgrown.  Now, I’m mainly interested in cuddling and hanging out.  As soon as things start getting hot, I seem to lose interest.  Something has happened to me, either physically or psychologically, over the years that makes sex seem like a huge, complicated bother.

I still love talking about it.  I still love watching it.  I masturbate frequently.  I’m still a filthy pervert.  But I seem to be choosing titillation over fornication these days.

I used to be good at it.  I don’t think I am now.

All of which sucks, because I love women and want to be in a relationship with one, but judging just from your Tumblr posts, you are all sex maniacs.  I don’t want a sex maniac.  I want a partner I can live with, not somebody who’s going to demand that I perform with porn-star-like indefatigability at the drop of a pair of panties.  I’ve never really been made that way, and the last decade has only seen an exacerbation of my intrinsically sex-shy nature.

It’s just depressing.  I don’t know what needs to be fixed to get me excited about the prospect of having sex again.  I don’t even know if I want it fixed.

This is the way that I am, and to a lesser degree, it’s the way I’ve always been.

Happy Fucking Holidays.

alohabetty replied to your post: TRUE GRIT Is an Interesting Exercise That Never Really Turns into a Real Movie

I was disappointed, too. Probably because I also wanted to love it. Having never seen the original movie (or read the book - I know, I suck), I liked Jeff Bridges’ in his role. He at least made me laugh. The rest fell flat for me.

There is a danger inherent in adapting a book too faithfully for the screen: what works in a literary context doesn’t necessarily work in a cinematic one.  The makers of the original film understood this.  The Coens do not.  A movie is not a book.  That’s why the first Harry Potter film is the worst: they followed the childish, episodic nature of the first book so slavishly, they forgot to make a good movie with an urgent narrative.

One of the best modern examples of successful novel adaptation is the film L.A. Confidential.  The book was considered to be “unadaptable”, so the screenwriters set themselves to quite a chore: gutting the book down to the quick, the most essential plot points, the most essential characters.  People live who die in the book, and vice-versa.  Dialog is given to other characters.  Whole subplots are cleanly cut out.  One of the major characters, who in the novel is killed off almost as an aside, is in the movie given a death intrinsic to the plot, with the whole “Rollo Tomasi” business, which the screenwriters invented from whole cloth.  It is a masterwork of novel adaptation, and such a sterling job that James Ellroy himself loves it and claims is as a perfect couterpart to his original book.

The adapters of True Grit back in the late 60’s understood that the meat of the story is Rooster Cogburn’s redemption and unlikely bond with an extraordinary young woman, and they played to those elements in the script, making for a more fun, more emotionally affecting, and plain more exciting story.  The Coens, on the other hand, gave us an adaptation almost afraid of changing a word of the text, producing a meandering, anti-climactic, and frankly depressing movie.  Maybe they figured that they were so successful with their similarly faithful adaptation of No Country for Old Men that they should go the same route this time, but they were wrong, for a lot of reasons, not the least of which is that No Country was a story already very close to their own sensibilities.

I was excited to see the Coens tackle a Western.  In retrospect, I would have preferred an original script.  There were rumors of them working on an original, violent and mean Western script a couple years ago…I guess they gave up on that when True Grit appeared on their radar.  That’s too bad.  We could have had a new classic rather than a footnote to their career.

TRUE GRIT Is an Interesting Exercise That Never Really Turns into a Real Movie

I wanted to love this movie, and not just love it, but LOVE LOVE LOVE it.  The pedigree: Joel and Ethan Coen; Jeff Bridges; Matt Damon; a beloved book; the ghost of John Wayne.

But it never adds up to anything more than a couple cool scenes and some funny dialog.  Everybody’s acting their little hearts out, especially the young actress who plays the plucky, precocious, indefatigable Mattie Ross.  It’s a major performance that heralds good things ahead for this gifted youngster.  Matt Damon is also winning as the brave and somewhat buffoonish Texas Ranger.  And then there’s Jeff Bridges, playing, well…I don’t know, really.

When it comes to Rooster Cogburn, I never thought I would say this, but John Wayne put his fucking trademark on this role.  Jeff Bridges is unarguably a better actor than John Wayne ever was, but Wayne inhabited this role so definitively, that poor Bridges seems like a man pretending to be something he isn’t (which, yes, I know, that’s what an actor does, but the audience should never notice the effort).  Wayne is more cussed, more drunk, and warmer in his interpretation of Cogburn than Bridges even attempts.  Bridges is funnier, that’s true, but Wayne was Cogburn-ier.  I know it’s sort of a film reviewing sin to compare a new work to an older one, but this is the damn role that Wayne won his only Oscar for, and if somebody is going to play a role that another actor made legendary, they’d better bring some serious heat.  I just don’t sense it from Bridges, sadly.

In their attempt to make the movie closer to the source novel (which they did), the Coens drained a lot of the fun out of it, and that’s a damn shame.  I don’t want to call it a massive disappointment, because there’s a lot of good in the movie, but it’s not one that I’ll ever get an itch to revisit.

You want to know what I do have an itch for, however?  The 1969 version.  Gimme John Wayne and Kim Darby and some crowd-pleasing horse baloney over this stately and well-intentioned but ultimately pointless style exercise, please.

GUEST BLOGGER: The Fake Celebrity: "Everybody's Famous"

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Hey, everybody, it’s me!  Your favorite actor who was in all of those movies!  Especially that one, you know which one I mean!  No, not the one where the prostitute poops on me that you’ve all seen on TMJ or Pizza Hilton or wherever, no, the one where all the stuff EXPLODES!  In slow-motion!  While I run!

So, the other night I was at the grand opening of that new Outback Steakhouse, you know the one, right?  In that complex with the Best Buy and the Old Navy?  Yeah, that one.  I wasn’t paid to be there or anything.  I just really like Outback Steakhouse.  Honestly.  I was all looking forward to signing some outographs and bathing in the adoration of the people, when this kid comes in, and his hair’s all spiked and his abs were all chiseled, and he totally stole my fan worship!

I asked my date, Rosalee or Dawntana or something, who that guy was, and apparently he’s in some movie about a solar eclipse that makes werewolves horny? I really wasn’t paying attention because Dr. Righteous, Presciptor to the Stars, had upped my meds just right across the board that weekend, and everything sort of looked like the 80’s.  Anyway, all the girls in the place were all up in this guy’s face with their breasts and bare midriffs and lower back tattoos, and I really felt gypped by the whole thing.  I mean, sure, I had Megannette or something with me, but that’s not the point.  I go out in public for one reason only, and that’s to get the fan-sweat of young hotties on my body.

So, what?  Is just anybody famous now?  This kid didn’t even seem to have any skills beyond the ability to do massive amounts of sit-ups.  I bet he’s never even run away from an explosion in his life!

It was just really disappointing, like that time I went to visit those cancer kids at the hospital and only, like, two of them seemed to know who I was, and one of those kids got the name of the TV show I used to be on wrong.  Way to go, kids!  I swear, you can’t depend on anybody anymore.

Oh, and as far as that pooping prostitute goes, look, it’s not like I’m into that or anything, but I was on Ledgerian amounts of prescription meds at the time.  I’m lucky it didn’t kill me, although I bet the producers of my last movie wish I had, I mean, damn, a sex scandal AND an overdose at the same time?  Box office magic!

Haha!

Anyway, my fans, don’t believe everything you see on a grainy Internet video.  It might be me, and I might be doing it, like that one time I tried to eat that kid’s cell phone, but you can never be sure how many medications, all of them prescribed by an actual doctor with a diploma and everything, that I might be on at the time.  That shit makes you do some strange stuff.  For instance, I played laser tag with The Rock and Donnie Wahlberg last weekend.  There are photos to prove it.  I have no memory of this event.

Later, fans!  Don’t forget to watch my movies!  And if you see me at your favorite restaurant some day, don’t be afraid to send over your most attractive daughter.  I’m a real nice guy!