What a week at the Whoop-doo Nation headquarters. First my truck gets stolen. In fact, eleven vehicles got stolen off my street that very same day. It was like Nic Cage visited my neighborhood for Christmas, and then did his Yuletide version of Gone in Sixty Seconds.

I also entered into a shit war of mythical proportions with a bum. Yes, that's right. A shit war. See, this gnarly old Mexican dude claims he doesn't speak English. And he shits on our back stoop where I have to clean it up. It's not normal feces, either. This is a steaming pile of neon yellow madness that melts nostril hair and gives you the cramps upon inhalation. After the third time of telling him not to do that, he goes and does it again anyway. Fat bastard. So I go find his little piece-down cot in the gated area of the local carpet store and take a doozy on his newspaper pillow.

Yes, folks! The great American shit war is on!

Anyway, here's some Boos! News!

Boos! and Whoop-doos!

Drew? Whoop-doo!

Indiana Jones and the Kingdom of the Crystal Skull poster? Whoop-doo! Thank God Spielberg went and rescued Drew Struzen from having to doodle out more album covers for former Blink 182 band members. Though it must be noted: That Angles and Assholes group has a pretty cool looking piece of CD art under their belt. But who the heck is going to buy it? A handful of thirty-five year old women still holding onto their Tom DeLonge soccer mom dreams? Finally, ol' Struzen has been offered a project that is actually worth his weight. And I love it. The Strewz gets recognized twice this year. First, Tom Jane's character in Stephen King's The Mist was based on him. And we see some of his original artwork in the film, including a one-sheet for the Dark Towers faux-movie. And now this. Cool, cool, cool. Kids, you know what to get me for Christmas. Just make sure it is signed and framed. I love the high-waisted pants that Indy is supporting like a blue haired grandpa (or maybe it's a Gwen Stefani influence). I love the glowing skull. I love the encryptions and the alien imagery that is subtly hidden in there. This screams: "Awesome!" It totally feels like Indiana Jones. Lets just hope the film can live up to its all ready legendary poster.

Boos! and Whoop-doos!

Plastic Patton? Whoop-doo!

Ipecac action figure subscriptions? Whoop-doo! Mike Patton action figures! These are beautiful. And sold out. Which sucks. The company was originally offering a hundred dollar subscription. Every month you'd get a new Ipecac toy and an original piece of show art. As to be expected, the subscription orders sold out within half a day of them becoming available. Either people love Ipecac. Or people love cool toys. Maybe Patrick Dempsey bought them all up during his off time from the writers' strike. I would have really loved to get my hands on this whole set, but alas. It wasn't meant to be. The company will be selling a very limited amount of individual figures each month. But you will have to be on the site when they go live. These little plastic suckers are going to go quick. Guaranteed. I hear the entire cast of Grey's Anatomy are getting them for Christmas this year.

Boos! and Whoop-doos!

Elwes? Boo!

No one recognizes Cary Elwes at a party? Boo! Come on, people! This guy was awesome in Secretary. Wait. That was someone else. Who is Gary Elwes again? Ah, yes. The ice cream guy from Seinfeld. Whoops, wait...That was Spader again. Oh, I know...Wasn't Carey Elwes in The Princess Bride? Yeah, he was. And he was super cool in that flick. How dare you jaded Hollywood types turn your back on him. He Was Saw for Christ sakes. He fucking hacked off his foot so he could put food on his table at Jesus Time. Elwes is practically a saint. An amazing thespian that deserves some respect and recognition. Yet, you casting directors pass him by like that guy in the band uniform standing outside Target with that white, wooden, oblong box. You know, the one with all the missing kids duct tapped to it. Ah, whom am I kidding. You guys are right. I wouldn't have recognized him either. He's just some non-descript dude. And James Marsden has swooped in to take all of his roles. We don't need this guy. He is a dinosaur. A cryptic plague waiting to break out on the dick of the straight-to-DVD market. People will stand next to him in Blockbuster with the video box in their hand. He'll be on the cover, and they still won't recognize him. Cary Elwes is caught in a shit spiral. Soon, I suspect, I will have to beat him off my back porch with a broom. It's his newspaper pillow I'll be shitting yellow bricks on in the near future. I suspect. Poor little fellow.

Boos! and Whoop-doos!

The Globes? Whoop-doo!

Golden Globe Nominations? Whoop-doo! This is the most eclectic group of films I've ever seen nominated for anything. Every single one is something that evokes a bit of excitement in me. This is a great roster. And the TV categories are pretty spot on too. Amy Ryan for Gone Baby Gone? Whoop-doo! The entire list of best picture nominees in both categories? Whoop-doo! Geez, I'm looking to whoop-doo some more, but I'm happy with pretty much every single nominee in every single category. With the exception of Ryan, how the Hell am I supposed to win the guess pool this year? This is damn near impossible. There is not a favorite or forerunner in the bunch. They are all great. And equal. And to think, we probably won't even have much of a show this year. Fucking writers' strike. This could be the nail-bitingest award show seen in any year. Seriously. Maybe that's why it is so mixed up. Maybe they can turn this into something spectacular if they play their cards right. Just show long clips. Let everyone at home hold their breath. Then announce the winner. That is clinching television. No writer needed. Just make the emotion real. We don't need jokes and dance numbers. We need some good old fashion competition. This could turn out to be a brutal boxing match that needs to be seen. Yeah, good call writers. Please, stay home. Don't bust up the tension. Quick and clean. Edge of your set type shit. I think I like it.

Boos! and Whoop-doos!

The Baja Poncho? Boo!

Baja Ponchos are making a comeback? Boo! What the f*ck is this? Back in the day, my brother picked his future wife up for their first date in a purple Baja poncho that had been made in a Mexican sweatshop. An ugly item of clothing. Add to it the jean short-shorts and the cowboy boots he was also wearing, and you have, hands down, the single worst outfit ever worn on a first date. In history. My sister-in-law must have quite a sense of humor. These Mexican-inspired beer ponchos hit their stride in the mid to late 80s. And even then, they were considered a fashion faux pas. They petered out in the very early nineties, making their last rounds at a Vanilla Ice show that MC Hammer was begrudgingly headlining. So, a couple years go by, and everything is good. But then, I see a black man (of all things) standing on a street corner in Silverlake wearing one of these god-awful abominations of tweed and cloth. WTF!?! It was striped black and purple. And was so unnecessarily ugly, it stopped me in my tracks. I thought it was a fluke. Then, two days later. Yesterday, to be precise. I see one of my fellow journalists sporting the look at a major press function. One where his picture was taken and distributed as part of a publication. Yes, not only was this guy seen out in public wearing one of these horrendous items of hellish clothing, it was a moment captured for posterity and showered like urine sprinkles on various other websites. The image is so eye-gougingly painful, I dare not show it here for fear our site will start to get sided with Rotten.com. Ugh. Please. Put these shitty things back in the MF closet! They are giving me a gut ache all over again.

Boos! and Whoop-doos!

Ike is Died? Boo!

Did you hear the news? Ike Turner Died! Boo! Whose gonna kick a bitch now? The meanest, shoe-throwin'est, knurliest old black man in town has kicked the dust bucket. His black-eye fist is being buried in a shallow grave as we speak, and I'm a bit misty about the demise. He was a music gynecologist. He knew how to tickle the clit of the soul with his furious finger wags. The way that ashy old chap hit them strings? It was harder than the way he used to hit his old wife. A legend. A brawler. A real man in a world of pansy metro-transsexuals. This guy was the real deal! The way my mom tells it, when they first started, you could see Ike and Tina every single week, playing the same club over and over again. And it was a theater of the absurd like no other. Usually, when a falling star dies, his friends and family come out with gracious words of kindness. Not ol' bucket list Tina. "I ain't seen that mother fucker in 35 years. I know he's dead, and I'm glad he's dead. The dirty mother fucker!" That quote is a paraphrased bit of old school parody. She didn't actually say it like that. But she might as well have. Ike, brother! You'll be missed. Ike Turner died. Doesn't that just make you want to hit a bitch?

Boos! and Whoop-doos!

Arsenio? Whoop-doo!

Arsenio Hall Clips on Youtube? Whoop-doo! I don't even have to say anything. Just watch this awesome five-minute video. And feel the power of Arsenio Hall all over again. This is the first seed in my great Arsenio Hall comeback tour petition. Yes, I am petitioning for Hall's return to the airwaves. We need him in this time of crisis. He is the only one that can beat the Anti-Christ! And save the world! Check it!

All right, rump and chumpskies. I got to get out of house for a minute. I've got a bum's cot to go shit on. Tune me out. I'm on hiatus! I'll be back in a week or so, though, with my ten most mediocre movies of the year list. The torso between the king head and the ass. Hey, someone's got to speak up for the middleman.

B. Alan Orange