The weather has been erratic. Our Los Angeles days have been running the gamut between hot and cold, rainy and sunny. There's never an adjustment period. One second, it's hailing rocks the size of roller skate ball bearings. Then, quick as that came, the sky is piercing us with cancerous ultra violet rays. Check any meteorologist epicenter, and you'll find this trend bucking past seasons of flow. We are in a strange era of climate conditions unlike anything previously documented. Doomsday Sayers will tell you it's the end of the world. You can't take a frozen dinner out of the freezer, leave it in the sun for four hours, and then stick it back in the icebox. Your Birdseye meal becomes a plate full of cramp inducing bacteria. A death snack. Yet, that is essentially what is happening with our planet. As Lawernce E. Joseph describes it in his book Apocalypse 2012: An Investigation into Civilization's End, our precious Earth is like a late night hiker happening upon a campfire. He sticks his face in close. It gets hot while his ass muscles freezes. He quickly turns to warm the other side of his booty, and the cold air has a much more drastic effect on his cheek flesh because of this quick and sudden change in atmospheric pressure. God damn, these constantly shifting room rates are wrecking havoc on my inner thighs. Especially in the close-knit area around my testicles. God's polka dotted weather patterns are giving me cataclysmic pinch-n-roll jock itch. Trying to vigorously satiate this burning chafe has me praying for the end of times. Instead, I'll have to settle for the end of everything else.
The End of Everything? Whoop-doo! Friday was a strange thrift through life. Everything seemed to be coming to a close. More than half the stores on my block were going out of business. The liquor store had finally sold its last bottle of Segundo Alley wine circa 2006. And 97.1 Free FM was about to be flipped into a Top 40 station. Every single popular talk radio DJ in the Los Angeles area was in the midst of a teary-eyed good-bye speech. Adam Corolla in the morning, Frosty, Heidi, and Frank in the early afternoon, Danny Bonaduce for an hour after lunch, and Tom Leykis on the drive home. Heck, even I was compelled to turn my high beams on for one last Flash Friday. It was sad listening to them reminisce. These were people that truly loved their jobs. And they gave us an FM alternative to the junked up music making its home on other stations. Luckily, they were all able to drown their depression era sorrows in copious buckets of booze (as supplied to them by their very own boss). Their collective departure has made me realize how much time I spend in the car, wishing for something entertaining to take my mind off the madness of rush hour traffic. For a long time, they had filled that niche quite nicely. But no more. Now I'll have to settle for whatever Islamic podcast I can download. They will all be missed (even you, Frosty!). On a much less sadder note, Conan O'Brien called it quits on Friday night as well. He is saying goodbye to Late Night, but he'll be back in the summer with an all-new Los Angeles based Tonight Show. So, in the end, his departure was bitter sweet. That didn't stop him from tearing up. I too, almost wanted to cry. The man is a fixture of New York City, and I've been there right along with him through the whole ordeal. How L.A. will treat our favorite Irish albino is anybody's guess. Andy Richter has signed on to be his announcer, so it might just rock foundations. I don't look at these changes as a bad thing. We are going through a much needed rejuvenation process. Stale ideas are being replaced with fresh ones, and it's interesting to watch it all fall in one fail swoop. Hopefully, things will seed and grow properly. I like to think we are experiencing a great resurrection. The next step in the evolutionary ladder. If you believe in that kind of stuff.
This rolling blackout of businesses and jobs has been brought on by the current recession and impending depression. I sense a lot of fear mongering amongst the populace. Most of this was predicted in the Chic Track I found shellacked with oil stains in the parking lot of the local K-Mart. It shouldn't have come as a surprise to anyone. We're all being hit hard, and at this rate, both you and I will be out of a job. Though, Mike Patton's pocket must have been raped the hardest. A lifelong fan of the throat manipulating thrasher, I never thought I'd live to see this day. I thought the reel was over. I thought the film was flapping on the side of the projector. But, no! Mikey, Roddy, Billy, and Puff are resurrecting Faith No More like a giant Phoenix from the ashes for the first time in over ten years. Boo! FNM is my Beatles. They are my Stones. My U2. My Pearl Jam, my Nirvana, and my Sasha Fierce all wrapped into one. Angel Dust is unquestionably my favorite album of all time at a billion spins and counting. Every single time I hear Album of the Year, I pull something new and fresh out of its complex intestines. Their music was light years ahead of its time. Maybe the musicians behind it felt a more sophisticated audience could finally appreciate their industrious works of genius in this new day and age. Either that, or they are all broke. I don't like this idea of a reunion tour. I thought it was below them. Patton has always stood firm in that he'd only do it for the money. Huge amounts of it. For him, its not a creative venture, but a fiscal one. Pure and simple. Neither Gould nor Bottum ever seemed too interested in the notion. The news comes tacked nonchalantly to the bottom of a press release announcing Patton's work on the upcoming Crank 2: High Voltage soundtrack (news we broke here months ago). Don't get me wrong, I'd love to see them all on stage again, belting out their renowned classics. If this so-called reunion meant a new album of material, I'd be jumping up and down like it was a post-recession Christmas. But that doesn't seem to be the case. Though only a sentence of fact has been revealed about FNM's future plans, that sentence indicates they will only perform in unison during a summer sweep through Europe. Which does me absolutely no good. I can't even afford Hot Ramen. Let alone airfare, lounging, and overseas beer prices. Faith No More's summer tour is a big fuck you middle finger to their American fan base. As it should be. They never found much respect in the States. Even now, you are probably reading this and thinking to yourself, "The guys that sang Epic? Are you talking about that dude that ripped-off Anthony Kiedis?" Here, they are looked at as a VH-1 hit wonder with an entry level song on Rock Band II. Across the pond, they are revered as one of the most influential and innovative bands of the last thirty years. Therein lies the big bucks. Despite the fact that I have a recurring FNM reunion dream that is closely tied to the apocalypse, this news is electrifying my synapses. Too bad I won't be there to see it happen. And what a bummer. I thought we were going to get Crudo and Mondo Cane shows this summer here in California. Now, I guess not. Again. Boo!
I recently commented on a lack of depression era entertainment. Now it seems some in Hollywood are heeding the call. Namely, the star of Married with Children himself, David Faustino. His new Internet sitcom is made from pure epiditimitus-enducing hilarity. Star-Ving? Whoop-doo! I have to admire anyone who opts for a bloodstain on the back of his tighty whities in selling a sight gag. Sure, Faustino could have gone for a shit streak. But that would have been cliche. And untrue. Anyone that is starving is more prone to bursting ass fissures. And it gives this whacked out surreal life sitcom some brevity. Sure, it's a cartoon. But it's also a sanguine parody of every celebrity-induced reality program out there. Faustino stars as himself, an actor left without residuals when his famed sitcom goes off the air. It is a continuation of the work he and former teen actor Corin Nemec did in 2001's Killer Bud. An undersold gem of direct-to-DVD goodness, it proved this duo to be an awesome team of comedians. Now, they are once again flexing those muscles with this excellent twelve part series. Each episode opens with Faustino attempting to kill himself. Yet, somehow, the fact that his bone-thin buddy needs to eat always gets in the way of his impending suicide. There are cameos aplenty; all of them shocking and quite funny. For Married with Children fans, there is even a reunion as the entire Bundy clan is brought back to Hollywood for a big screen adaptation of their popular show. Of course Faustino has been replaced by Seth Greene. I won't ruin the rest of it for you. The shows are made exclusively for Crackle with an eventual DVD release on the way. The success of this mini-show has segued into a big screen comedy outing for both Faustino and Nemec. They will soon be starring in The Bollywood Boys, which sounds like a direct off-shoot of what they are currently doing here. I hope they do another twelve episode run sometime in the very near future. Or make Killer Bud 2: Revenge of the Feed Bag. Whoop-doo!
The 81st Annual Academy Awards also acknowledged the economy with an opening number made of cardboard props and dug-out-of-the-trash backdrops. Hugh Jackman's ode to all nominees was a rooftop raising ditty that climaxed in an exasperated "I'm Wolverine!" atop piles of garbage. His mention of The Dark Knight as he climbed on a bat-cycle made out of toilet paper rolls and discarded Chinese food cartons probably got more than one geekheart pumping. This year's show was certainly interesting. Sometimes entertaining. And Will Smith's glittery honey comb afro was nearly as mesmerizing as the stage he was presenting from. Whoop-doo! It was a three hour show I didn't mind sitting through. Though, I did have a problem with some of the awards being dolled out. The Curious Case of Benjamin Button should never have won for make-up. Most of it is CGI with a couple of old people masks thrown in for good measure. Sure, The Joker's face paint is spectacular, but did the voters not marvel at the industrious full body work on display in Hellboy II: The Golden Army? That's where the award should have gone, and it just goes to prove that the Academy hates comic books. Also, my gripe with the Best Actor category is one I've had a problem with for quite some time. Mickey Rourke should have won over Sean Penn. Why? Because Rourke is creating a character from scratch. Penn is mimicking a known personality. Sure, they are both exquisite, lightning in a bottle performances. But this qualification should have been the deciding factor. Its way more challenging to invent a believable and sympathetic character from the ground up. Penn pretty much had his performance handed to him in old news reels and archival footage. Fuck that business. And the Best Short Film winner also peeved me. Of course they went with the holocaust film Spielzeugland (Toyland), about a German boy that thinks his Jewish friend is going to Toys R Us when he is in fact being shipped off to Auschwitz. The real winner, for me at least, was The Pig. It tells the tale of a hospital ridden man who finds salvation in a pig painting at the foot of his recovery bed. Complications arise when a Muslim man is moved next door, and the pig painting is removed. Hilarious and heartbreaking, it was clearly the better film. Though, I can't really complain about the rest of the winners. Mainly because they were shoulder shrugging afterthoughts that I won't even remember come next year. Seriously, can you name the best actress winner from last year? I can't, and I work here.
While the Oscars were pretty good this year, if not great, I was quite disappointed in the 29th Annual Razzies. The Golden Raspberry Awards have become almost too commercial at this point. And they overlooked far too many potential stinkers from last year. Where was the nomination for Julianne Moore's Savage Grace? Or the Quentin Tarantino produced Hell Ride? Boo! It's easy to pick on Paris Hilton every year. The sad fact of the matter is, she wasn't half bad in The Hottie & the Nottie. Or Repo! the Genetic Opera!, for that matter. There were far worse actresses out there, swimming in the muck last year. The Razzies triumph by picking on wounded sicklings. They chose easy targets, and in the process miss some prime examples of horrible Hollywood fare. They are mainstream. I get it. And now with people picking up their Razzies and gleefully sporting them on their bookshelf at home, we can look for even more overlooked garbage in the very near future. Oh, Razzie. You just don't mean what you used to. And that's sad.
Have any of you been watching the behind the scenes brouhaha over the Watchmen Embargo? Boo! A lot of Internet types have been going out of their way to jump the review date mandate set in motion by Warner Brothers. They've hidden their thoughts in random Twitter posts. One guy even wrote a review claiming it was a preview of a review (huh?). Anything to make it look like something else, I guess. And now Variety and THR are on the attack. Fuck them! Devin from Chud had permission to release his 4,163 word treaty on the subject. A fact. Whoop-doo! My question is...Why is this so important to any of them? Do they desperately need to tell the world what they think ASAP? Are their capillaries going to bloat if they don't? Do they actually believe people care more about their written words on the subject than they do the actually film itself. God, talk about hubris. Maybe it's the ability to scream, "I told you so first!" Whatever it is, it's annoying. Good or bad, the movie will get here in due time. It carries a lot of weight. Which means everyone is going to be throwing in his or her own two cents on the matter. With a movie like Watchmen, old men and babies will feel completed to get on the Internet and tell you what they think. Hopefully the notion is, these embargo defeating chumps are just trying to get their totalitarian-like dissertations read before they disappear under the mountain of like-minded essays on the subject. Whenever a movie like this gets released, we are inundated with lofty opinions. And the film itself becomes mute. I am not looking forward to swimming through an ocean of hypocritical praise and loose musings on this once unfilmable flick. Heck, I regret having to write a review myself. Simply because I've already read too much about it from complete strangers. It's a boring proposition, and I know my words will get lost amongst the rest of the floating debris. Seriously, Watchmen is one film I don't care about on any level. And I don't care about my own review of it. So why should you? Embargos are in place for a reason. It's retarded that so many Internet types are biting at the chomp to break it for their own moral gain. What a bunch of douche donkeys. One and all. Except Faraci. I understand that he wants to bully support for the film, since it's being looked at negatively on the eve of its release. And he knows a thing or two about true film criticism, which most of the other push hogs do not.
That is what is going on in the world of the Whoop-doo! nation this week. Hope you've enjoyed your stay with us. Eat food! Kill grandma (we could really use her retirement checks)! And remember: We want it all but we can't have it! Whoop-doo!