"We're Your Fucking Friends, Yo!""

Gogol Bordello Live @ The Catalyst in Santa Cruz, April 26, 9:00 pm

I would follow this band everywhere.

If I didn’t have a job… if I didn’t have goals… if I didn’t have plans… if I didn’t have responsibilities… if I didn’t have concerns for the well-being of others close to me… if I didn’t have some semblance of a life, however degraded it may seem to others, I would follow Gogol Bordello to the ends of the earth.

It’s not often that someone will use the immediate aftermath of a concert to sum up how they felt about the entire performance, but when Gogol Bordello ringmaster/bandleader Eugene Hütz strode back onto the stage after closing the show with a massive 23-minute encore version of their defiant (and imaginatively stated) anthem Undestructable, his words echoed precisely what I was feeling inside. Grabbing the mike to say goodnight, Hütz asserted, “We’re your fucking friends, yo!”

My brother and I already felt like his friends. And in a far more personal way than one normally feels when watching an amazing band absolutely enthrall an audience. This seems a strange statement to make, especially from someone who never got the chance to meet the band, and in fact, stood at the rear of the balcony area, back and away from the show for the entire length of the concert. And, sure, any fan of any band wishes to believe that they are as one with their influences. But despite the distance, and despite the building noise and aggression of the music throughout the show, and despite the vast array of racial, economic and class distinctions dispersed amongst the audience members, there was still the sense that for just a couple of too brief hours, everyone in the place had come together as one people.

Yeah, it sounds cheesy and it sounds trite. It’s a hippy thing to say, too, but hell, the show was in Santa Cruz, so what can one expect? This mood, though, was definitely in place there, and it certainly existed in a way where its ultimate influence must have pleased Hütz. It almost certainly reflects part of the message at the core of his music: a universal brotherhood that blows past all of the systematic bullshit that ties people down or keeps them from opening their eyes and hearts to those around them.

Our traveling companions at the show, Raw Meat and Roar-achel, did get to meet Eugene and the band post-show, but I’ll speak no more of their adventures through the use of my voice. How and why is up to them to tell from here on out. (I also won’t discuss the anonymous bra that may or may not have been involved in the deal…) No, my presumed friendship with the band is forged solely through how thoroughly moving and entertaining Gogol Bordello were on stage, and in a way where you could not mistake Hütz’ mission to cause every single person in that crowd to leave the show feeling the same sort of elation and mental evolution which he himself has endured. My friendship is forged through finding a band with a distinct voice that just happened to speak to my secret heart, even if it may seem that outwardly there is little the same between us except for, perhaps, distant European genealogical connections.

Assuredly, I am not of the Romani distinction, nor am I from the Ukraine. I am not even close to being a gypsy, though perhaps my Irish blood may bespeak a bit of the traveler somewhere in my family history. I doubt it, though. And before this band came along, my exposure to the roots music at its core has been minimal at best, and mainly through Hollywood bastardized examples of gypsy music in Frankenstein and werewolf movies. Certainly there is a similarity in emotion and instrumentation to some of the klezmer and polka music to which I have exposed myself in varying quantities, but I am still a relative novice to Old World folk music, particularly this style.

And there I am, clapping hands and stomping feet along with the raucous tunes, feeling more from the immediacy of the experience than I have at concerts where I had gone into the shows fully immersed in the band and their music. I was too far along already with Gogol to be considered a convert (after all, we did drive several hundred miles specifically to see this band), but this was the shining moment where I realized just how in love I was with Gogol Bordello and their maniacal circus.

And were circumstances a little broader for experimentation economically for me, this band would become my version of the Dead, getting followed from show to show, all so I might feel that vibe just once more. To feel that reassurance that somewhere, on a tiny stage in a decrepit club miles from my home, there is someone that I don't even personally know who is bold enough to announce, even in a collective sense, that they are my friend, fucking or otherwise.

You should all be so lucky to have such friends. See this band for your own well-being, and at all costs...

[P.S. Yo, fucking friend, here is some fellow fan-shot footage from the show I found on YouTube courtesy of OpenFire...]

Zzzzzzz...

Tired... sleepy...

So much happened on the trip...

Tell you about it...

Later...

(Yawn)

So... much... later...

...And Cultural Revolution Right Away Begun!!!

Around a year ago, after seeing them appear fleetingly on some show as I flipped through the music channel area of the cable box, I got into Gogol Bordello. Sort of a gypsy-meets-The Pogues-meets-The Clash vibe (sort of, I say...); marvelously energetic and crude; breathlessly fascinating. Along the way, my buddy Raw Meat got into the group on an entirely different path, though we eventually ended up playing them quite a lot in the office, shutting the door of course for some of the rawer language to not drift out to the far more innocent ears of our office mates. Meanwhile, on a third, divergent course, my brother Otis discovered the group up in the confines of the extended Bay area.

What luck, then, that the group ends up playing in Santa Cruz tomorrow night.

And so it begins. A road trip by Raw Meat, his girlfriend Roar-achel and myself to see Gogol Bordello. It's more of a pilgrimage really, as Raw Meat and I have tried previously to get near the group, but our plans have gone awry. I pulled out of a spontaneous overnight trip to Vegas to see them a couple months back, riling the Raw One and forcing him to bite a chunk out of a passerby's arm in his anger and his rage. (He is leaving, he is leaving, but the fighter still remains, tra la la la la la la...)

We considered attending their appearance at Coachella, but decided it was just too damn hot to stand in the middle of the desert and watch bands for 472-1/2 hours. Our last resort was to drive several hours up the coast and grab a hotel and turn the whole shebang into a mini-vacation. We definitely need it -- I had to chain the boy up this week to keep him from devouring our I.T. guy, Steve, whom we shall refer to here as "NOT the I.T. guy," since that is what he wrongly insists -- thus, as a reward for just getting something done at work, we are hitting the road.

So, no posting for a couple of days. We are leaving the laptop behind, so we won't get sucked into any work distractions, and we are going to just simply have fun. No real schedule, just some loose directions and guidelines, an area that we have never visited, and a whole lot of open road (once we get out of LA). We're talking Monterey Bay Aquarium, hopefully some Cannery Row, possibly the Mystery Spot, and checking out some beach-like substances. Maybe we will even take in the new Harold and Kumar flick. For me, the best part is that my brother Otis and the family are heading down to meet us tonight to join us on our adventure.

Oh, yeah... and then there's that concert. (I'm bringing the GPS just to increase the chances that we actually get there...)

Reasons I Am Watching The Sarah Connor Chronicles Even Though I Never Saw the Last Terminator Film and Haven't Given A Rat's Ass in 10 Years #2

And you thought I was going to go all "Lena 'The New Sarah Connor' Headey" on you. ("Not Hedley... Headey.")

No, she's an attractive woman and all, and she has a name rife with promises, but her forehead just isn't quite big enough for me. As I hinted at last time, according to my work pal Luis, I apparently like chicks that could have played Metalluna mutants in This Island Earth. (This is my phrase, actually. I am fairly certain Luis has never seen This Island Earth, nor knew the planet in it -- besides Earth -- was named Metalluna, nor that they had mutants with abnormally huge heads... all he did was mention to me while we were discussing my attraction to her was that "that chick has a huge forehead.") This might explain my sexual attraction to bobbleheads. All I know is that if I could get Summer "River" Glau and Christina Ricci to make out, I would be a very happy man. And if they were both hot robot chicks, even better...

I fought, scratched, clawed, and slept (just a little) through the first season of The Sarah Connor Chronicles, and finally realized for good that I really don't give a rat's ass about the time-traveling and the cyborgs taking over the future and the world and whether John Connor was going to survive or whether eventually all of the paradoxes in the storyline where going to create some sort of black hole that was going to suck the whole Fox network into it for good (hopefully only leaving House and The Simpsons behind).

But if it gets renewed for a second season, I am sure I will be there, waiting for sweet, petite Summer Glau to hoist a monstrous gun of some variety into her little hands. Of course, it's weight will initially cause her to stagger backwards, and she will have to use her huge forehead to balance herself...

The Shark Film Office/Cinema 4 Cel Bloc: Goggle Fishing Bear (1949)

Directors: Preston Blair and Michael Lah
MGM, 0:07 animated short, color
Cinema 4 Rating: 5
Shark appearance: cartoon shark (undefinable species), able to roar and growl, no sense of humor.

So, who has it worse? Sharks in the movies -- where they are employed mainly to threaten the lives of the (usually) human characters in the film, or at the very least, imply that said characters are in mortal danger -- or sharks in cartoons?

Certainly, the answers is "in the movies," since sharks almost always end up dying onscreen for their sins, and in some films (in the dark, olden days of the industry), really dying for our entertainment. Their menace is perceived as far more real, naturally, and the potential harm to the reputation of sharks in the real world is that much more immense.

Cartoon sharks, on the other hand, not being flesh and blood, have a cakewalk. (Or is that "cake-swim"?) Sure, they show up, flash their pearlies, frighten the protagonist(s) and generally have a fine, evil time of it as the contracted villain of the piece. They do what is sadly expected of any shark in a film: be evil, get your comeuppance, end of story. Except cartoon sharks, given that they are in a piece where death is an exceedingly rare occurrence, don't get blown to smithereens (as a final blow, that is) or get a bullet through the head or get harpooned or electrocuted or spear-gunned or any of the myriad ways sharks are shown to perish in films. Cartoon sharks, though actually one of the rarer species on earth, most often survive their appearances in their films. The twist is that they often face a different sort of living death...

In Goggle-Fishing Bear, an MGM short from 1949, the shark in question literally and ultimately becomes the butt of the joke. Accompanied by the usual compliment of lush backgrounds, detailed closeups and sharp character work that was a hallmark at MGM in the '40s, ursine dope Barney Bear takes to his rowboat for a spot of fishing relaxation. Of course, anyone even remotely familiar with poor ol' Barney, or cartoons in general, knows that relaxation is definitely not in the cards. Even if he had opted to stay home and actually play cards instead, relaxation would not be ready to be paired with the misbegotten Barney. In much the same manner that sharks have their place to play in cartoons, so is Barney burdened with the yoke of playing the eternal lummox.

The opening third of the short concerns Barney's attempts at enjoying a day trident-fishing off his outboard motor boat as being initially thwarted by the intrusion of a typically cute sea lion pup (not a seal, though people will immediately see him and shout, like a small child would in delight, "seal!). The pup gives Barney the sort of hard time that one expects, but these frustrations immediately cease once the third character of the film is introduced: the shark.

His entrance is grand, far grander than the film itself deserves. As Barney and the sea lion pup go through their cutesy struggles with one another, at the point where the pup has been so fully shunned by the bear that he mopes away sadly on his own, a huge, looming shadow falls over him. The pup glances off to see what is causing the circling shadow, and as he does, a huge green and yellow shark turns about and makes a beeline for the pup. Panic ensues, but the pup retains just enough of his senses to try and warn his would-be playmate, Barney, of the impending doom. He zips between the bear's legs, sending the ursine spinning about and accidentally releasing the fish Barney has just caught. The pup barks madly in desperation. Barney is so annoyed by the pup by now that he ignores its warnings, and continues back to his trident-fishing. As the shark continues drifting forwards, closer and closer, the pup has no choice but to give up on his friend, scream frantically and head for the hills. Or the boat. Whatever the case may be.

So, now I ask, which is of more murderous intent? The natural hunger that continues the great Chain of Life, wherein a shark might instinctually seek out his prey, or a bear seeking to vent a few holes in a wholly innocent sea lion pup's head with a trident? When the shark pulls up and bumps Barney Bear in the bottom twice, the bear, believing it to be more goading from the pup, doesn't hesitate to stab his trident several times over into the snout of the shark. It slowly dawns on Barney what he has just done, and he steps away from the giant shark and acts sheepishly. The shark, angered, pulls forward and roars tremendously, its jaws fully open to allow its breath and sound waves to crash over Barney. The bear stands calmly and smartly shows the trident to the shark as if to display that it couldn't possibly do any harm, and then jabs himself in the chest as an example. Of course, it hurts Barney, and as a last desperate measure, Barney thrusts the trident over the shark's snout, pins it to the ocean floor, and makes a break for the boat, where the sea lion is already waiting to escape.

Being more than a match for a mere trident, the shark dispenses with the tool and snaps sharply onto the tips of Barney's flippers. The flippers stretch out to ridiculous lengths as Barney frantically swims for the surface. He reaches the boat, and the seal grabs his hands to pull him aboard. The boat tips upward with the weight of the bear, and when Barney grabs the slats serving as seats in the tiny craft, the boards are ripped out, and Barney zips back underwater and towards the waiting jaws of the massive shark. The fish takes a huge snap at Barney's backside, and scrapes off the poor bear's swimsuit and fur in the process, leaving Barney either bare-bottomed or bear-bottomed -- take your pick. Barney hides amongst some underwater weeds, and uses his trident to pull off a hastily improvised impersonation of King Neptune. He halts the shark with one steady hand, and then points away from him. The shark departs, but as Barney runs off in the opposite direction, the shark immediately turns about. There follows a series of snaps as Barney's person, but each snap is thwarted by the fact that Barney is running on a series of underwater moguls, and so he goes up and down with each attempted bite.

The shark swims far ahead, rests on the bottom, and opens his jaws wide like a cave. Naturally, Barney runs right in with his momentum, and the shark closes his mouth in triumph. Barney continues to run, and the shape of his body is seen walking to the end of the shark's tail. Barney realizes his mistake and turns around to run the other way. He smashes right through the teeth of the shark, leaving a silhouette of his body in the remainder of the shark's surprised grin. Barney finds a small rock and somehow manages to hide his own massive body underneath it. The rock sprouts eyes all of a sudden, but they aren't Barney's. As the shark pulls up to investigate, we find that the rock is actually an octopus, which screams at the sight of the monstrous fish and stretches up on its six legs (yes, this octopus only has six legs, not eight) in fright. It zips away, leaving an unaware Barney at the mercy of the shark.

Luckily, the sea lion pup comes to the rescue. As the shark closes its jaws in on the bear, the pup zooms into the shark's mouth and holds the jaws agape. As part of the struggle between pinniped and shark, the fish's teeth are shown to prod Barney in the rear, and the bear turns his head, presumably in anticipation of his own demise. Instead, he espies the brave little pup, straining mightily to keep the shark's jaws from snapping his would-be pal to pieces. Barney turns tail and exits the scene, only to return -- in a reminder of precisely why one indulges their mind with cartoon logic in the first place -- with a highly convenient car jack. He jams the jack in the shark's mouth and cranks it upward. The pup is no where to be seen, until it peeks out from underneath the huge tongue of the shark. The bear grabs the pup just as the shark breaks through the jack's resistance and slams its jaws shut.

Barney and the sea lion make their escape, the bear literally running upward through the water to the surface, with the shark close behind. Perhaps a bit too close for the pup's comfort, as once he sees the shark breathing hot on their necks, jumps out of Barney's grip and carries the bear himself all the way to the boat, finishing the effort with a massive leap far beyond what one expects from a tiny little sea lion pup encumbered by the weight of a portly ursine. They start the outboard engine and take off, but the shark soon catches up and uses his dorsal fin to saw the boat in twain. Barney pulls the halved pieces back together, but they sink immediately. The pup starts to bail water out, which is truly an impossible task if one is already completely underwater. But -- via that sweet cartoon logic again -- he manages to succeed. The boat pops back on the surface, somehow completely intact. The shark, not to be outdone, spins his tail section into a propeller and launches himself towards the boat like a torpedo. He strikes the boat full on, and a massive explosion ensues. Barney, the pup, the anchor and the myriad pieces of the wrecked boat fly upward, and then start to fall back to the surface of the water. The shark pops out and strikes his best pre-Jaws, mouth-agape, waiting-for-his-prey pose, a hungry smile formed on his cartoonishly cruel face.

But, did you really think that Barney Bear and an innocent and playful sea lion pup would really get devoured in a cartoon from 1949? In the days of the Code, would what is recognizable as evil by the bulk of the public at that time go unpunished? Of course not, and the shark receives his due according to this absurdly moral center: a faceful of anchor, a wrapping by the anchor line, and a newly outfitted yacht body courtesy of the remaining pieces of the boat, mysteriously nailed and perfectly aligned along the shark's back. The pup comes out wearing Barney's diving set and sporting the trident, which he pokes into the shark's rear, causing the fish to emit an anguished "Ooh!" Barney decides it would be fun to pantomime driving their new craft while the pup tortures the shark with a series of jabs to the rear. As they float off into the islanded sunset, the sharks cries are heard over and over again: "Oh!" "Ooh!" "Oh!"

As I said, our toothy boy has suddenly become nothing more than the butt of the joke. Maybe it would be better to get spear-gunned...

That Familiar Cathode Buzz: So They Weren't Quite Stars...

Ask me why I am the way I am, and I don't have any creepy priests or abusive parents to whom I may point. OK, I did grow up watching and being obsessed with Richard Milhous Nixon, so he might count. Just like anyone, I faced my share of adversity, but overall, that really had little bearing on my shaping as a human-sized monster.

Nah! Like so many others, I was raised on and programmed by the popular media of whatever age it was. Some of it quite excellent by any measure, but mixed in with the excellent were far too many lame movies, too many idiot comic books, too much bad music and way, way, way too much horrible television as a child. Of course, each one of us subjected to such travesties remembers those wonders of our youth with a magical sheen glowing about the edges of each and every item, no matter how rotten they may now seem to modern eyes, even our own.

 

In the past year or so, I slapped a cassette copy (from the original cassette) of the Hudson Brothers second album, Hollywood Situation (released the same year as this show) into the cassette player in my brother Otis' car. Having heard it about a zillion times over the years (I would listen to it once or twice annually just for fun), I have grown quite accustomed to its lightly Beatle-esque, power pop charms, but my brother had not heard it in nearly thirty years. In fact, despite the fact we used to air-guitar along with it and wrote puppet shows around the songs as kids, he didn't remember it at all. Not even their biggest hit, So You Are A Star.

I was actually saddened by the whole affair, but I wasn't counting in the fact that I had subjected myself to it on a regular rotation in the intervening years, while Otis had basically been on the other end of a media blackout concerning the Hudsons. After all, they pretty much disappeared from view after their sole headlining feature film Hysterical (which I also own, by the way) flopped... until Bill's estranged daughter Kate hit it big in L.A. But at that time in my youth, in much the way that D. Boon spoke of punk rock and Bob Dylan, the Hudson Brothers were the Marx Brothers to me. Before I knew who the Marx Brothers were. Before I knew that the comedy I was watching on The Hudson Brothers Razzle Dazzle Show was mostly second, third and sometimes fourth-hand schtick lovingly borrowed from other comedians and acts, including the Marx Brothers.

And this was slightly before I realized how much I needed the Marx Brothers in my life. So the Hudson Brothers weren't quite stars. For me, they were moderately decent placeholders until the real thing came along...

[Notes: Murray Langston is much better known as The Unknown Comic, and the chief reason that "forever puppet-mad me" loved the show was Rod Hull and his amazing Emu. More on them at a later date...]

So, Which Side Is Up? The Side That Has All the Bucks (That Ain't Us, By the Way...)

Hey, “Studio Estimates!” How did you do since Sunday when you prematurely announced, as you do every single week for eons, the box office take for the weekend before a good portion of the country had even prepared to go to the movies that day?

You initially reported that the #1 film, The Forbidden Kingdom with the Chan/Li tandem, had earned 20.9 million dollars. In the final tallies released following the actual weekend, it was reported Kingdom had earned $21.4 million. Well, there’s a half million dollars difference. Where did that come from? If the theatres had already finished their business properly, from which magical realm did all this cash spring? Forgetting Sarah Marshall, reported as having earned $17.3 million by the Reuters story which so incensed me on Sunday, pulled a similar trick to Kingdom’s and tacked on 400 large to its total by the time of the final tallies.

But then there is that completely unnecessary, and for my purposes, troublesome little remake of Prom Night. The Reuters’ piece said that the “teen horror Prom Night slipped to No. 3 with $9.1 million, taking its 10-day haul to $32.6 million.” But when the final total was announced, it’s line read this: “Prom Night, Sony, $8,670,364, 2 Wks. ($32,133,926).” Hmm… somehow, it was slashed of a half million since the story broke. Likewise, Ben Stein’s anti-intelligence, pro-intelligent design screed Expelled lost 300 grand. (Mr. Stein also would have lost his marbles, but those have apparently been missing for a good while.) Were the dollars added to the wrong films? Or was this all just shoddy guesswork?

Of course, it is. That’s why the initial story said “studio estimates.”

My problem, I will reiterate, is that these “studio estimates” are released as the gospel truth, and hours and hours -- and sometimes a full fucking day -- before the true figures are even ready to be stated. Because the headlines tout the news within the story as being finalized figures, one is not supposed to notice the term “studio estimates” within the text. The common person, jumping on the internet fleetingly before heading out for a nice Sunday morning (which might possibly include seeing one of the movies involved in the studio estimates) sees the link on their email page or on their phone claiming which movie made the most cash money for the weekend, and since the bulk of people seeing the link won’t click on it, they take only the info in the title out and about with them for the day. “Did you hear that The Forbidden Kingdom is the #1 movie?” And, yes, it happened to be at that moment in time, but the point I am trying to make is that it hadn’t yet earned the money it was being touted as making. But the story is meant to convince you it has.

And I hadn’t even gone yet that day. And perhaps some of you hadn’t either. Maybe we saw the film in another dimension where we only paid with Monopoly money, so it didn't count.

In Which I Have the Worst Case of Morning B.O. (Box Office) Ever

At 12:42 p.m. today (this would be Pacific Standard Time, or PST to those unable to read, or PT to those who are even worse readers than those unable to read), I noticed a link on my Gmail page that alerted me to a story on Yahoo which announced the weekend's box office report from a story reported on another site. This greatly confused me, since it was barely after noon, box offices had only been open in the most populous state in the union for two hours (if that), and I had yet to go see The Forbidden Kingdom that afternoon.

Mostly out of confusion, I clicked on the link. Indeed, it took me to a Yahoo page featuring that very story, itself spewed out by Reuters, the financial news network based in London. The story told me it had been placed "two hours and 6 minutes ago," which in my time would have been 10:36 a.m., just after most of the box offices had opened here, but in England, would have actually been 8 hours the other way, or this evening.

The story reported that The Forbidden Kingdom, featuring Jet Li and Jackie Chan, had conquered the weekend's box office totals over the three days with 20.9 million dollars, and further reported that Forgetting Sarah Marshall came in second with $17.3 million. And then it went on blah blah blah about disappointing returns over last year's grosses, blah blah blah, last week's champion dropping to third, blah blah blah, Ben Stein's idiot parade about creationism coming in 10th, blah blah... blather. The usual box office hooey...

Now, this Reuters story actually creeped in from L.A., but it really doesn't matter to me. What does matter is that today was NOT DONE. I believe, where I live, that the day was just getting underway here. Most of the movies in the -- start here -- West Coast still had anywhere from three to four showings to go on each screen on which they were to run -- this would be California (#1 most populous state), Washington (#13) and Oregon. Count in Hawaii and Alaska in that mix, and then zip back right across the country to all of the states who were still proceeding with the bulk of their prime viewing hours, and it becomes quite clear that this box office report is nothing but an estimate, and not a real figure. Because, for the entire country, people were still lining up for movies at every single theatre.

BECAUSE THIS "THREE-DAY OPENING WEEKEND" OF THEIRS WAS NOT EVEN CLOSE TO BEING OVER, GODDAMNIT!!!

People, I beg of you. Don't let box office monetary reports help you to decide what movies you want to see. Movies shouldn't be about seeing what is popular. They should be about seeing a decent film. I understand if all of your friends want to see a film, and that makes you want to see it too. After all, they are your friends for a reason. You have common interests, and you generally have a feel for bullshit when one of your friends is throwing it out. It just shouldn't matter to the common person how much money a particular movie has made. If you have stakes in hoping for a sequel, sure, you might care. (That also generally makes you an uncritical pussy from the outset, but that's O.K. Be who you have to be...) Or you just might have horrible taste. Regardless, your world doesn't live and die if a movie makes $20 million at the box office. It might to certain people in Hollywood, and that is where I get confused about this whole subset of the game. This bothered me in Alaska, because I would be heading to a film on a Sunday and already hear that my money had been counted on the news. But, now it really fucking bothers me in California.

Why? Because this is where the movies are mostly made. Isn't it strange in a company town like L.A. that you can catch the news on a Sunday morning, expecting to hear how your film performed from Friday-to-Sunday, when Sunday hasn't fucking happened yet? Well, no, apparently to people here, it isn't strange, because all of this hooey is based around the term "studio estimates." And the studios are right here, for the most part. These are not real figures. They are made-up figures. And studios will argue, argue, argue these figures sometimes, but somehow, come Monday, they will all somehow agree on them for the most part. And it's all so, so serious, becomes it comes down to stocks, and it comes around to shares going up and down with the various companies involved, and it actually does affect tons of people in the long run.

And they are all so anxious to get their answer, like the rest of this increasingly impatient society that they have to be so condescending to their audience that they release news reports telling you that they have pocketed your money before you have even spent it. Or even decided to spend it. Is it just more evidence of the Illuminati and how all of your decisions have been made for you? I don't care. I have a stupid movie to attend so that I can pony up bucks that I apparently owe Hollywood now.

Mister Rik Grimaces for Ninety Minutes (but not at the movie...)

Alternate Title:
Michael Phillips and Richard Roeper Are Dead Fucking Wrong and Irresponsible (even though they seem to have enjoyed the movie like I did...)

I spent an undue amount of time on the Pylon the other day railing at infantile filmmakers running amok in my backyard, so perhaps its time to swing things around…

For all of my continuing frustration with the way people act in movie theaters, and mankind’s constant de-evolution back to its most primeval state, I must admit that Generation-Oops! (to coin a phrase, so named because the bulk of these kids just have to be mistakes) is not the only target of my ire regarding movie etiquette.

Old people talk during movies, too. A fucking lot.

It seems every time Jen and I take the time to see something that isn’t laden with CGI or animation or robots or dinosaurs or pirates or superheroes or unshaven men in fedoras swinging about on whips, upon entering the theatre, I am struck with the notion that we have mistakenly wandered into a retirement home by mistake. This is not a bad thing; no, not at all. Old people are often swell, in the general way that most people, at least until you get to know them too much, are basically swell. And I am swiftly approaching that divider where I will be counted, at least in censuses, more with the elderly than with the young. (This is why censuses, the census takers, and the people who keep censuses must die…) In the last few months, I have walked into this trap more than once.

At Atonement, because we arrived late, believing “it’s a Saturday night -- the crowds will be at the holiday movies,” we ended up on the edge of the fourth row, just on the outskirts of a solid acre’s worth of septuagenarians. When Keira Knightley bursts forth from the water fountain, sopping wet and practically naked due to her sheer garment’s absolute clinginess, the sweet, possibly dotty lady next to me went, “Oooh, my…” This is precisely what went through my mind, as well, though my unspoken version of her statement was far more that of the craven Wolf Man than that of the grandmother. Outside of that, she and a group of her friends rambled on throughout the film anytime anything of mild interest – teapots, soldier’s uniforms, a keen old car – popped into view. Oh, and then there were the bathroom breaks. Many, many bathroom breaks. I believe that any pants-tightening brought about by the presence of Ms. Knightley was shortly undone by the scanning of a half dozen aged backsides as they shuffled past my view of the film.

Death at a Funeral, another British import, found us in a similar situation: a far more crowded theatre than we had anticipated and much of it far older in years as well. Although things got more than mildly randy in this Frank Oz-directed farce, the elderly crowd was fairly OK with the proceedings. I could hear them all about me, the buzz building around me as though I were a bear who had stuck his paw into the wrong hive, the chit-chat becoming more and more obtuse with each confusing turn of the plot (such as it is) and the jammy thickness of the various British accents. "Why did she go there?" "I don't understand what he's saying." Etc., etc., etc. It wasn't all annoyance from this crowd though. At the sight of a particular character with a penchant for disrobing, after numerous poo-poo and necrophilia-tinged jokes, one lady sitting behind me said to her friend, “Well... I don’t have a problem with that, Margaret.”

Walking into the Frances McDormand-Amy Adams teamup farce, Miss Pettigrew Lives for a Day, I feared more of the same. Yes, the crowd was older than the norm, but they were all sitting politely and, surprisingly, hardly anyone was talking. In fact, it was weirdly quiet amongst the thirty or so mostly aged attendees, considering that the previews were already going and many people naturally took the opportunity to continue their conversations straight through until the first production credit popped up on the actual film. At the close of the last trailer though, there was a definite silence heading into that certain credit moment... and then it broke. Suddenly, like the voices Cameron hears throughout Scanners that slowly drive him mad, I was assaulted with about a half-dozen pairs of old ladies nattering on about this and that, none of it really clear, though I am certain most of it had no bearing on the film at hand.

The buzz just grew and grew, and I began to worry that it might overtake the film. But at the ten-minute mark, just as the jokes in the film started to fly, the buzz dissipated. The crowd fell into the film, laughter became the "new" buzz, and my attention turned fully to the single-day adventures of Miss Guinevere Pettigrew.

Until the Honking Man, that is...

The Honking Man was a rather rotund man sitting three rows to the left in back of us, who found the movie quite amusing. Perhaps too amusing. With every punchline came his laugh -- low, gutteral, more of a "Hennnh!" really, than a "Ha!" But his odd laugh did not come as a solo act. Each low "Hennnh!" would then be followed by a series of louder ones, four or five each time, until he began to sound like an old movie serial super-villain with a serious case of emphysema.

As the film continued on, getting screwier with the introduction of each succeeding character, the laughs amongst the older lot (and ourselves) increased. But, so did those of the Honking Man. To my ears, at least, it seemed the theatre was becoming infested with geese. But because I seemed to be the only person outwardly struck by the severity of this attack on the senses (and his lungs). I tried to be a better person and fought not to begin laughing at something outside of the screen. Eventually, containing myself mightily, I no longer noticed the Honking Man. (I am a liar...)

Miss Pettigrew Lives for a Day also managed to subvert the constant threat of a porky human-goose mutant ransacking the theatre on a wing-flapping rampage, unable to lift off from the seats due to his mass, becoming trapped between his armrests and tearing out his entire row in a frenetic attempt to escape, honking all the way. The actors -- McDormand, Adams, Lee Pace, Ciaran Hinds, and Shirley Henderson -- were more than up to the task of matching the farcical tone of the script, and Adams, as usual, was a delight. I was surprised, though, by what I discovered due to seeing the film after watching its review by Michael Phillips and Richard Roeper on Ebert and Roeper a couple of weeks before.

They both referred to the opening of the film (Phillips said "the first 20 minutes"; Roeper, 15) as being unnecessarily shrill and hard to get through, and the direction haphazard, before the actors settled into the material and the film took off. This surprises me, because -- though I am unaware as to how this film was actually directed -- the vast majority of films are not shot in a linear fashion, and this myth about actors "settling" into a role or material is just so much bullshit. And, for the record, they are dead fucking wrong about those opening minutes, which are actually of an even more underplayed tone than the remainder of the film. That there is more outright drama at the onset of the piece is obvious, as the desperation of Miss Pettigrew's situation must be established. If a couple of scenes of her losing her job and then being denied a new position, and her subsequent loss of possessions and scrambling of food equal being discussed as shrill, then they have a different understanding of the term than I do. I consider it necessary to the plot.

Or maybe I started to believe that, however shrill the opening may have actually been, it seemed sensible next to the constant stream of patter assailing my ears from all around me. Jen has always maintained that I am strangely attuned to and overly edgy about other people in theatres, and she is very, very correct about this. Things that drive me crazy in an audience -- living room talking levels, wrapper crinkling at quiet moments, babies, idiot teenagers, more babies, more idiot teenagers, even more babies -- either bounce right off of Jen or she blocks them out wholesale. I cannot. At the same time, in the right setting, such as horror films, superhero blockbusters, or children's flicks, I am more than happy to share the loud, boisterous communal experience.

And perhaps that is what I need to accept with "films of a certain vintage or type." If I continue to go to films that tend to be frequented by the elderly, then I should just learn to accept the behavior of that crowd. And that is my secret delight here: I do enjoy the insane rantings and the dotty old ladies and even the bathroom breaks.

I even enjoyed the Honking Man, and someday, I hope to keep him as my own pet. He can help me keep those damn kids out of my backyard... the movie theatre.

Miss Pettigrew Lives For A Day
Director: Bharat Nalluri
Focus Features, 1:32, color
Cinema 4 Rating: 7

That Familiar Cathode Buzz: The Curse of Saturday Mornings...

Because I am connected so deeply (and wrongly, and somewhat against my will at this point) to a childhood misspent in front of an RCA television, things like this happen:

Raw Meat and I are knocking out problem after problem at work, and in the midst of this, we tend to throw one-liners back and forth. Raw Meat says something quite out of left field to me, but the word "space" is somewhere in there, and so I call him a "far out space nut."

Why? Because the phrase is stuck in my head. Why? Because I watched every goddamn program on Saturday morning television for years and years. When the shows I really liked went to reruns, I watched the shows I didn't watch the first time. I saw them ALL. And I saw a Sid and Marty Krofft show starring Bob Denver and Chuck McCann called:


 
Raw Meat had never heard of the show, owing to his not having been born at that point in time (1975). And because he was born in another land far removed from our crappy Saturday Morning television shows. When I described the show to him and showed him a picture or two on the internet, he said "It looks funny."

I replied, "No, but it sure seemed that way when I was eleven."

The Shark Film Office: Shark! (1969)

Director: Samuel Fuller
Excelsior, 1:32, color
Cinema 4 Rating: 4

Just before the opening credits end on this early Burt Reynolds starring feature, the following dedication appears:

"This film is dedicated to the fearless stuntmen who repeatedly risked their lives against attacks in shark infested waters during the filming of this picture."

The film then gives us Samuel Fuller's name as the director, but within about half an hour, the viewer will come under the realization that Shark! (also sometimes known as Caine, the name of Reynolds' character) is perhaps in that small but not so intimate circle of the worst releases ever to be lensed by a renowned international filmmaker. That it is available enough for low-budget schlock house Troma to gain the rights and release it as part of their DVD line might be testament enough as to its haggard status in film history. Fuller, the creator of cult classics such as Shock Corridor, The Naked Kiss, Pickup on South Street and The Steel Helmet (this is an unreserved call for any and all to check them out... he was truly an amazing and original director), famously quit the production after the studio decided to use the death of a stunt diver to promote the film.

Why? Naturally, this stunt diver was killed by a shark, and as we know by now, if there are two things that go well together, it is the media and a shark attack. Even years before Jaws, this was a solid rule. Fuller was apparently upset with a great deal during the production, but this was the final straw. When the film was released, Fuller saw a drastically reedited version from the one he had envisioned, and though he asked for his name to be removed from the print, he was refused this courtesy. (The film was, no surprise, re-edited and released once Jaws-hysteria struck the world.)

This is not to say that the film holds a full lack of interest outside of the fact that someone is shown actually being killed in Shark!, which is a natural, sick draw. Reynolds, before his stardom hit, is already fully practicing his "what the hell... I'm a handsome guy" off-kilter humor, and he radiates the charm that would serve him well over the coming decade as a leading man. Arthur Kennedy, an old favorite of mine, is far too over the top as a drunk doctor, but he does have a couple of nice moments. And the fight scenes are engaging and sharp, with Burt going crazy with the full leaps into his opponents, and often into the food and trinket stalls lining the streets of whatever Sudanese port in which this film (shot in Mexico) is supposed to take place. There is also a mildly kinky vibe to his "romance" with legendary Mexican actress Silvia Pinal, as they both intend to seduce one another for, ultimately, the same purpose. All in all, there is a definite rough edge to every character within the film, which squarely is a sure sign of Fuller's involvement; even with his eventual denial of the film on whole, its toughness certainly conveys the feeling that it is one of his making.

But, it is shoddily printed, most of the key scenes are far too dark to even know what is going on, and the sound quality is inferior as well (it's loud enough, but much of the dialogue is garbled). All of this serves as a serious detriment to the key reason both you and I are here on this page, which is the shark scenes. If you are watching this movie for the death scene with the stuntman, it is hard to tell which underwater scene it is. There is a shark attack scene in the prelude to the credits, and there is one at the tail end of the film. At first, I thought it was the same shots shown twice. Checking back on it, there are differences in each scene. There is, however, a shark attacking a stuntman and a resulting stream of blood spewing forth in each shot. It is possible that these shots are both from the same attack, but from different angles, but without any further knowledge to back this up, it is hard for me to say.

But, the death scene is not the only time that the editors have their way with continuity or cohesion. Not just switching back and forth throughout the movie amongst a series of reused shots, the menacing shark also switches species on more than one occasion. If they were trying to give the impression that there were multiple sharks surrounding the actors, then they have failed as they never show a single shot where there is more than one shark at a time. I know there is some compulsion to live up to the phrase "shark infested waters," but... an infestation of one? If this is the way you must portray it, apparently the waters where they were diving were equally "ray infested," as the same shot of a single bottom-drifting ray is used more than once as well. By the same token, you could argue the film is "Silvia Pinal or Burt Reynolds infested."

The only thing with which Shark! is not infested is Samuel Fuller. He swam away from its creepy, voyeuristic legacy long ago.

These Kids Today: Doomed (2007)

Director: Michael Su
Automatic Media, 1:16, color
Cinema 4 Rating: 3

Is it high praise indeed to say that, at the very least, your zombie film wasn't directed by Uwe Boll?

Please, let us get past the point where things aren't so obviously named after film directors or stars as a supposed "in-joke." That stuff died with Night of the Creeps, where they did it so much and so obnoxiously that it actually was funny. And clever. Here, in the "Survivor meets the living dead" video Doomed, the island on which the prison lifers are stranded for the entertainment of the masses is called Isla de Romero. Too obvious, and not all that clever. A funnier way to go about this would have been to name it Isla de Fulci, since most of the moves here, including the "surprise" ending, are culled from the Italian zombie hack's oeuvre far more than there is any direct influence derived from George Romero here.

And, please, let us get past the point where reality shows are the basis for the entire plot. We are now faced with the dire situation where a certain proportion of our young aspiring filmmakers are no longer being influenced by things such as literature, art, the classical canon or even film history, but solely by video games, crappy remakes of far better, older horror films, and the false reality of reality shows. This is not to say that high art cannot come out of having these influences -- there will surely be someone who comes along and proves this theory completely wrong, a savior-Tarantino for Generation-Ought. The entire screenplay will be based entirely around the phrases "Whatever," "off the chain," "Oh, snap!" and "giggety," half of the film will be shot as a POV shooter, human reaction shots will be replaced by anime facial contortions, there will be a ticker reporting the latest in tech news and simultaneously running comments from giggling girls spewing "LOL" and LMAO" forth from their keyboards, and the actual filming will be presented on a TV show where loyal viewers, themselves competing on a separate tie-in TV series, vie to win the right to vote the key grip off the production. Despite, or because of, these limitations, through sheer force of talent, it will actually seem a triple-post-modern social commentary on contemporary mores, and it will somehow come out shining and brilliant.

But, based on the evidence thus far, there is far more to fear from the failed attempts over the next dozen years or so of filmmakers chained to these influences than from the actual plotlines of those films. Sure, people are generally up in arms about the current vogue for "torture porn" in mainstream horror films, and at least one of the practitioners (or, at least the one who seems to get singled out by the media), the talented Eli Roth of Hostel II infamy, may turn out to be that savior of whom I prophetize. But I don't see this "gorno" trend (as Raw Meat likes to call it) to be one which has extended from the downgraded media with which we are now laden; I see it as something running parallel to it, as another symptom of the problem. I see it as a conditional sandpapering down of barriers due to the rise of the use of the human body as a transformable canvas.

I have nothing against body adornment, and anyone can be anything they wish to be and look however they like. But, as we become a nation that is ever more willing to swap small, controlled amounts of pain to fulfill whatever crazy idea we have of personal beauty (or its opposite, shocking effect), then it is possible that the audience that is receptive to this concept, which makes up a good portion of the current entertainment audience, has become, bit by bit, more and more inured to the pain of others on film. We become more and more willing to watch someone slowly get branded to death because we remember exactly how much getting that tramp stamp on our be-hoot-ney stung; this generation of X-tremists, raised on throwing their body ever more into uncaring, personal danger and wanna-be fake gangsterism, can deal with it, motherfucker, so bring it...

If only it were true that there was some form of torture porn in Doomed. It actually may have made it more interesting. A few characters do have other ones at a disadvantage here and there, and as it is a game show to the death, evil things will happen. But there is not a single character that lives and breathes beyond the too few acting lessons of its pack of veritable amateurs, and there isn't even the slightest aura of menace in any of the empty threats of these characters. One would be tempted to say that this is merely a reflection of the same attitudes expressed in any reality show challenge, but that would imply that director Su and screenwriter Patrick McManus (not that Patrick McManus) actually knew how to achieve that effect on screen. This would then bring up the question of, if they could do that subtly enough, why they couldn't bring out a similar sure touch on the rest of the film.

What the film gets right is its length: surprising short at 76 minutes, the film moves fast, in exactly the opposite way that Boll's films don't. Characters keep moving. Arguments between the doomed convicts, conspiracy theories about the corporation controlling the show, and inspirational speeches from the few characters who do make some small personal connection are kept briefer than this sentence. And they made it nearly impossible to tell who was going to make it off the island. If there is any small triumph that springs forth from this movie, it is this, but naturally, this is easier to achieve if you don't actually give any depth to your characters.

The film also has an effect that I found annoying at first, but actually kind of dug after awhile (and I no longer partake of video games), which was the way the screen would freeze anytime someone got punched or kicked or stabbed. One character starts hacking away at a group of zombie, and the words "Body Chop" would appear, along with a selection of points score for each attacking move. It started me wondering if, in fact, the "show" we are supposedly watching in the year 2020 within the film is actually just a photo-realistic video game. Of course, once more I am giving Su and McManus far more credit than they deserve. Anyway, it would have been far more intriguing if the convicts had been wired to receive stimuli from home viewers actually controlling their actions in their fight against the zombies, thereby literally becoming video-game pawns. And if it can be argued that Doomed is really striving to be nothing more than a low-budget social satire, it is of the sort that could just as easily be created by third-graders, with just as much awareness.

Oh, yes, speaking of zombies and the lack of menace in this film. These are your chief culprits. Absolutely non-frightening, practically bloodless except for the chunder they spew up on occasion, and practically incapable of eating flesh (possibly due to monetary limitations). At the very least, if you are going straight-to-video, and are able to bypass the MPAA by and large, give us something gory. Give us tits, give us blood, give us the old in-out in-out. This film is so clean (outside of its language) that I could probably show it to my 90-year-old grandmother and not have her come out shocked. And its monstrous denizens are even cleaner. Zombies converge on a single victim, and there is a lot of screaming and a lot of kicking, but more than once, the zombies completely cover the body and then the camera pulls away from the top of the pile, interrupting the carnage with a black screen and the words "Transmission Interrupted" and then "Terminated." I am not a gorehound by any means, but once I am inside a film, and I have adapted to the style of storytelling with which I am now bound, I am in there. If it is a zombie flick, for the most part, I have certain expectations. I love it when these expectations are confounded, but only when the means around them is new and fresh, exciting and inventive. I hate it when these expectations are confounded by gutless filmmaking. Literally, gutless filmmaking.

There is even a character here who gets slashed across the stomach in such a way that it appears he is dead from the outset of the film. Later, he gets up, wanders about the island, and starts kicking zombie butt like the Bruce Lee of Des Moines, Iowa. Sure, he holds his stomach in pain when he isn't fighting, but there is a hardly a drop of blood on his shirt through the entire thing. Until he gets attacked and brought down by a group of zombies... and then you hardly see anything there either.

That is, literally, gutless filmmaking.

Long Live The Trivia King! (Again, You Wouldn't Know This Unless You Watched His Show...)

Every now and then, Entertainment Weekly, a magazine for which I have a long-running subscription (and a long-running love-hate relationship), knocks out one of their massive trivia contests. You would think this is a great place for me to show off (at least to myself) all of the obscure stuff bumping around inside my head. But, as I said, my brain really does not work this way. The trivia tends to fly out of me at inopportune moments -- especially inopportune for those unfortunate enough to be caught in its assault.

I have a really bad habit of saying, when I hear someone doesn't know something about that which I consider to be the gospel, of going "Oh! I can't believe you didn't know that!" Of course, we all have this bad habit. There isn't a person around who doesn't think that everyone else is an idiot for not knowing what they know so well. And trivia contest creators are the worst. They can put together a test with the answers readily at hand, and pretend they know all of the answers, and come off as a smarty-pants because it is their test, though I am sure they would hard-pressed to come up with most of the right answers themselves. (Unless, of course, they had just put together a list of those same questions.)

EW is, collectively, one of those people. The smarty-pants after the fact. The needler at the party. "So, you think you know television? Try this test on for size, pink boy!" EW's latest is just that, a television quiz (hosted by Ellen DeGeneres, or so they pretend in the magazine), that throws a bunch of crap into a stew and calls it entertainment. (I like to call it stEW, actually.) I decided to take their quiz, pride be damned, and fairly certain the thing would be filled with questions about reality shows, which it was. And which I don't watch. I have not put down all of my answers, and I decided not to guess on the questions about that which I disdain. So, I could have tallied a few more points by simply guessing, but that would not have served my purpose here. The answers (if you want the questions, read the magazine or go to their website, or simply take what I give you and believe what I have to say...):

1. Oceanic Airlines, Flight 815 (this one, I know...)
2. Uh... not only have I never watched 24, I don't even know what "CTU" means, let alone know who is dead or alive on the show.
   
3. Green Lantern -- I watch Smallville only sporadically, but have seen it enough to know that GL has yet to appear. When and if he does, my own personal GL ring will glow and alert me of this. (By "GL ring," I mean that, yes, I am geeky enough to own an official one...)
4. I watched the first episode of Brothers and Sisters, and the overrated and overbearing acting of Sally Field was enough to drive me away. However, I do know that Sarah is older than Kitty, but I have no idea about the rest of the siblings. Nor do I care one whit...
5. I liked Friday Night Lights... the movie. Haven't seen the show. I do recognize Connie Britton's name from the flick, but I have no idea who else from the movie is also in the show.
6. I have only seen the pilot for Battlestar (loved it, but missed the next few, so I have catching up to do... much catching up...), but I have a flurry of friends who are Battle-geeks. I am pretty certain Cylons are referred to as "toasters".
7. Carl Weathers appeared on The Shield as Vic's mentor.
8. For the last time, take your abhorrent Grey's Anatomy and find an appropriate place on your anatomy to shove it...
9. Catherine Willows? Is she the one William Petersen plays? Don't know, don't care what she did in her "pre-CSI job".
10. Another one. Have never seen The Closer. Kyra Sedgwick looks like a duck impersonating the young Corey Feldman...
11. The name of the front organization on Heroes that The Company uses to monitor, hunt and even exploit people with special abilities is the Primatech Paper Co. The name of the organization that is driving me away from watching Heroes next season is NBC.
12. I almost started watching Gossip Girl because I saw a picture of Leighton Meester, and thought she was amazingly hot. Then I saw some other photos, and Meester started looking more and more like a Mister. I was saved...
13. House guest stars matched to ailments. Easy...
    LL Cool J: C - The black guy usually ends up playing the "death row inmate"
    Cynthia Nixon: D - Not only possibly faking her symptons, but also faking her talent
    Dave Matthews: A - It says "piano whiz" in the clue! No one else here is a musician! (No, not even Cool James...)
    Mira Sorvino: B - I'm not buying her role as a psychiatrist, but she was pretty darn naked, even for television.
    
14. I'm supposed to look at these 11 photos and come up with the ten pairs of partners on Law and Order? Even spending half my day avoiding episodes of Law and Order, I can't do this!
15. Ugly Betty sound bites. Fill in the blanks. Uh, yeah... I am soooo there...
16. I like the Flight of the Conchords as a band. I haven't seen the show yet, though. In the future, I will be able to answer questions regarding where their manager Murray works.
17. I am only watching My Name is Earl nowadays out of fond remembrance of the way we were, but I still recall the amount he was awarded was 100 grand.
18. I have seen The Big Bang Theory three times, and each time, it was the premiere episode. The band singing the Monty Python-sort-of-ripoff theme song is Barenaked Ladies.
19. The hospital in Scrubs is Sacred Heart.
20. The Great Gazoo is not a character on The Simpsons.
21. Bill Hader has yet to appear on 30 Rock, but I know this only because I spend half the show waiting for Tina Fey's SNL peeps to show up.
22. Entourage: another show I will catch up with one day... another answer I don't know...
23. Anyone familiar with Chris Rock knows that 'Tussin cures everything...
24. Scrantonicity is the greatest band ever... cover band or otherwise... I'm calling for a tour...
25. Kelsey, Kelsey. You had to go do a show with that whore Patricia Heaton, didn't you? Sorry, won't watch your new show. But I have read enough of your reviews to know you play Chuck Darling.
26. Love M. L. Parker in a long-running, not-yet-stalkerish but very sick way. Have Showtime, but still haven't watched Weeds, though. Somehow, perhaps on a preview, I did hear about the MILF weed. And I agree.
27. Robin Sparkles is How I Met Your Mother's Robin's awesome Canadian teen idol name. And she should go on tour with Scrantonicity...
28. I will man up and take the hit here. I am the other guy that watches Desperate Housewives. I know exactly how all of the listed characters died: gun, fence, strangling, sleeping pills, stairs. Too frickin' easy.
29. There are professional dancers on Dancing with the Stars? Technically, since everyone on the show is getting paid to dance on the show, doesn't that make everyone a professional dancer?
30. Models are too freaky to be considered hot. Which explains why I don't nor won't ever watch America's Top Model. As far as I am concerned, Tyra Banks always sits alone...
31. Her real name isn't New York? I guess I will never know.
32. Oh, The Bachelor questions! Please take your cold sores and please go away...
33. I could probably solve the American Idol anagrams from sure media saturation alone, but I just don't want to waste any more time on it...
34. There are winners on The Biggest Loser? Doesn't that contradict its own title?
    
35. There are alliances on Big Brother? I mean, beyond all the rutting I keep hearing about?
36. Apparently, Lauren interns for a magazine on The Hills. I'm guessing it isn't Ranger Rick, and probably involves teaching young girls to wear slutty fashions and waaaayyy too much eye makeup...
37. I thought every couple on The Amazing Race was dysfunctional. In fact, don't you have to be a dysfunctional couple just to try out?
38. I don't know what was never given as a challenge to contestants on Project Runway, but the challenge for me is ever giving a rat's ass about models or designers. And I will fail that challenge every single time.
39. I saw the first two seasons of Survivor before I screamed "What the hell am I doing?" and swore off, for the most part, reality television. Therefore, any Survivor questions after that, I am to be considered lost... on a remote island... naked... grossing the other survivors out...
40. Oh! A classic section! How nice... yes, Ralph Kramden pretended to play golf. Truly classic...
    
41. Easy... Boy George - The A-Team; Liberace - Batman; Henry Kissinger - Dynasty; Andy Warhol - The Love Boat. That leaves Madeleine Albright and Gilmore Girls, so by process of elimination...
42. The Bunkers sang about their old La Salle and how it ran great.
43. Knight Industries Two Thousand. I only know this because Jen told me this about a month ago when we accidentally missed watching the new pilot. (I never watched the old show...)
44. Ted McGinley was never on Kotter. But he does have a note from Epstein's mother explaining where he's been...
45. Ten shows and their bar/restaurant/diners/coffee shops. Way too easy. Considering that nine of the ten shows were on my radar at some point in my life, that leaves 90210 and The Peach Pit. Which I have now gotten right obviously.
46. ALF is from Melmac. I've only seen the show thrice (and over 20 years ago) and even I know that.
47. Many people don't realize how large Bert Convy (and game shows in general) looms in my past. Naturally, I know he hosted Tattletales. Eubanks? Card Sharks was one of his for awhile. I remember that. I recall Chuck Woolery did the Scrabble thing once. Jim Lange? I never saw the $100,000 Name That Tune, but it's the only choice left, so I am sticking to it.
48. Cleese was the "something completely different" voice.
49. Charlie's voice was John Forsythe.
50. OK, I have to be honest and say that I never actually knew who shot J.R. Somewhere in my head, I think it is Maggie Simpson.
51. Don Cheadle was in The Golden Palace. The reason I know is I saw it on a biographical profile recently.
52. I have no idea who played the first female U.S. president on TV. I think they are trying to trick me into saying "Geena Davis" and I am probably right about their deviousness. I don't know the answer.
53. Laura Palmer's dad, Leland, did the dirty deed. (As for the plastic, she had a fetish for it.)
54. Scully had a boy. And then she had a baby boy named William because of it. Or did she hump an alien?
55. Steve Allen created and originally hosted The Tonight Show.
56. The bust with the hidden button on Batman was Shakespeare. They didn't ask about the phone, but it was red.
57. I absolutely cannot answer the series of 90210 questions. But pictures of Jennie Garth are always cute.
58. "Who are three people who have never been in my kitchen?" Cliff Clavin is a genius, no mater what Norm says...
59. General Hospital premiered in 1963. I know this because I was once looking up research on the early b/w episodes they showed on Mystery Science Theatre 3000, and I put the info on a list.
    
60. The Addams Family and The Munsters only lasted two seasons each (astoundingly enough, nearly going on and off air at the same time). Of Jeannie and Bewitched, I pick she of the twitchy nose over the blink-and-a-nod hottie as the longest-running show.
61. 15 shows, 15 spin-offs. I know them all, even the ones for Murder, She Wrote (The Law and Harry McGraw) and Who's the Boss (Living Dolls). Why do I know them? 'Cause I'm a dope.
62. I know M*A*S*H has the biggest series finale audience, but after that, to me the other four are a crapshoot. Just like movie box office numbers, ratings mean nothing to me. And they shouldn't to you, either.
63. Daniel Baldwin was in Cleaver on The Sopranos. This reminds me of when Alicia Witt got naked on there. Yummy...
64. Tom Hanks was Uncle Ned on Family Ties. Those were the days, until Gump napalmed us, that I would watch Hanks in anything.
65. George Carlin was the original host of Saturday Night Live (née Saturday Night). I watched the premiere. I was ten. I was not supposed to be up that late, but I was. I probably stayed up way too late, way too often in those days.
    

So, here's the tally: only counting 1 point for each whole answer, I got 39 out of 65. Using EW's point system, where 1 point is given for every single answer and match-up within the questions, I got an anemic 81 out of 149. EW says, "Not too slouchy. You're still not quite ready for prime time, though."

Using this test as proof, not being ready for what passes for prime time these days, is not such a bad thing. I will stick with what I know.

And what I know is that I am nowhere near being a trivia master. Nor do I wish to be. So, stop cornering me.