Being Unknown Means Never Having To Say You're Sorry

I'm not a fan of celebrity feuds but I feel in a really roundabout and removed way I've got a personal stake in this one. If you'll notice toward the beginning of this whole... debacle where Jamie Foxx and his Foxxhole gang start tearing into Miley Cyrus--

(Before I continue--- Foxx's show is called The Foxxhole? Seriously? What an incredibly horrible name...! Foxx describes this Sirius radio show The Foxxhole as a black version of the Howard Stern show. From the brief clip I heard, the only clip I've heard of this show by the way, it sounded like Sirius giving another douchebag celebrity a radio show. Johnny Knoxville has a radio show for crissakes! I heard a guy that fingered Paris Hilton in 2006 has his own Sirius radio show. What do you not have to do to get a show on Sirius?)

Okay, that's out of the way. So Foxx and friends start tearing into Miley Cyrus and he starts making fun of her gums and tells her to get a gum transplant. While the rest of his tirade about her making a sex tape and doing heroin and crack was out of line (kind of funny too but funny and out of line aren't mutually exclusive) but I don't think the gum transplant comment was. That shit was hysterical...

Tween Wolf

So where the hell do you come in, you may be asking. Well I'll tell you. I write for a publication called The BEAST. The rest of the staff gripes about the most obscure nooks and crannies of local and national politics. For the last 6 years I've been griping about movies in the form of supposed movie reviews. At the reasonable suggestion of my editor I've switched from the 12-string reviews and started plucking at the 6-string movie trailer reviews. It's a lot less to watch (not that I ever concerned myself with watching movies for the purpose of reviewing them too much anyway) but that's neither here nor there.

What might be here, there or everywhere is the fact that 2 weeks ago I turned in my reviews for the newest issue. And in that issue I reviewed (the trailer for) Hannah Montana: The Movie. And because my editor who gave us a whopping half week window in which we were to work our collective journalist magic, stressed a deadline so we could get caught up because he got us behind on the last issue and still hasn't gotten the new issue out, said issue is behind. And I really fucking hate it when the issue for any given month comes out halfway during that month.

But I digress. Now because you were (or weren't) timely enough to catch this blog early enough you're going to get rewarded with my review for the Hannah Montana movie. The review which incidentally is a precursor to Foxx's comments for which he's under fire.

Hannah Montana: The Movie

After that big gums and tiny teeth disease rotting Hannah Montana’s brain causes her to get into a shoe fight with Tyra Banks, start up a healthy meth habit and allow herself to get fingerbanged by a Hispanic busboy, Billy Ray Cyrus makes her check into rehab at the local slaughterhouse in her hometown of Gonad Lick, Kentucky. And that’s a real place too. Google it.

And what’s even more entertaining is the fact that the big gums and tiny teeth disease has made Hannah Montana think she’s Gladiola Mason and with that overinflated sense of entitlement the persona brings she expects the world to kiss her puckered little ass. So instead of trading blowies for drugs she rides horses and wears cowboy hats and if she can get that monkey off her back and recover from the horrific big gums and tiny teeth disease that threatens to ruin Montana’s career forever, Billy Ray will give her the blonde wig and matching bedazzled buttplug back.

Actually if Hannah Montana: The Movie was about her descent into Lohanland I would gladly see it in a heartbeat, even if only to keep chasing that schadenfreude dragon that seems to dominate my life. But since it seems more like a fable, cautionary tale or some other shit about living double lives, split personalities or poor fashion choices compounded with some touchy-feely what matters most squeaky-clean morality play I'll probably just walk into the theater, soil myself heavily yet passionately and leave my pants behind before escaping down an emergency exit. And if I think of it I'll scream something about my gums growing and my teeth shrinking.

Now you've heard Foxx's comments from that fine piece of video gossip up top and you've read mine. I submitted this review in to my slothful editor last month and just yesterday I was told by my publisher in quiet annoyance that it should be out early next week. The prospect of appearing to touch upon something that will be deemed so last week by the time the new BEAST hits stands will be a tad frustrating. Especially when I consider that this was one of the rare occasions where I was ahead of the curve. From a journalistic standpoint this is the equivalent of me winning a fight that no one was around to witness. By the time this turkey hits the stands I can only talk about how I kicked the asses of half a dozen guys.

But the nice part is I won't have to apologize like Foxx did. Granted, he's got more of a career and a bigger toilet for it to go down by not saying he's sorry. I don't. I can say big gums and tiny teeth disease as much as I want. No one's (no one worth thinking twice about at least) going to make me feel bad about making a comment about a Hispanic busboy fingerbanging Miley Cyrus. And I'll laugh my ass off at the thought of a bedazzled buttplug. It's great. Writing for The BEAST is great in the respect that I can copy the liner notes to a Belle and Sebastian album, submit it as a review and it will in all likelihood wind up in print. (And by the way, I have done that. Seriously.) Nobody's listening and if they are its doubtful they're going to say anything. My section of the paper is me screaming at, spitting at, kicking, dry-humping, pissing on or doing Gahd knows what else to the wall. The more I think about it, that is the best part.

But what might be just as nice is the fact that I won't have to apologize for what I say. Granted, the reason may be because no one's listening but you're not going to get any sheepish retractions out of me on late night TV. I may go to hell for what I say, but I sure as shit won't have to apologize for it.

Ladies of the Hour--Chapter One: Karen O

Before we get started...

I fought with the notion of starting this blog (or blog category) for some time now. After all, the notion of blogging about my often fleeting crushes on women there is little to no chance of me ending up with (the main reason being my marital status) struck me as being a tad on the juvenile side. But then I've never had a problem with being juvenile. But I do have a problem with being creepy.

If you've ever seen the 1987 kind of classic Throw Momma From the Train you might remember a character named Mr. Pinsky. Billy Crystal's character taught a creative writing class and one of his students (Mr. Pinsky) wrote a book called "100 Girls I'd Like to Pork." Even at the tender age of 12, but probably closer to 13 I was laughing my ass off at this scene in the movie, but I also recognized the skeeviness of it all. Or at least I'd like to think I recognized the skeeviness of it all. Mr. Pinsky described "100 Girls I'd Like to Pork" as a coffee table book with a dust jacket. Mine's a blog.

Chapter One: Karen O

I've seen Karen O around and didn't think a hell of a lot of her. Not that she's ugly but she's in a band that I always presumed was kind of a crappy punk band. She's the singer for Yeah Yeah Yeahs and let's face it, the name doesn't stick the word awesome in my mind.

Then I heard the bands new album It's Blitz. Aside from their song "Maps" (which didn't stick with me at the time) that I played randomly on Rock Band, I hadn't heard much or from them. Then at the record store I work at part-time I heard the new album. After maybe half a dozen listens, the new single "Zero" started getting stuck in my head. Catchy as hell and reminiscent of Siouxie and the Banshees it eventually captivated me. Then I saw them on SNL last weekend.

It was my first time seeing Karen O in action. Admittedly the outfit didn't do a hell of a lot for me. She reminded me of what would happen if PJ Harvey got in a fight with Gwen Stefani, killed Stefani but walked away mortally wounded. Or in some circles worse--mortally dressed. I don't know if it was the Dorothy Hamill haircut or her cute little apple head in general, but Karen O had me hooked. Then for their second performance on the show, Karen busts out into some tai-chi during the bridge. And the smiles and motions she was making cracked me up in the most endearing way possible.

Then there's the new video for "Zero." In it Karen fakes us out into thinking her and the band are about to go onstage. But no! Turns out in all her vinyl clothing she's going to strut around on the streets, dance on the roofs of some cars and periodically play out with the rest of her band in alleys and what I'm pretty sure is a corner store at the end. She's foxy and she's got some moves.

Overall, Karen O is the kind of girl I would've gone for in my early to mid-20s. She's goofy, cute and has a hell of a voice. I can get past the bad wardrobe. I don't care how much you love the 80s, bad is bad. I can also get past the fact that her eye shadow matches her tights sometimes. But I just get this vibe off her that makes me think she'd be incredibly high maintenance or weird. Not malicious weird, but just enough to throw your life slightly out of whack if you dated her. Or maybe she'd just keep her childhood Smurf collection in her freezer then tell you they live in there. To me, Karen O is like New York City--you can be around if for a short amount of time but you couldn't keep up for extended amounts of time.

Theater of the Absurd

"You need the money more!" "No, you do!"

I see a lot of movies. It's my hobby and in many instances my main vice. If it weren't for the inconveniences of real life I would easily spend 12+ hours a day watching them. Some people work out, some people smoke crystal meth in their trailer while listening to Kenny Chesney and others buy shoes. I watch movies. Most of the time I'll see a movie and I'll rate it anywhere from 2 1/2 to 4 out of 5 stars. I can find something about practically any movie I see that I like. Good direction, snappy dialogue, beautiful cinematography, great characters, a clever script, whatever.

And sometimes, just sometimes, a movie that's been out for awhile stands out and really makes an impression. In the database that is my mind I'll stick these movies into what I like to call the kick in the ass file. These are movies that have been around for a while that I want to kick myself in the ass for not seeing sooner. You Can't Take It With You. That's one that went into the kick in the ass file. Fail-Safe. That's another kick in the ass movie. Ghost Dog-The Way of the Samurai. That's a kick in the ass movie.

But a couple nights back I learned that the kick in the ass coin has another side. The good definition makes you angry with yourself for not seeing the movie sooner. The bad side makes you loathe yourself for seeing a certain movie (despite many warnings) at all. And what was this cinematic Pandora's box you opened, you ask?

This portal into film hell was the 2002 anti-gem, Ballistic-Ecks vs. Sever. I always knew on a gut level this movie was going to be bad. The big question was if it was going to be Plan 9 From Outer Space bad or Smiley Face bad. I was expecting some dick-swinging, testosterone-fueled actionfest void of substance and full of style. Not great style but style nonetheless.

Needless to say, the diatribe that follows will include spoilers. That's presuming I can bear to remember and document the main and few plot points. But this clumsy man-beast of a film oddly isn't high on plot. And any surprises or plot twists are anticlimactic as Dave Navarro joining the Red Hot Chili Peppers. Maybe that's a bad example but you don't own One Hot Minute, do you? Didn't think so.

To start off with, Ballistic-Ecks vs. Sever is directed by someone named Kaos. Yes, Kaos. Granted, his real name is Wych Kaosayananda but the fact that he'd refer to himself as Kaos and direct this movie earns Ballistic a major douche point. And Kaos gives the movie a horrible feel in general. The whole time (action scenes included) I watched this movie, I felt like this is what would happen if a Lifetime movie was kidnapped, given an extensive battery of hormone treatments and had the penis and testicles of a corpse sewn on. Oh, then it was released in the middle of a Canadian cow town.

Antonio Banderas plays a sad sack yet supposed badass federal(e) agent sent to find the kidnapped son of the bad guy from Payback. Banderas acts forlorn throughout most of the movie and acts by running his hand through his hair and not dyeing his gray 5 O'clock shadow. His foil (and later partner...!) is the kidnapper, played by Lucy Liu. Now granted, she's reasonably foxy but her character here is always clothed and makes numerous explosions happen while showing no emotion whatsoever. And this is all well and good if she's playing a robot. But since she's not it's kind of lame.

Then there's the matter of the dialogue. There's one scene where Banderas asks his subordinate... um, partner if he loves his daughter. After an of course Banderas replies, then get out of this business. I also think the main bad guy told his peon (played with a hollow , dead-behind-the-eyes intesity by the guy who played Darth Maul in Episode One) that he's there to clean up his (the main bad guy's) messes. And with bad dialogue often comes bad delivery. Because really, how the hell are you going to hand someone a piece of dog shit with a straight face?

Ballistic tries to pepper the mindless action with drama. Bad drama. Banderas' character apparently saw his wife blown up and for reasons I still haven't been able to figure out (very much like the scene where Banderas is arrested for the shooting of his friend. Liu did it and there were about 367 witnesses to back up Banderas' innocence) she married the Payback dick who changed his identity for reasons I wasn't able to figure out. Oh, and that kidnapped... kid from earlier is supposed to be Payback's son with Banderas' wife. (I know I'm all over the place here, but stay with me. I'm trying here...) But it turns out Banderas knocked her up before the whole explosion. It's his kid!

Which brings me to some lapses in logic. We've got Antonio Banderas, who is Spanish. And the woman who plays his wife, Talisa Soto is Puerrrrto Rrrrrrican. She was the Bond girl in License To Kill that didn't wind up marrying Richard Gere if you're not sure who I'm talking about. And in the movie this is their kid:

"I told them I'm not Hispanic but they said it shouldn't matter."

And before you ask--yes, I'm positive it's not Payback's kid. You're meant to think it is, but once Soto drops the bomb it's fairly obvious (unlike much of what goes down in Ballistic) that whitey there is the spawn of Banderas' loins. Granted, it's amusing that Lucy Liu keeps the kid in a cage throughout most of the movie and he kindly thanks her when she brings him meals consisting mostly of lunchables and Hostess snacks but bad casting is bad casting.

And the McGuffin* of Ballistic is a nanobot meant for assassinations of world leaders, elected officials, etc. Payback smuggled it in the kid from Europe and somehow Lucy Liu got it out of him with a gun she stole off of the set of Episode One and magically got it into Payback. Oh, and that's how she kills him at the end and gets her revenge for her murdered family.

And for the finale there literally about 2 dozen explosions which seem to serve no purpose aside from being what I'm sure Kaos would call awesome. One of which catches Banderas in the face so badly to the point where you actually think it kills him. Instead some aluminum piping falls on him and after he kills a bad guy he manages to shake it off and run away. The ending is predictable enough, but for all the bad acting, all the horrific story points, the nonsensical action, the bad music and anything else that couldn't be much worse with this movie there was one thing that just completely did it in for me.

In one of the final scenes where the highest ranking law enforcement agency shows up to find out just what in thee hell happened there's a shot where a cop who looks like he should've retired during Clinton's first term is holding a gun on a dead body. As in a body that's not coming to, moving around a little bit or asking wha happened? Dead. Dead as Dillinger.

Despite my obvious, more obvious than some of the plot points of Ballistic at least, disdain for the movie, I'd still recommend it. I mean, everyone needs to laugh, right?


* in film, a plot device that has no specific meaning or purpose other than to advance the story; any situation that motivates the action of a film either artificially or substantively; also written MacGuffin. Thanks, dictionary.com!