Saturday, January 27, 2007
Poker With the Stars
Or, more accurately, the marginal stars. Anyway, pop on over here to read an entry from my Sundance diary.
Friday, January 26, 2007
50 Things You Don't Know About Me...Nor Did You Ask.
And, because people like the Mad Pulp Bastard are doing it, I feel compelled. I am nothing but a blog lemming.
50. I was born a poor black boy in the ghetto. Seriously, in the Bronx. And we were poor, even if I didn’t know it then. Because kids never do.
49. I have never done a recreational drug. Of any kind. I’ve drank until I puked shamrocks, but no drugs.
48. I am neither a cat person nor a dog person. Both will cause my lungs to seize. I need no pets, I have children.
47. My younger brother used to own a rabbit, but that little fucker ate all the buttons off the remote control.
46. I am a videogame savant. Unless it involves the words “dance” or “mario” or “kart.”
45. My first screenplay was about a crime-fighting yeti who rode around in a pimped-out ice-cream truck. Yeah, I know.
44. I once shook Ron Jeremy’s hand and debated washing it afterwards. After all, if humanity suddenly died out, I had enough genetic material in the palm of my hand to repopulate the earth.
43. I’ve never seen All About Eve. Or The French Connection. Or The Third Man.
42. I have, however, seen Willow more than once.
41. I don’t like mushrooms. Or asparagus.
40. I have never broken a bone. Or sprained anything. I am invulnerable, so far.
39. When I was 16, I “borrowed” my father’s car and was stupid enough to call my friends from his car phone. I got caught.
38. My brother has better hair than I do. And he’s taller. And he wanted to make comic books long before I ever did. Sorry, bro.
37. I played football all through high-school. I started as a running back, until I got a look at the playbook and all that I’d have to memorize. The next day, I became a defensive lineman. Because all you have to do is hit.
36. I don’t like the beach in the summertime. Too many people, too little space. Besides, it’s not like I need a tan.
35. I believe in spanking one's children. Pain is an excellent teacher. What can I say? I'm old school.
34. My moral compass was calibrated by Conan the Barbarian novels and Star Wars.
33. I learned my first storytelling lesson from my father. He took me to see the Flash Gordon movie and, as I covered my eyes when Flash stuck his hand in that Arborian stump with the creature living inside, my dad leaned over and said, “Don’t worry, they never kill the hero.”
32. Mint and chocolate together gross me out.
31. I’ve only been in two real fights, and I’m one and one.
30. I know how to work a Grass Valley switcher. And, consequently, fire the main cannon of the Death Star.
29. I once fell asleep in a car on the side of an upstate New York road, and woke up in total darkness. It had snowed during the night. Freaky.
28. Steve Guttenberg thinks he knows me. He doesn’t.
27. I don’t run unless chased.
26. I saw Aliens before I saw Alien. As a result, Alien kinda sucks for me.
25. The scariest movie I ever saw was A Nightmare on Elm Street. Gave me nightmares for weeks. Nightmares about nightmares are tough on a 13-year-old kid.
24. I have stolen something from every place I’ve ever worked. My favorite scam was at Red Lobster, where I was a cashier in high school. When someone called in to place a take-out order, I was the one who took it back to the kitchen, retrived the food, and gave it to the customer. I figured out I could put in slips for fake take-out orders, and just tell the manager that the customers never came to pick it up, and then I could keep the food for myself. We ate well at the cashier's stand that summer.
23. I have held a job, without a break, since I was 13 years old.
22. I haven’t paid out of pocket for a movie or a DVD in 8 years.
21. My wife hates Die Hard. And yet I still love her.
20. I was the singer in a rock-rap band in college. We played around for three or four years. Our most requested song: a cover of “Oompa, Loompa.” Which did actually kick ass.
19. Our “Message in a Bottle” didn’t kick quite as much ass. No ass, to be precise.
18. I have never skydived, nor do I want to.
17. I once saw lightning strike a tree, and detonate it from the inside-out. I was standing 8 feet away.
16. The worst job I ever had was at my friend’s father’s factory. They made innersoles for shoes. I was on an assembly line. I had to pop the soles out of the foam sheet after it was stamped by the cutter. Eight hours of mindlessly popping soles. I quit after the first day.
15. The best job I ever had was at a mom-and-pop video store when I was in high school. I sat around, watched movies, talked movies, and played the coin-op Contra videogame. Free rentals, and all the porn I could smuggle home. Kind of like my current job, but minus the porn.
14. I’ve never eaten borscht.
13. Despite growing up in both the Bronx and on Long Island, I have no accent whatsoever.
12. I am a first generation American.
11. I got kicked out of the Grand Casino in Monte Carlo. For being bad.
10. The first student film I ever made won the grand prize in the St. John’s video competition.
9. The first TV script I ever wrote won the grand prize in the Nate Monaster Writing for Television competition.
8. I haven’t won anything since college…though I’ve got my eye on next year’s Eisners.
7. I do not believe in God. Honestly, it’s better that way. Because if I did believe in Him, I would have to hate Him. And that hate would also have to be capitalized.
6. I’m a breast man. Though, it must be said, I prefer two.
5. I would write a novel, but those fuckers are just too damned long. I don’t have that kind of time.
4. I do not have a PDA, a Blackberry, a Treo, or a Sidekick. No one should be that accessible.
3. The first song I learned to play on the guitar was “Smoke on the Water.”
2. I am not a feature writer at EW because I hate the way my voice sounds on tape. The last interview I did was with Frank Miller, for The Dark Knight Strikes Again. And I sounded like a tool.
1. I am the kwisatz haderach. The sleeper has awakened.
50. I was born a poor black boy in the ghetto. Seriously, in the Bronx. And we were poor, even if I didn’t know it then. Because kids never do.
49. I have never done a recreational drug. Of any kind. I’ve drank until I puked shamrocks, but no drugs.
48. I am neither a cat person nor a dog person. Both will cause my lungs to seize. I need no pets, I have children.
47. My younger brother used to own a rabbit, but that little fucker ate all the buttons off the remote control.
46. I am a videogame savant. Unless it involves the words “dance” or “mario” or “kart.”
45. My first screenplay was about a crime-fighting yeti who rode around in a pimped-out ice-cream truck. Yeah, I know.
44. I once shook Ron Jeremy’s hand and debated washing it afterwards. After all, if humanity suddenly died out, I had enough genetic material in the palm of my hand to repopulate the earth.
43. I’ve never seen All About Eve. Or The French Connection. Or The Third Man.
42. I have, however, seen Willow more than once.
41. I don’t like mushrooms. Or asparagus.
40. I have never broken a bone. Or sprained anything. I am invulnerable, so far.
39. When I was 16, I “borrowed” my father’s car and was stupid enough to call my friends from his car phone. I got caught.
38. My brother has better hair than I do. And he’s taller. And he wanted to make comic books long before I ever did. Sorry, bro.
37. I played football all through high-school. I started as a running back, until I got a look at the playbook and all that I’d have to memorize. The next day, I became a defensive lineman. Because all you have to do is hit.
36. I don’t like the beach in the summertime. Too many people, too little space. Besides, it’s not like I need a tan.
35. I believe in spanking one's children. Pain is an excellent teacher. What can I say? I'm old school.
34. My moral compass was calibrated by Conan the Barbarian novels and Star Wars.
33. I learned my first storytelling lesson from my father. He took me to see the Flash Gordon movie and, as I covered my eyes when Flash stuck his hand in that Arborian stump with the creature living inside, my dad leaned over and said, “Don’t worry, they never kill the hero.”
32. Mint and chocolate together gross me out.
31. I’ve only been in two real fights, and I’m one and one.
30. I know how to work a Grass Valley switcher. And, consequently, fire the main cannon of the Death Star.
29. I once fell asleep in a car on the side of an upstate New York road, and woke up in total darkness. It had snowed during the night. Freaky.
28. Steve Guttenberg thinks he knows me. He doesn’t.
27. I don’t run unless chased.
26. I saw Aliens before I saw Alien. As a result, Alien kinda sucks for me.
25. The scariest movie I ever saw was A Nightmare on Elm Street. Gave me nightmares for weeks. Nightmares about nightmares are tough on a 13-year-old kid.
24. I have stolen something from every place I’ve ever worked. My favorite scam was at Red Lobster, where I was a cashier in high school. When someone called in to place a take-out order, I was the one who took it back to the kitchen, retrived the food, and gave it to the customer. I figured out I could put in slips for fake take-out orders, and just tell the manager that the customers never came to pick it up, and then I could keep the food for myself. We ate well at the cashier's stand that summer.
23. I have held a job, without a break, since I was 13 years old.
22. I haven’t paid out of pocket for a movie or a DVD in 8 years.
21. My wife hates Die Hard. And yet I still love her.
20. I was the singer in a rock-rap band in college. We played around for three or four years. Our most requested song: a cover of “Oompa, Loompa.” Which did actually kick ass.
19. Our “Message in a Bottle” didn’t kick quite as much ass. No ass, to be precise.
18. I have never skydived, nor do I want to.
17. I once saw lightning strike a tree, and detonate it from the inside-out. I was standing 8 feet away.
16. The worst job I ever had was at my friend’s father’s factory. They made innersoles for shoes. I was on an assembly line. I had to pop the soles out of the foam sheet after it was stamped by the cutter. Eight hours of mindlessly popping soles. I quit after the first day.
15. The best job I ever had was at a mom-and-pop video store when I was in high school. I sat around, watched movies, talked movies, and played the coin-op Contra videogame. Free rentals, and all the porn I could smuggle home. Kind of like my current job, but minus the porn.
14. I’ve never eaten borscht.
13. Despite growing up in both the Bronx and on Long Island, I have no accent whatsoever.
12. I am a first generation American.
11. I got kicked out of the Grand Casino in Monte Carlo. For being bad.
10. The first student film I ever made won the grand prize in the St. John’s video competition.
9. The first TV script I ever wrote won the grand prize in the Nate Monaster Writing for Television competition.
8. I haven’t won anything since college…though I’ve got my eye on next year’s Eisners.
7. I do not believe in God. Honestly, it’s better that way. Because if I did believe in Him, I would have to hate Him. And that hate would also have to be capitalized.
6. I’m a breast man. Though, it must be said, I prefer two.
5. I would write a novel, but those fuckers are just too damned long. I don’t have that kind of time.
4. I do not have a PDA, a Blackberry, a Treo, or a Sidekick. No one should be that accessible.
3. The first song I learned to play on the guitar was “Smoke on the Water.”
2. I am not a feature writer at EW because I hate the way my voice sounds on tape. The last interview I did was with Frank Miller, for The Dark Knight Strikes Again. And I sounded like a tool.
1. I am the kwisatz haderach. The sleeper has awakened.
Thursday, January 25, 2007
Back in the Saddle
Returned from the icy climes of Park City, Utah. Mostly safe, mostly sound. Saw a lot of movies—would've seen more if that EW Party hadn't effectively disabled me for a whole day. Got to play poker with some famous people and push all-in on Doyle Brunson's son...and have him fold.
More later.
More later.
Sunday, January 21, 2007
Me & the Famous People
I'm usually okay with meeting the celebrity folk. As far as I can tell, I don't embarrass myself, I don't gush, or fawn, or beg for autographs (with one notable exception: I just had to get Neil Gaiman to sign a copy of Sandman: Endless Nights during a press dinner. Couldn't resist.). Part of being a professional journalist (scoff!) is being able to play it cool.
Last night, though, was a little difficult. EW held their annual Sundance party which is, on the first Saturday of the festival, the only ticket in town. (I heard that first-hand from Jake Busey, who shared my cab to the event.) As such, it's thick to the rafters with celebs of every stripe: Paul Rudd, Kevin Bacon, Gretchen Mol, Nick Cannon (who DJed for about an hour, and wasn't bad), Parker Posey, John Cusack, and Winona Ryder. And those were just the ones I saw. And I was cool.
Until I saw him. Captain Tightpants himself, Nathan Fillion.
I'm a big Firefly fan, see. Huge. Not that I bought myself a brown trenchcoat and ran around practicing my Chinese profanity, but I thought Joss Whedon's aborted Fox show was some heady televisioning. I reviewed the DVD set when it came out. I pushed for us to do some serious Serenity coverage when the film was being released—two separate feature stories, one on Joss and his cult following, another on Fillion himself.
So I'm doing a lap through the super-crowded party, and he's in the corner, dancing his chisled head off. (Okay, yes, I've got a teensy bit of a man-crush on him. Shut up.) My friend and coworker Whitney was talking to Elisabeth Banks' husband (still unclear on how they got to be buddies, but doesn't really matter...although I got to meet Elisabeth, who was really sweet), who asked "Hey, have you met Nathan? He's a good guy, lemme go get him."
He ambles over and talks with us for a good 10 minutes, the usual actor-journalist-festival conversation: What are you working on, Do you have a film here, Have you seen anything good, When do you fly out, etc. Super-nice guy. I decided to continue my lap, and leave him to his reverie. As we were shaking hands good-bye, I leaned in and told him "Hey, I'm one of the original EW Browncoats. It was really good to meet you."
And when I said that, his already-friendly face shifted a little, and got, I dunno, sincere. He pulled my hand a little closer and said, "Aw, man. Thanks for that. That really means a lot to me."
Best Sundance moment so far, hands down. Almost makes the skull-crushing hangover worth it.
Last night, though, was a little difficult. EW held their annual Sundance party which is, on the first Saturday of the festival, the only ticket in town. (I heard that first-hand from Jake Busey, who shared my cab to the event.) As such, it's thick to the rafters with celebs of every stripe: Paul Rudd, Kevin Bacon, Gretchen Mol, Nick Cannon (who DJed for about an hour, and wasn't bad), Parker Posey, John Cusack, and Winona Ryder. And those were just the ones I saw. And I was cool.
Until I saw him. Captain Tightpants himself, Nathan Fillion.
I'm a big Firefly fan, see. Huge. Not that I bought myself a brown trenchcoat and ran around practicing my Chinese profanity, but I thought Joss Whedon's aborted Fox show was some heady televisioning. I reviewed the DVD set when it came out. I pushed for us to do some serious Serenity coverage when the film was being released—two separate feature stories, one on Joss and his cult following, another on Fillion himself.
So I'm doing a lap through the super-crowded party, and he's in the corner, dancing his chisled head off. (Okay, yes, I've got a teensy bit of a man-crush on him. Shut up.) My friend and coworker Whitney was talking to Elisabeth Banks' husband (still unclear on how they got to be buddies, but doesn't really matter...although I got to meet Elisabeth, who was really sweet), who asked "Hey, have you met Nathan? He's a good guy, lemme go get him."
He ambles over and talks with us for a good 10 minutes, the usual actor-journalist-festival conversation: What are you working on, Do you have a film here, Have you seen anything good, When do you fly out, etc. Super-nice guy. I decided to continue my lap, and leave him to his reverie. As we were shaking hands good-bye, I leaned in and told him "Hey, I'm one of the original EW Browncoats. It was really good to meet you."
And when I said that, his already-friendly face shifted a little, and got, I dunno, sincere. He pulled my hand a little closer and said, "Aw, man. Thanks for that. That really means a lot to me."
Best Sundance moment so far, hands down. Almost makes the skull-crushing hangover worth it.
Friday, January 19, 2007
Why I Love Travel
What is it about air travel that gives me gas? Not metaphorical gas, but real, full-blown intenstinal inflation. It must be the cabin pressure, or maybe the dryness in that recirculated air. But midway through the first leg of trip to Park City, Utah, it was getting a little out of control. And airplane gas is the worst kind, because there's nothing you can really do about it. There's no "walking it off," really. No stepping outside to vent the chamber. You're stuck, sitting in uncomfortable seats, way too close to strangers, and your stomach is expanding and contracting like the trash compactor on the Death Star.
And, of course, by the time you make it back to the closet/bathroom, all that pressure magically disappears. Until you sit back down.
Yeah, didn't have a great set of flights. On top of that, Delta lost my luggage. So, after a 12-hour travel day, I finally checked into my hotel unable to shower and change my clothes. I was doing Sundance like a European backpacker, and I smelled about as good.
I love travel.
And, of course, by the time you make it back to the closet/bathroom, all that pressure magically disappears. Until you sit back down.
Yeah, didn't have a great set of flights. On top of that, Delta lost my luggage. So, after a 12-hour travel day, I finally checked into my hotel unable to shower and change my clothes. I was doing Sundance like a European backpacker, and I smelled about as good.
I love travel.
Thursday, January 18, 2007
Off to Mormon-ville
Headed out to Sundance, y'all. Off to see lots of movies about personal growth and mental abuse. I'll try and keep in touch while I'm away, but I make no promises. After all, there are free drinks with my name all over them.
Tuesday, January 16, 2007
Wisdom
"I had this theory that superheroes were disastrous for humans, that even if you postulated an infallible hero, the things this hero set in motion fell eventually into the hands of fallible mortals. What better way to destroy a civilization, society or a race than to set people into the wild oscillations which follow their turning over their critical judgment and decision-making faculties to a superhero?" —Frank Herbert, author of Dune.
And that's one to grow on.
And that's one to grow on.
Wednesday, January 10, 2007
Misdirection
You know how, in your better action movies, the villain's plan involves creating so much noise and chaos and ruckus in one place so that the heroic forces pool all their resources there...while carrying out his true agenda somewhere else? Kinda like the plot of Die Hard with a Vengeance. It's also the basis for every magic trick: Keep your eye on the pretty girl while I do a little sleight of hand.
Crucial to the villain's plan is finding the right way to draw the forces of the righteous into this trap. Or, sometimes, simply taking advantage of a moment where the armies of good have their eyes fixed, their resources stacked on one specific place. The thinking on the side of the forces of good is always noble, but myopic. And so, while all the cops in New York City are occupied with evacuating every school in Manhattan thanks to a phony bomb threat, the bad guys are removing all the gold from Wall Street.
Of course, in those action movies, the hero figures out this nefarious plan and thwarts it just in time. Kiss the girl. Credits roll.
But here we are, the "forces of the righteous," overextended and precarious, all our attention focussed abroad. Our finest military veterans claim that to overextend even more would render our military power insufficent. The army is all but broken.
If I was a villain, this would be exactly what I'd been praying my entire life for.
Crucial to the villain's plan is finding the right way to draw the forces of the righteous into this trap. Or, sometimes, simply taking advantage of a moment where the armies of good have their eyes fixed, their resources stacked on one specific place. The thinking on the side of the forces of good is always noble, but myopic. And so, while all the cops in New York City are occupied with evacuating every school in Manhattan thanks to a phony bomb threat, the bad guys are removing all the gold from Wall Street.
Of course, in those action movies, the hero figures out this nefarious plan and thwarts it just in time. Kiss the girl. Credits roll.
But here we are, the "forces of the righteous," overextended and precarious, all our attention focussed abroad. Our finest military veterans claim that to overextend even more would render our military power insufficent. The army is all but broken.
If I was a villain, this would be exactly what I'd been praying my entire life for.
Tuesday, January 09, 2007
Thursday, January 04, 2007
Woman in Peril
I had never really thought about it all that much—probably because, aside from the magicalness of Lynda Carter, I haven't given Wonder Woman tons of mental hard-drive space—but for a character with titanic strength, descended from the gods themselves, she finds herself tied up, trussed up, or chained up an awful lot. Yes, in the back of my head, I know about the bondage undercurrents, what with the big ol' metal bracelets and the lasso. But, well, take a look at this video...
Weird dudes in drag aside, the sheer number of times this "hero" is in peril is kind of staggering. It seems like putting her in jeopardy—or covering her in goop—is the quick route to a Wonder Woman cover. It's actually amazing that she's still seen as a model for female empowerment considering that if you go by these images, the only person she ever rescues is herself...and only after she's done something boneheaded enough to wind up strapped to a buoy with a big phallus-torpedo heading her way.
Don't get me wrong...I like the character, I just don't like, by and large, what's being done with her.
(Thanks to the Occasional Superheroine for the tip.)
Weird dudes in drag aside, the sheer number of times this "hero" is in peril is kind of staggering. It seems like putting her in jeopardy—or covering her in goop—is the quick route to a Wonder Woman cover. It's actually amazing that she's still seen as a model for female empowerment considering that if you go by these images, the only person she ever rescues is herself...and only after she's done something boneheaded enough to wind up strapped to a buoy with a big phallus-torpedo heading her way.
Don't get me wrong...I like the character, I just don't like, by and large, what's being done with her.
(Thanks to the Occasional Superheroine for the tip.)
Thursday, December 28, 2006
I'm a Professional
It must've been 15 years ago, at this point. I had just finished a camping weekend with my friend Nick and a couple of other guys, and we retreated back to Nick's family's upstate bungalow. (Why they always called it a bungalow and never a house still eludes me.) I took it upon myself to cook breakfast for the guys because, A) I was hungry and B) I wanted edible food and I just didn't trust any of them to make a breakfast that was more than fast or broken.
So I set to work making pancakes, scrambled eggs, and bacon. Easy enough. But I'm very good at breakfast. Almost as good as I am on the grill. Anyway, Nick asked me what I was cooking. I said "Relax, buddy. I'm a professional." He then asked me, "Has anyone ever paid you to cook?" I shook my head. He told me "Then you're not a professional. You're a talented amateur. And I'll reserve the 'talented' until after I've tasted your bacon."
No, not a gay weekend at all.
But he was right. Until you've been paid to do a service, you can't claim to be a pro. And, as of yesterdays mail, which included a sparkly check from DC Comics, I'm a professional comic book writer.
That sound you hear is a very muffled victory dance.
So I set to work making pancakes, scrambled eggs, and bacon. Easy enough. But I'm very good at breakfast. Almost as good as I am on the grill. Anyway, Nick asked me what I was cooking. I said "Relax, buddy. I'm a professional." He then asked me, "Has anyone ever paid you to cook?" I shook my head. He told me "Then you're not a professional. You're a talented amateur. And I'll reserve the 'talented' until after I've tasted your bacon."
No, not a gay weekend at all.
But he was right. Until you've been paid to do a service, you can't claim to be a pro. And, as of yesterdays mail, which included a sparkly check from DC Comics, I'm a professional comic book writer.
That sound you hear is a very muffled victory dance.
Monday, December 25, 2006
"There Was A Time"
That's probably my favorite James Brown tune. Inasmuch as you can call rhythmic assaults like that "tunes." I haven't got much to say about James Brown that you won't read or hear someplace else. He was just one of those guys—and there aren't a ton of them for me—who I would've killed to have seen in concert in his prime. James Brown, Jimi Hendrix, Ray Charles, and Stevie Wonder pretty much are the list. Maybe add Ella Fitzgerald. And Stevie Ray Vaughan. That's it.
Another one bites the dust. Merry Christmas.
Another one bites the dust. Merry Christmas.
Sunday, December 24, 2006
Under the Tree With Care
Yes, we're pretty much halfway through the Christmas march. Christmas Eve with In-Laws is over, the last bottles tossed into recycling, the last leftovers imprisoned in their tupperware cells. Tomorrow is my folks, shuttling out from Long Island because we are the owners of the grandchildren, and they're still young enough that they are the holiday magnets.
"You, there. Person with full control over your bladder and a driver's license. Get in your car and come to us!"
But it's all good. Holidays. Can't really complain. Except for when I do.
Hope yours was a good one, without any tears.
"You, there. Person with full control over your bladder and a driver's license. Get in your car and come to us!"
But it's all good. Holidays. Can't really complain. Except for when I do.
Hope yours was a good one, without any tears.
Tuesday, December 19, 2006
Some Things Bear Repeating
I've said it before and I'll say it again: Tequila is not your friend.
No matter how good your night is going, a shot of tequila will suddenly bring everything to the edge of madness. And last night, it was through sheer force of will that I kept myself from making the floor of the 10:41 pm NJ Transit train very, very slippery.
The only reason I abandoned my better judgment was because I was goaded by a mother of three. And when a mother of three calls you a pussy for not taking a shot, you take the shot.
Stupid tequila.
No matter how good your night is going, a shot of tequila will suddenly bring everything to the edge of madness. And last night, it was through sheer force of will that I kept myself from making the floor of the 10:41 pm NJ Transit train very, very slippery.
The only reason I abandoned my better judgment was because I was goaded by a mother of three. And when a mother of three calls you a pussy for not taking a shot, you take the shot.
Stupid tequila.
Thursday, December 14, 2006
Shuffle-ography
I hate celebrity playlists. Okay, hate is a very strong word. But I don’t like them because I think they’re disingenuous. You look at one of those rundowns of the 10 or 15 songs picked by whoever and you know that you’re not actually seeing a slice of that celeb’s personality…you’re seeing the slice they want you to see.
You can absolutely tell a lot about a person by the kind of music they listen to. Music, much like movies, can also function as a personality rorschach. But if you’re really trying to get a handle on someone, you need to look at their wall of CDs. (And if they don’t have a wall, that tells you something right there.) You can’t hide from your own collection. This is the stuff you held on to. And with each and every disc there’s a reason why.
But, since we live in the iPod age, there’s an easier way: the shuffle. The shuffle is merciless. The shuffle is aware. The shuffle will not let you hide. And this is how we can know a person.
So, here’s my Shuffle-ography. Ten songs, chosen at random. And what each title brings to mind.
“Mosquito Song,” Songs for the Deaf, Queens of the Stone Age
I bought this album simply because it was on EW’s top 10 list one year. And because Dave Grohl played the drums on the whole album. I dig Dave Grohl. Imagine how tough it must be to be the drummer in the Foo Fighters, Dave Grohl’s band, knowing full well that if the boss doesn’t like what you’re playing, he could step right in and do it better. The fact that, by all accounts, Grohl’s not a dick about it is impressive. Somehow, this dude managed to extricate himself from forever being a member of Nirvana. He didn’t have to do that; he could’ve coasted for the rest of his life on that. Like Krist Novoselic. But he wanted something else, something more, and I can respect that.
“Quills,” Phrenology, The Roots
When I was in high school, I was into rap in a big way. I was a 15 year old black kid on Long Island; I was supposed to be into rap. Luckily for me, those were the halcyon days of hip-hop: Public Enemy, De La Soul, Eric B. & Rakim, Queen Latifah, A Tribe Called Quest. But as gangsta rap moved in, I moved on. That was a music that didn’t quite speak to me. (I was from Long Island, remember?) I discovered Hendrix, Zeppelin, Clapton, Parliament Funkadelic, James Brown, Beethoven, Oscar Brown Jr., Dave Brubeck, John Coltrane. But I swung back around in my late 20s and found musicians on the rap scene. People like Jurassic 5, Mos Def, the Beastie Boys, and, yes, The Roots.
“Come Away with Me,” Come Away With Me, Norah Jones
When my daughter was born, she slept like all babies do: in short bursts, punctuated by long stretches of crying. My wife and I would take shifts, since no one should be expected do fly solo on that front, not unless you have to. A couple of weeks in, I couldn’t listen to any of the dozen lullaby CDs we got any more. The last thing you want to hear at 4:00 am is “Hush Little Baby” for the 152nd time. So I brought in a couple of my CDs: Nat King Cole, Stevie Wonder, Antonio Carlos Jobim, and Norah Jones. I spent countless hours holding my daughter and dancing her to sleep to "Come Away with Me." I still mist up a little when I hear it.
“Get Me to the Church,” Sinatra at the Sands, Frank Sinatra
This song actually depresses me a little. Not because of some time-related nuptual fiasco—one of which I actually had at my wedding—but because of how young Quincy Jones was when this was recorded. He was 33 years old, conducting Count Basie’s orchestra and arranging Frank Sinatra’s songs. He was still a young man, and he was operating at the peak of his talents, and at the top of his field. Not that 33 was a bad year for me, but I wasn’t on a movie set, directing Tom Hanks and Kate Winslet in a film written by Paddy Fucking Chayefsky either.
“You Really Got Me,” Van Halen, Van Halen
My friend Nick and I used to take these road trips. I must’ve been in my senior year in high school, maybe freshman year of college. Anyway, these trips would consist of us starting at his family’s house in upstate New York, picking a direction and driving. Sometimes we could camp out (we were both Boy Scouts at one time, at varying levels of accomplishment), a couple of times we would just pull over and crash in his car, a maroon 1983 Pontiac Grand Prix. Now, this was before his Guido the Killer Pimp phase, in which Nick listened to nothing but shitty club music and Billy Joel—and way before his current fixation on shitty country music—so we were listening to classic rock. That’s where I first heard a lot of things (the one most vivid in my head is “Veteran of the Psychic Wars,” by Blue Oyster Cult, which is the closest thing to comic book radio theater I’ve ever heard), as well as “Eruption,” which floored me. Of course, it was followed by "You Really Got Me." Which is, in and of itself, not a bad song either.
“You Give Love a Bad Name,” Cross Road, Bon Jovi
Ever buy a CD for one song, and then kind of get stuck listening to the rest of it? I bought this Bon Jovi greatest hits album for “Wanted Dead or Alive,” which is, legitimately, one of the greatest arena rock songs ever written. (Also, my favorite karaoke song…if for nothing else than the Richie Sambora part.) But I get bad MTV flashbacks whenever I hear this. I should really relegate this to the “Runaway” bin so it never shuffles up on me again.
"Cellphone’s Dead," The Information, Beck
I’m just digging into this album, so I don’t really have all that much perspective on it. But I like Beck, especially his willingness to take chances. Plus, that marionette performace on SNL was awesome.
"Jewel of the Summertime," Revelations, Audioslave
I always wanted Chris Cornell’s voice. His, or Sting’s. Preferably a combination of the two, to both scare the shit out of the ladies, and then woo them back. When I was in a shitty post-high school rock band, I always wanted to belt in Cornell’s crazy-ass wail, but could never pull it off. And my bandmates told me as much, continually. I still try in the car, though. And tear my throat out every damned time.
"Pictures of Success," Take Offs and Landings, Rilo Kiley
Can’t help you much here. Just got it. Haven’t listened to the whole thing yet. But, hey, it must say something that I got it in the first place, right? I just don’t know what.
"Across 110th Street," Jackie Brown Soundtrack, Bobby Womack
I’ve only ever bought two copies of the same CD because the first one was worn out once, and that was the Pulp Fiction soundtrack. Man alive, I played that one into the ground. There’s just something about the way Quentin Tarantino assembles his soundtracks that speaks to me. He just knows the perfect pop song for the perfect moment, much in the way that Scorsese does (even if he dips into the “Gimme Shelter” well a little too often). And so, the first time we meet Pam Grier’s Jackie Brown, standing on an airport moving sidewalk, being drawn inexorably to her fate, this is the song we hear. All about the hustle, and the price. (I’m also a big fan of "Strawberry Letter 23" from the Jackie Brown album, and was thrilled that I already had the song when I heard it on that Kellogg’s commercial for Special K cereal.)
So, that’s my shuffle-ography. A life is a collection of snapshots, all of a specific moment in time. These are just 10 of mine.
What does your shuffle-ography look like?
You can absolutely tell a lot about a person by the kind of music they listen to. Music, much like movies, can also function as a personality rorschach. But if you’re really trying to get a handle on someone, you need to look at their wall of CDs. (And if they don’t have a wall, that tells you something right there.) You can’t hide from your own collection. This is the stuff you held on to. And with each and every disc there’s a reason why.
But, since we live in the iPod age, there’s an easier way: the shuffle. The shuffle is merciless. The shuffle is aware. The shuffle will not let you hide. And this is how we can know a person.
So, here’s my Shuffle-ography. Ten songs, chosen at random. And what each title brings to mind.
“Mosquito Song,” Songs for the Deaf, Queens of the Stone Age
I bought this album simply because it was on EW’s top 10 list one year. And because Dave Grohl played the drums on the whole album. I dig Dave Grohl. Imagine how tough it must be to be the drummer in the Foo Fighters, Dave Grohl’s band, knowing full well that if the boss doesn’t like what you’re playing, he could step right in and do it better. The fact that, by all accounts, Grohl’s not a dick about it is impressive. Somehow, this dude managed to extricate himself from forever being a member of Nirvana. He didn’t have to do that; he could’ve coasted for the rest of his life on that. Like Krist Novoselic. But he wanted something else, something more, and I can respect that.
“Quills,” Phrenology, The Roots
When I was in high school, I was into rap in a big way. I was a 15 year old black kid on Long Island; I was supposed to be into rap. Luckily for me, those were the halcyon days of hip-hop: Public Enemy, De La Soul, Eric B. & Rakim, Queen Latifah, A Tribe Called Quest. But as gangsta rap moved in, I moved on. That was a music that didn’t quite speak to me. (I was from Long Island, remember?) I discovered Hendrix, Zeppelin, Clapton, Parliament Funkadelic, James Brown, Beethoven, Oscar Brown Jr., Dave Brubeck, John Coltrane. But I swung back around in my late 20s and found musicians on the rap scene. People like Jurassic 5, Mos Def, the Beastie Boys, and, yes, The Roots.
“Come Away with Me,” Come Away With Me, Norah Jones
When my daughter was born, she slept like all babies do: in short bursts, punctuated by long stretches of crying. My wife and I would take shifts, since no one should be expected do fly solo on that front, not unless you have to. A couple of weeks in, I couldn’t listen to any of the dozen lullaby CDs we got any more. The last thing you want to hear at 4:00 am is “Hush Little Baby” for the 152nd time. So I brought in a couple of my CDs: Nat King Cole, Stevie Wonder, Antonio Carlos Jobim, and Norah Jones. I spent countless hours holding my daughter and dancing her to sleep to "Come Away with Me." I still mist up a little when I hear it.
“Get Me to the Church,” Sinatra at the Sands, Frank Sinatra
This song actually depresses me a little. Not because of some time-related nuptual fiasco—one of which I actually had at my wedding—but because of how young Quincy Jones was when this was recorded. He was 33 years old, conducting Count Basie’s orchestra and arranging Frank Sinatra’s songs. He was still a young man, and he was operating at the peak of his talents, and at the top of his field. Not that 33 was a bad year for me, but I wasn’t on a movie set, directing Tom Hanks and Kate Winslet in a film written by Paddy Fucking Chayefsky either.
“You Really Got Me,” Van Halen, Van Halen
My friend Nick and I used to take these road trips. I must’ve been in my senior year in high school, maybe freshman year of college. Anyway, these trips would consist of us starting at his family’s house in upstate New York, picking a direction and driving. Sometimes we could camp out (we were both Boy Scouts at one time, at varying levels of accomplishment), a couple of times we would just pull over and crash in his car, a maroon 1983 Pontiac Grand Prix. Now, this was before his Guido the Killer Pimp phase, in which Nick listened to nothing but shitty club music and Billy Joel—and way before his current fixation on shitty country music—so we were listening to classic rock. That’s where I first heard a lot of things (the one most vivid in my head is “Veteran of the Psychic Wars,” by Blue Oyster Cult, which is the closest thing to comic book radio theater I’ve ever heard), as well as “Eruption,” which floored me. Of course, it was followed by "You Really Got Me." Which is, in and of itself, not a bad song either.
“You Give Love a Bad Name,” Cross Road, Bon Jovi
Ever buy a CD for one song, and then kind of get stuck listening to the rest of it? I bought this Bon Jovi greatest hits album for “Wanted Dead or Alive,” which is, legitimately, one of the greatest arena rock songs ever written. (Also, my favorite karaoke song…if for nothing else than the Richie Sambora part.) But I get bad MTV flashbacks whenever I hear this. I should really relegate this to the “Runaway” bin so it never shuffles up on me again.
"Cellphone’s Dead," The Information, Beck
I’m just digging into this album, so I don’t really have all that much perspective on it. But I like Beck, especially his willingness to take chances. Plus, that marionette performace on SNL was awesome.
"Jewel of the Summertime," Revelations, Audioslave
I always wanted Chris Cornell’s voice. His, or Sting’s. Preferably a combination of the two, to both scare the shit out of the ladies, and then woo them back. When I was in a shitty post-high school rock band, I always wanted to belt in Cornell’s crazy-ass wail, but could never pull it off. And my bandmates told me as much, continually. I still try in the car, though. And tear my throat out every damned time.
"Pictures of Success," Take Offs and Landings, Rilo Kiley
Can’t help you much here. Just got it. Haven’t listened to the whole thing yet. But, hey, it must say something that I got it in the first place, right? I just don’t know what.
"Across 110th Street," Jackie Brown Soundtrack, Bobby Womack
I’ve only ever bought two copies of the same CD because the first one was worn out once, and that was the Pulp Fiction soundtrack. Man alive, I played that one into the ground. There’s just something about the way Quentin Tarantino assembles his soundtracks that speaks to me. He just knows the perfect pop song for the perfect moment, much in the way that Scorsese does (even if he dips into the “Gimme Shelter” well a little too often). And so, the first time we meet Pam Grier’s Jackie Brown, standing on an airport moving sidewalk, being drawn inexorably to her fate, this is the song we hear. All about the hustle, and the price. (I’m also a big fan of "Strawberry Letter 23" from the Jackie Brown album, and was thrilled that I already had the song when I heard it on that Kellogg’s commercial for Special K cereal.)
So, that’s my shuffle-ography. A life is a collection of snapshots, all of a specific moment in time. These are just 10 of mine.
What does your shuffle-ography look like?
Tuesday, December 12, 2006
As Much as I Love Lynda Carter...
I would, in no way, have a problem with an Indian actress playing Wonder Woman, so long as she looks like this:
She, by the way, is Priyanka Chopra, a Bollywood actress who may or may not be on Joss Whedon's list.
(Thanks to Heidi for the tip.)
EDIT: Just to be clear, I am not in favor of this Indian actress simply because she's hot. (Which she is.) But the idea of an Indian actress is intriguing. Wonder Woman is supposed to be an exotic creature, from a place far different from our normal, everyday world. And, let's face it, a white brunette no longer qualifies as exotic...even if she is Catherine Zeta-Jones-Douglas. And an accent isn't enough. She needs to look...other-y. And an Indian actress would get you there. Plus, many of them are hot.
She, by the way, is Priyanka Chopra, a Bollywood actress who may or may not be on Joss Whedon's list.
(Thanks to Heidi for the tip.)
EDIT: Just to be clear, I am not in favor of this Indian actress simply because she's hot. (Which she is.) But the idea of an Indian actress is intriguing. Wonder Woman is supposed to be an exotic creature, from a place far different from our normal, everyday world. And, let's face it, a white brunette no longer qualifies as exotic...even if she is Catherine Zeta-Jones-Douglas. And an accent isn't enough. She needs to look...other-y. And an Indian actress would get you there. Plus, many of them are hot.
Monday, December 11, 2006
Strip Teased
I visited a very specific kind of place over the weekend, a type of establishment I don't go to very often. I went to a strip club.I've never been the type of guy who frequents nudie bars. If I think back, the last time I was at a strip club was my bachelor party, more than seven years ago. Now, I like naked women. Really, I do. They are a few of my favorite things. But the prospect of "strange titties" (as one guy in the bar was loudly looking forward to seeing) changes some men and makes them believe in fairy tales in which they're the star.
Strip clubs are like special effects movies: Everyone going in knows that what you're seeing isn't real, but we all agree, for the time we're in that darkened room, to pretend that they are. But me, I'm always aware of the artifice. And I'm unwilling to give in to that fantasy. Because I know—and have never been able to make myself forget—that it's not real.
The women who work at these places are very good at their jobs. But, oddly, their job is not really selling sex. They're selling the idea that you, the patron, are attractive, are desirable, are worth wanting. They are selling you your own manhood. And that is the thing that some men are willing to go into debt for. Every man wants to believe that they have it in them to attract women who look like these women look and who seemingly love sex as much as these women do. After all, these are women who could have their pick of any of the other schmucks who walked in that night. But she stopped to talk to you.
She will hug you, and hang on you, and let you buy her drinks, and give you a massage, and, if you really want to, she will take you someplace else. And do things to you. What, precisely, depends on how much you're willing to spend. And that is where the bargain comes in. Not "bargain" as in 30% off—in that respect, titty bars are the polar opposites of bargains: Everything is, like, three times as expensive as in the real world...including sex. (I overheard one guy, a few seats down at the bar, musing to no one in particular: "150 bucks for a blowjob?! I could buy a shitbox car for $150 bucks!")
No, when I say bargain I mean a deal, a contract. And it goes like this: She will take your money and make you feel like a golden god. You will pretend that you never gave her any money. And together, everyone gets what they want.
If you can make that sort of bargain, then a strip club can be a magical place. There were guys in there last weekend who, I'm sure, spent a shitload of money to feel like Jamie Foxx feels every night. Four, five figures worth. Once you realize that that's the deal, then its incredibly easy to understand how, in one night a couple of years back, that one guy dropped $100,000 in a Scores club.
I can't make that bargain. I've tried, in the past, and failed. And it's not because of the money. I spend money on dumber shit than my ego—I bought a laserdisc player. But I just can't make myself believe that these women believe in me. They don't. They can't. Would be bad for business. They can whisper whatever they want, but I know it isn't real.
And I'm all about the real. If it ain't real, I don't want it. I've already got real, and I like it.
But I can admire the special effects.
STILL RELEVANT: The Secret Service's Super Bowl
Or World Series, or U.S. Open. Take your pick. Whatever you wanna call it, that's what it's gonna be for the Secret Service if Barack Obama does, indeed, run for President.Why? Because, for the first time, a black man has a legitimate (and, depending on who you talk to, likely) shot at winning the White House. (And Jesse Jackson's run, however well-intentioned it may have been, never really had a shot.) Even though it's been a scant 40-odd years since the Civil Rights movement, I'd like to think that we, as a society, are ready for that.
But there are still pockets of this country who won't stand for it, who aren't ready for a Negro in Chief. And those happen to be incredibly well-armed pockets.
So this is when we see, exactly, what the Secret Service is made of. Because those nuts are gonna come for Obama...whether the general public hears about it or not.
Put your game-face on, fellas. Show time.
=====
I originally wrote this back in 2006. And every word still applies now that he's taken the Oath of Office. Now we play for all the marbles.
Friday, December 08, 2006
MySpace, but For A Special Kind of Geek
I just joined ComicSpace, a networking site that operates much like MySpace, but look like its populated mostly by comics pros. It seems to be run by some guy named Josh who lives in Maine. Maybe out of his basement. I say this because it keeps crumpling, like someone who got punched in the yarbles and the throat at the same time. Warren Ellis killed it once, with an email.
So, stop on by, if'n you like:
comicspace.com/marcbernardin
EDIT: Yeah, it's down again. Must've been a swift blow.
So, stop on by, if'n you like:
comicspace.com/marcbernardin
EDIT: Yeah, it's down again. Must've been a swift blow.
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