RIP Lisa Blount

Lisa Blount, star of Chrystal and Randy and the Mob (and An Officer and a Gentleman, who knew?) and 1/3 of Ginny Mule productions (with her husband Ray McKinnon and Walton Goggins) died today at age 53.  Now as someone who fucking loves everything Ginny Mule put out, when Matthew called to tell me the news, I was really, really sad.  

In other news, Lindsey Lohan is still alive!!!  Life isn't fair sometimes.  It is, in the words of Tommy Weiseau, "Tearing me apart!"

Rest in Peace, Lisa.

I've been after my BFF, Matthew, to watch The Shield for months.  I love it so much that I want to share it with him.  I want to talk to him about it and the way it's written and try to deconstruct it down to the bones, the technique, the raw writing itself.  I want to know how these characters are so dispicable and yet loveable.  I want to know how to take the chances they did and how to get away with just about everything.

He finally sat down at started season one.  And he called me up after a few episodes and said, very gently, "I understand why you like Shane Vendrell so much."

"Because he's got great eyes and a hot ass?" I deflected.

"I wouldn't go that far," Matthew countered.  "You are Shane Vendrell.  You're Shane and I'm Vic."

I thought about that for a moment, wondering if I should take that as a compliment or an insult.  I know what happens to Shane.  I know all the awful, unspeakable things he does throughout the course of seven seasons.  But before I slammed down the phone, I realized what Matthew was really saying.

My God, I thought.  I am Shane Vendrell!

It's not just the tight jeans and the great ass and the pretty eyes and that I'm originally from Oklahoma City.  It's that I don't always think through what I'm doing.  I'm a kick-down-the-door, shoot first, apologize later kind of gal.  And Matthew plans carefully, thinks things through, ponders the options and the exits before he makes his move.

I wasn't always this way.  Much of my childhood was spent behind told to settle down, lower your voice, watch your language, you are not going out of the house dressed like that.  My first boyfriend squelshed all of my freedoms and passive-agressively dictated what I wore, what I said, who I hung out with, what I ate.  When we broke up, my loud mouth became a defense mechanism.  I had been silent for so long, and now I was going to say what I meant regardless of who it offended.  I vowed to use my powers for power, not just to be an anonymous troll on the internet.  I had opinions, and I was going to voice them without fear. 

And people got offended.  At graduate school, when I spoke out against the rape-as-cosmic-punishment violently prevelant in Liz Hand's vulgar reading from Generation Lost, I was told by some twenty-sided dicer who I wasn't even talking to, "oh, we've heard this before," as though I was speaking out of turn because I don't like it when writers use rape to punish their female characters for so-called transgressions.  How dare I speak out against this published writer?  How dare I, as a woman, have opinons that vary from the norm?

This doesn't just go for me shooting off my big mouth.  I've packed up and moved to places all but overnight, with no job lined up and take the first apartment I can find.  I gave my ex-boyfriend of seven years his ring back and jumped ship for an art student I'd known for a few months.  (We're still together).  I send out submissions when most of the writers I know cower at the thought of rejection.  I make up new recipes.  I wear what I feel like wearing.  I run away to Denver, Chicago, Florida, Indiana, NYC when I feel like it.  I keep moving, keep testing my boundries.  I've touched the electric fence a few times, but it never stops me.  I'm improv, I'm a firecracker, I'm fearless.  I have to be.      

By contrast, Matthew is an Art Of War kind of guy.  He plays a long game, he looks to see what can net him the most of what he wants.  He speaks carefully, arranges the chess pieces, aimes carefully and fires. I prefer to just light a match and walk away from the slow-motion explosion.  I try to think ahead, but I usually get only one or two moves before I act.  He's got his reasons, just like I've got mine.  And, like Vic and Shane, we compliment each other, we piss each other off, but ultimately, we're partners.  Sometimes we do things his way, sometimes we do things my way.  Sometimes his way works, sometimes mine does. 

At one point, when Vic is lying in a hospital bed, he says to Shane, his voice thick with morphine.  "When we retire, we're going to play golf everyday."

"I'd like that," Shane replies, his voice thick with tears. (no man can cry quite like Walton Goggins.  He makes it look manly)

Through it all, Matthew and I are partners.  We're family.  We're a team. Vic needs Shane to spring him to action the same way Shane needs Vic to help him plan ahead.  So maybe being Shane isn't such a bad thing.  Especially if it means I get to wear tight jeans.

Throwing Things at David Arquette--Fish in a Barrel Edition

Sorry I'm a little late to the David Arquette party, but I had to stop by the bakery.  You may be wondering, "Why all the hatin' on David Arquette, what did he ever do to you?"

He fucked up my BFF's movie.

My BFF wrote the movie Slingshot.  I read the original draft, and a lot of the novel.  It was good stuff.  And then Arquette had to come along and fuck it all up.  He wouldn't come back for reshoots because he had to go to a baby shower, which, by the way, REAL men don't attend.  He rewrote a bunch of stuff.  And he was just a general bag of douche, which, frankly, he doesn't have the power to be.  You made Eight Legged Freaks, David.  And last I checked, that didn't win an Oscar, so you don't have an excuse to swat a fly, let alone be a dick.

And now it comes out that he is splitting from only connection to the Hollywood scene, Ace Ventura: Pet Detective star Courtney Cox (teehee).  He's done.  He has nothing to offer anyone.  He's a terrible actor who isn't good looking and who probably couldn't pick up rejects from Rock of Love.

The only upside is that if that he hadn't ruined the movie, my BFF would be in Hollywood instead of close to me, and we wouldn't have gone to grad school together and I wouldn't have a blog, which would be a drag.


So because I'm childish, and because I like to kick a man when he's down, today we're throwing:

A WHOLE FUCKING WEDDING CAKE!


That'll teach you to fuck up my BFF's movie, you pot-smoking, skank-banging, fashionless douche-bearded fat-headed sweathog!

Happy Birthday to My Favorite Actor

Have I told you how beautiful you are
tonight
just like a movie star

The 6ths, "Just Like a Movie Star"

(No, Walton Goggins' birthday isn't until November 10th)

Happy Birthday to my real favorite actor, who doesn't get nearly as much press in this blog as he should, is my BFF/writing partner Matthew Quinn Martin.  Aside from being the only reason to watch the first season of Fringe and looking suspiciously like Jeff Goldblum, Matthew is an awesome writer and easily one of my favorite people in the entire universe.  Yes, even more than Walton Goggins.

Happy Birthday Matthew.  I trust it'll be a good one.

TV Withdrawl

. . . So Ian and I finished The Shield. I didn’t cry as everyone expected me to, probably because I knew it wasn’t going to end well. I sat and thought about it for a few minutes, finished my beer (Gritty’s IPA) and got on Amazon to order Season One.



Pictured: The Greatest Movie Ever



That was a few weeks ago. In the meantime, Ian and I have been trying to find a new show to fill the void and so far, nothing’s working. It’s like trying to quit heroin. I sat through not one, but two additional second-run showings of Predators, two nights in a row, just to get my Walton Goggins fix. We watched Chrystal, (Does Billy Bob Thorton have more than one expression? Does he ever do anything other than stand with his head slightly cocked, looking puzzled/deep? I don’t care if he hung out with Warren Zevon, I’m not buying his “genius” for another damn minute). We watched Randy and the Mob. We watched The Accountant. I considered watching Saving Grace for my Kenneth Johnson fix, but Ian stopped me before I hurt myself and those around me.

Fuck You, Fuckers

We thought The Wire would be good. We liked Homicide (the book and the show) and recognized a lot of the cast from Homicide and Oz, but by the second episode, we didn’t know a single character’s name, or what was going on other than that the writers felt liberated to use the word “fuck” in every fucking other fucking word. James fucking Ellroy fucking does this too, and it fucking annoys the fuck out of me. See how it bogs down the sentence? I get it, The Wire ran on HBO and I get it, people curse. I think “fuck” is one of the greatest words in the English language. But if you use it too much, the meaning gets lost—not just of the word, but of the whole sentiment you’re trying to convey. Vic Mackey never dropped a single f-bomb and you knew that he meant business. Meanwhile, Cop ____ on The Wire says it every other word, and I still feel like a kitten could kick his ass.

We sent that back and got Sons of Anarchy, which was written by The Shield co-producer Kurt Sutter and ran on FX. Jay Karns had a short run of the cast, and Dutch-Boy was Ian’s Shane, so he was all tingly about that. And Ron Pearlman as a biker dude? Awesome. How could this possibly suck?

Sons of Anarchy is a soap opera with motorcycles. All they do is stand around talking about the jobs they’re going to pull—running guns to the 1-9ers (Shield shout-out!) and then generic-looking dirty-blonde biker-protagonist mopes around because his baby-momma did a bunch of drugs and now he’s got this preemie baby and I think he is either or used to bang the lady doctor with the tramp stamp and he is sad because he doesn’t want to do bad biker stuff anymore. Yawn.



Not JK Simmons

Also, I kept thinking Ron Pearlman was JK Simmons, and then I was

Not Ron Pearlman

disappointed when I realized that it was just Ron Pearlman, who may be awesome but has too dry a screen presence to convey any sort of tension.

We barely even made it to the Jay Karns episodes, and I didn’t get to see Kenneth Johnson all covered in grease.



Mike brought over Burn Notice, which is, for now (until Justified comes out on DVD) filling the void. It’s a PI show, which I can dig, and I like the narrative voice. Bruce Campbell is pretty great. It’s clever without being quirky, even if the girl is driving me crazy. She’s ugly as sin and unforgivably annoying. We’re also trying our hand at Doctor Who and The Commish, so wish us luck.







RIP Glenn Shadix

My clock radio went off today at 6:20am to REM's "It's the End of the World as We Know it."    There was a fire alarm in my office building at 7:30am. 

And then I read that Glenn Shadix, who played horrible interior designer Otho in Beetlejuice and the Mayor of Halloweentown in The Nightmare Before Christmas, passed away after a fall. 

This was the worst part of my day.  Not only are those two of my favorite movies, (Beetlejuice is a sick-day favorite of mine) but I always liked picking Glenn Shadix out in other parts, such as his stint on the otherwise unwatchable Carnivale.


So, who's up for a senance?

RIP. Glenn Shadix.

 I've been trying to figure out what it is about Scott Pilgram vs. The World that makes me want to, if I may quote Lucille Bluth, set myself on fire. 

But today, I have finally had a breakthrough.  It's not just the incessant pop culture references or the choked irony or the transparent pandering to late 20-somethings who need to put down the fucking cheetos and move out of Mom's basement and get a life, seriously, or the continued presence of Michael Cera, who said he would retire at 21 and held up the Arrested Development movie because he was sick of playing George Michael except that he continues to play George Michael in absolutely every single movie he's in because he's a lousy actor and probably a douchebag.

Like this asshole

It's because Scott Pilgram is an amalgamation of everything that is horrible in the modern 20-something white male.  You've got two breeds--one that is emo-tastic and wimpy and sensitive enough to make Morrissey look like Clint Eastwood.   No longer locked into a poet shirt to show off his artistic soul, he now has his choice of ironic/pun teeshirts from places like threadless or snorg.  He wants to play board games in the park by candlelight on a first date.  He doesn't drink and cannot believe that such a beautiful soul such as you would stoop to joining the louts at a brewpub and having one of their awesome IPAs. He likes everyone because hate is an angry word and should you even dare express your dislike of something, he will quickly shut you down before your negativity ruins your romantic evening.  He will tenderly caress your shoulders, dropping his hand to the small of your back and holding it there, even if your husband is standing ten feet away and you are giving him looks like please come over here and help me.  And he will probably cry . . . a lot.  Think Zach Braff.

The other horrible type is the video-game playing, Jason-Statham-worshipping maroon who thinks that he could totally be a hitman because he's awesome at Halo and that would be, like, a totally great job.  Never mind that hitmen are generally hired to take out spouses for the insurance money and rarely get to kill "bad guys," these idiots believe that violence solves everything, from parking tickets to getting stiffed a McNugget.  Because in their world, violence does solve everything--you need to get from one level to the next?  Kill a bunch of anonymous thugs. 

They have tee-shirts too

Violence is funny to them.  It's a part of their everyday virtual life, despite the fact that most of them have never been confronted with actual violence outside of maybe this time that they were at a bar, and this guy knocked into them, and they like, totally shoved him back and he's like "you wanna take this outside" and then the bouncer came and broke it up but they totally would have kicked his ass.

And look, I'm okay with violence in media.  I just got back from seeing The Expendables (it was everything a $6 matinee should be) and my favorite show is The Shield . . . but the difference is that nobody is Vic Mackey or Rambo . . . they imagine themselves to be, but they're not, plain and simple, and deep down, they know this.  They pretend to aspire to want to be Bruce Willis, but after about ten minutes of driving home really fast from Burger King, almost totally running a red light because you are badass! it's back to microwaving some pizza rolls and watching reruns of Lost.

But Scott Pilgram combines the irritating wimpiness of Michael Cera with the awful arrogance of your hyper-violent mama's boy into one package reeking of Axe body spray and stale Doritoes.  All 27 year old guys think they're every character Michael Cera has ever played.  They think no one understands them and that they don't have to ever work or attempt anything because they deserve great things (namely, babes) simply by blessing the universe with their slimy presence.  Now you've added a level of violence that they understand--the consequence-free violence of video games--and you've created an attitude that pits violence against rejection.  Clerk being rude to you at the grocery store?  Tell her how fat she is and that maybe she should just kill herself.  Joker626 says that Green Day sold out years ago?  Write back you are stupid and your mother should have aborted you with a coat hanger you piece of shit.  Indie girl won't give you the time of day?  Slug her, the bitch deserves it.  You think I'm joking?  I've heard this from guys I consider well-educated. 

It's not their fault, really.  This vile attitude is rapidly on it's way to being socially acceptable.  We've got a coddled generation spoiled by the anonymity of the internet and the absence of male role models.  Michael Cera gets the hot girl by being a sniveling piece of garbage.  Why wouldn't the boy next door be the same way?