The Summer Blows

Where to begin. How about a general question. Does anybody make real movies anymore?

I have now seen most of the 2008 summer blockbusters, with the notable exception of "Sex In The City," a cinematic experience that Donald Trump couldn't write me a big enough check to sit through. So far only "Iron Man" has managed to live up to its own hype. The rest have chugged their own Kool-Aid. Hard. After each of them, I groped for the handrail toward the door, with the same uncanny phrase on my lips: "Holy shit, what were they smoking?"

I imagine that somewhere, George Lucas is phoning up Steven Spielberg, hoping to score some of that killah hippy-lettuce they were burning, the night that the concept for "Indiana Jones and the Kingdom of the Crystal Skull" wafted into their hazy minds. The conversation must have been something like...

STEVEN: Y'know what, Georgie? Y'know what?

GEORGE: Pass the jay back, man, you're Bogartin' again.

STEVEN: We gotta do another Indy Jones, man.

GEORGE: Huh?

STEVEN: Yeah! YEEEEAAAHH-HAH! That's what we gotta do, Georgie. Another Indy! ANOTHER FUCKIN' INDY JONES!! Gawdamn!!!

GEORGE: Yeaahhhhh, another Indy Jones! We gotta. We gotta. Sure thing.

STEVEN: Yer with me, right?

GEORGE: Oh shit-yeah, all the fuckin' way! Another fuckin' INDY! Yeah. Only, what's it gonna be about? I mean, like, Harrison's collectin' Social Security by now, right?

STEVEN: We just make that a part of the story – Indy's gettin' old. But he can still kick ass. Yeah, only now he has a son! And... and... and and and, his son is all tricked out too. Like Indy's a throwback to the 30s and all that shit, so his son will be all, aallll, you know.... Brando! He's all Brando – the fucking Wild Ones Brando! Yeah, andandand, he'll have his own style apart from his dad's, but yet indentical – like Indy uses a whip, so his son is into... swords!! Whips and swords – it's a ZORRO reference! FUCKING-A, man, I'm so fucking brilliant with this shit!!!

GEORGE: Ants!!!

STEVEN: Huh? Where!! You getting the DT's on me, Georgie??

GEORGE: No – ANTS!! Fucking bigass ants! We have a scene where they have to haul ass from a gawdamn landscape covering swarm of killer ants!! Right after a fucking car chase and a sword fight. And dig it, a sword fight with an S&M nazi-ass amazon bitch with a deep voice.

STEVEN: Georgie, you're a genius! I see it! This fucker is just flying together!! Pass the reef, dude, I need me another whiff.

GEORGE: And, andandand, dig this...

STEVEN: Yeah?? YEAH???

GEORGE: In the last reel, when they finally figure it all out, whatever it is, they end up at some temple like a pyramid, only it's an ancient fucking spaceship!!

STEVEN: Oh. OOhhhhh. OOOhhhh fuck yeah!! FUCK ME, YEAH!!!!

GEORGE: And what ever it is they fuckin' do, it reawakens the fucking aliens who've been dormant! Extra-fucking-terrestrials, man, and –

STEVEN: And... fuck. FUCK! We fucking tie-in the Indy Jones loop... with Close Encounters... Fuck... Fuuuccckkk...

GEORGE: You alright, Stevey?

STEVEN: I think I just came, man...

GEORGE: ... and at the very end Darth Vader shows up, and –

STEVEN: No no no, that'd be a little too much.

GEORGE: It would?

STEVEN: Let me think about it. Any Twinkies left?

GEORGE: Dude I could scarf a whole box of Twinkies right now.

Twinkies, which brings us to THE INCREDIBLE HUCK.

First, a preamble: I'm a comic book nerd of the 70s and 80s, so when I hear that a big-budget movie of one of my classic hero faves is in the works, my heart skips a little beat and I count the months, weeks, days, to opening night. I want a little more than entertainment – I want vindication. I want to be justified for all that time spent sprawled on the couch absorbing a latest issue, or holed up in my room sorting through my ever growing collection of pulp-paper treasures. Time that I now realize would have perhaps been better spent... I dunno... learning a job skill or two... expanding my social network... planning for a future... dating...

I've got a lot of resentment to wash down.

Staggering in the darkness toward the glowing red exit sign, as those endless credits crawled up the screen, having endured an opening night screening of "The Incredible Hulk," I knew I'd been owned. I knew it. And I'd paid for it. A feeling not dissimilar to limping home after an especially rough session with a dominatrix who doesn't quite realize she hits just a bit too hard, and who sometimes confuses my safeword with someone else's.

I'd heard it all. I should have guessed it was too good to be true.

"But this time it's got Edward Norton..."
"But this time it's directed by Louis Leterrier... "
"But this time they're gonna... this time it's gonna be... they're... they've... it's... "

It didn't matter.

It stunk. Just like the last one. It didn't work. They threw even more money at it, and it just sucked it all up, and kept right on sucking.

A number of woeful problems plagued "Hulk," in my not-so-humble opinion. First, was it a sequel to Ang Lee's 2003 Hulk movie? Or was it a mega-million dollar do-over? A reboot? Shouldn't that just shoot all of Marvel's street cred down the toilet? Do they now think all moviegoers were ADD kids? That as long as Hulk's all big and green and kicks ass, we'll just happily shovel our money into their pockets?

That's drug dealer logic.

Secondly, is it my overloaded imagination, or was the 2003 Hulk a better "grafique?" The Hulk is a special effect – duh. CGI. The Lou Ferrigno method just isn't "big" enough for the cinema's new-millennial era. I'm sorry, but the 2008 Hulk just seemed... not as well rendered as the 2003 one. He looked "hurried," unfinished – more like what he was, a glorified cartoon.

No amount of soulful, misty-eyed interaction with Liv Tyler could counter-balance the Hulk's cloying unreality. It may not entirely be the CGI crew's fault – she couldn't connect with Edward Norton either. A scene where they trade gazes of wistful longing went on for what seemed an entire reel – the whole film ground to a wincing halt for this silent – pisshole-at-midnight silent – moment of unspoken desire. Only the desire was out of the room. They both looked like they wanted to flip out their cellphones and ring their agents. You could almost hear Leterrier whisper, "okay, now stare at each other like a pair of shit-for-brains ghouls, in love, but... da time ain't right."

Thirdly, I have a real bone to pick regarding the script, and most scripts these days. It seems that the craft of screenwriting has dwindled down to the science of the hard sell. Movies just don't stand alone as stories, anymore. Ultimately it dawned on me that this entire film was a sales pitch – a 2-hour trailer for its own sequel. No closure. No satisfying crescendo note.

"Incredible Hulk" begins with a blink-and-gone montage of the Hulk's origin – a quick "highlight reel" to get everyone up to speed. It's a fast, easy to digest concession to the rubes who never read the comic-book, never saw the TV show, or the cartoons, or the freaking 2003 movie, and are therefore clueless how Mr. Big Green-N-Mean was birthed.

For those who took Screenwriting 101, the Hulk's appearances are timed to stop-watch perfection. The textbook final-reel showdown tableau is established efficiently. The Hulk lets the Abomination (the Anti-Hulk) open a jumbo can of green whup-ass on him just long enough to create a sense of edgy doubt as to the film's outcome, but we all know the Hulk is "doomed to succeed" as Roger Ebert would say. Hulk bellows his signature line, "HULK SMASH!" and delivers the victory blow of super-heroic finality. Fight over. Villain vanquished. But wait! A late development, plot-wise, bursts on the screen right at the very last minute... black out. TO BE CONTINUED IN THE SEQUEL, SUCKERS!!!

So we have a quick hand-job of an opening... followed by two hours of overscripted foreplay... then just as we sense a mad rush to a big messy green climax... the movie PULLS OUT. No afterglow. No cigarette. But a cryptic promise of more to come... later. Way later. Gotta go, babe.

I remember when one of the hallmarks of a great movie was the presence of a beginning, a middle, and an end. "Incredible Hulk" has no beginning, and no end. It's just a big MIDDLE. And that's why 300 people hit the exit doors wondering...

Did I spoil it? Awwww. Boohoo.

Movie no good. Gotta-go weewee. Me want go home now.

June Randomness

A neatness freak is someone who can't stop rubbing.

Recently I began writing a list, entitled, "Complete Idiots Who Somehow Make More Money Than Me." I had to stop. It got scary.

Be loyal, hardworking and demand excellence from yourself and others, and some day you'll look back and wonder where the hell your life went, and why everyone hates your guts.

I just threw away all my porn, and drank an entire six-pack of diet soda. Does that make me a better person?

Talent is your ticket to fame. Fame is your ticket to money. Money is your ticket to getting laid. Getting laid is your ticket to marriage. Marriage is your ticket to being stuck with someone who sees your talent as evidence you're queer.

My bad haircut is worse than yours, because it is on ME!

Those of you who have it all figured out are annoying the hell out of us who still view every day as an adventure.

Bikers only age well in the movies.

When in L.A. you see someone in a Mercedes convertible, wearing a neon colored baseball cap, that is likely someone ripping off someone else who has legitimate talent.

I'd like to see one of the national news anchors use the adjective "fucking" just once, or sternly refer to some group in the news as "the fuckers."

Never, never insult a drunk midget with a pair of pliers in his chubby little free hand.

"Your results may vary" is ad-speak for "but you, my friend, are screwed."

Funny is a corporation handing out free pens with "Shop Local" printed on them.

I once held romance sacred. Now I think the self-centered little twats can have it, too!

Dubya is closing out his presidency with a big chug of the ol'e Kool-Aid.

Diet Chocolate Cherry Dr. Pepper. My gawd, my gawd, what have they done!!

Great Bachelor Recipes!

No wife? No problem. (No decent woman would walk barefoot on your kitchen floor anyway!)

SOUTHWESTERN TORTILLA WRAP
1. Tortillas
2. Any pre-cooked meat item in fridge
3. Kraft BBQ sauce
Spread meat onto tortilla. Pour BBQ sauce to taste. Roll tortilla into a tube. Microwave 3 minutes. Eat over the sink.

TURKEY-CRAN SALAD SANDWICH
1. Canned turkey meat
2. 1 bottle of Ocean Spray Cranberry Juice Cocktail
3. Lettuce
4. 2 slices of white bread
Soak turkey meat in Cranberry Juice Cocktail, then microwave 5 minutes. Put on bread, add lettuce. Spit out. Gawd, it's disgusting. Are you nuts or what?

WHOLE-WHEAT ENGLISH MUFFIN PIZZAS
1. 2 whole-wheat English muffins
2. Leftover pizza – not too old
3. Butter
Put English muffins in toaster. Take leftover pizza from fridge. When muffins pop, glaze with butter. Put leftover pizza slice between the muffins and eat like a sandwich. Chase down with gulps of grape soda! This is your house – you are king!

FILLO DOUGH SPINACH POCKETS
Search all over supermarket. Eventually ask a clerk what the hell "fillo dough" is, and where in the damn store it is located. When asked why you want it, say "I'm making Fillo Dough Spinach Pockets for dinner, nosey whore – shut up." Search around supermarket some more. Stare blankly at spinach in produce section. Give up. Buy a whole box of frozen burritos.

HAWAIIAN CHICKEN PITAS
Nearly same procedure as for Fillo Dough Spinach Pockets above, only a little easier to think through without the aid of the filthy skank clerk. No, Hawaiian chickens don't cluck with a Hawaiian accent. "Clook-clook, brah." Think about it – it's chicken and pineapple, Junior Space Cadet. Cook it up, and put it in a pita. Yes, pita bread... you know, that goofy round bread that splits open like a flat football, and you can put stuff in it. Like at Jack-In-The-Box. Only from the supermarket. Yes, they have it here.

CHEF JON'S COOL FRUIT SOUP
The gayest recipe in years. No need to go into detail. Suffice to say, you may want "Waiter Shaun's Hot Meat Rod" for dessert.

PROSCIUTTO & GOAT CHEESE CROSTINI
This is either a dinner entrée or a strange medieval weapon.

BROCCOLI & CHEDDAR PASTA SALAD
Need this one explained to you? Gawd!! Well, alright. Put broccoli, cheddar cheese and pasta together. Nuke 'em. Take out when cheese melts. Eat and burn a hole in your throat. Have soda ready, in case.

PBJ & MORE!
Oh give me a break. Okay. Make a PBJ. Your PB. Your J. Your bread. It doesn't matter what brands, you obviously made that decision already when you bought them. It's passed. It's over. Deal with it. Now... have something IN ADDITION to the PBJ. That's the "& More" part. Got it? Awwwrriiighhhhh.

CHEF RON'S CREAMY DIRT CAKE
Someone is out to get you. Do you have any enemies? Any names come to mind off-hand? Well, this is what you'll be dining on at their house if you're stupid enough to accept the invite. Chow down! Don't spend too much time thinking about what the "creamy" ingredient is.

My Power

I have an uncanny power to control people. My most offbeat whim is their command. On my cue, they put important errands on hold and abandon even the most meticulously prioritized assignments. And I need not give them a glance.

There are those who envy this gift of mine. Everyone harbors a fantasy to change people with only a thought – to never compromise with family, friends or, well, anyone. No more to settle for second choices, or a backup plan when the original falls flat.

"Never Again" would be their personal mantra to everything bad that has ever happened to them in life – and their escape clause to every imaginable bad thing still waiting to strike.

Admit it, your attitude would take an upswing if you could count on everything going your way, every single day.

People would wonder where you get your uplifting outlook, your energy, your positive aura, your ambient joy. "It's because I control everyone," would be the secret answer behind your gregarious grin.

I must start practicing that grin. For if you ever see me with it, you may also see that it's forced. I can control people, but in ways that I can't control.

No, I can't make the guy turning right on the red light without braking, yacking on his cell phone, see me in the crosswalk. But when I'm driving and want to change lanes, I can make every driver in that lane floor it to get by me.

My power can't suddenly make that cute supermarket cashier charge me half-price for my groceries with a twinkle in her eye. But by simply deciding that I'm tired and want to go home, I can make every other shopper in the store suddenly logjam the check-out lines. Those same check-out lines may even have been completely empty, with bored cashiers, just moments before. It doesn't matter.

I perform this feat of mass mind control on a regular basis. Sometimes I even make the shopper ahead of me try to pay by check, minus a usable I.D.

I may just as easily make them request something that forces the cashier to phone for a manager and hold the line up – long enough for my cold sodas to get warm and my frozen dinners to thaw. Have you ever wondered about this phenomena? Look behind you, it's me. Asshole.

I can't make my coworkers the least bit interested in my personal life. I get the usual "how was your weekend?" But do they listen as I regale them with the requested tableau of my adventures? No, they're already on the phone, or rushing to get their turn with the copier.

Yet by simply taking a moment to check my personal email, I can cause all office activity to stop cold, and everyone within eyeshot of my screen to lean in, as if on spontaneous coffee break, and chime "say, what'cha reading there, hmm?" Suddenly I am my company's official ambassador to all things fun and distracting, despite not being worthy of a yawn, one minute prior. Such is the immensity of my power.

If I could bottle it, I'd be worth millions. Any live telecast would become like nothing ever seen before when I picked up the remote. How about an entire half hour of involuntary flatulence at the anchor desk on tonight's news? It could happen. Or for that obnoxious DJ that everyone else likes at work, how about a sudden bout of Tourette's Syndrome? On second thought, no one would really notice a DJ with a potty mouth, would they? It's too commonplace.

I'm the one fighting off a sudden outbreak of Tourette's, here. It's been that kind of day. A day ruled by... my power.

If I ever find out how to control how I control, the world will become a nicer place for me. Selfish? No, because you'd do the same thing yourself. Now answer me.

May Randomness

Red punch always makes me forget I'm not thirsty.

Everything you know means nothing, if you can't present it well.

Only a Vietnam veteran with a club foot and tattoos up both arms can get away with saying at Carrows, "Can a limp-dicked turd sniper get a cup of mud from one of you clap magnets?"

It's time you knew the truth. So go find it!

There are some guys who could use a good panic attack.

"Big glass of milk" is a phrase that sounds right. Correct and good on a cosmic level. Serene. It brings on an enveloping sense of peace and calm. "Small glass of milk" just sounds wrong, almost perverted.

Behind every man there are two ex-girlfriends who have coffee together and talk crap about him.

If I never risk offending you, we will never truly communicate.

A speed freak is someone who stops to eat the roses.

"Have a great day" is the new "eat shit and die."

Everything today is worse, but packaged way better.

An all-midget TV network would be fun. Admit it.

Starbucks Makes You Stupid

DECAF CASH COW

Each and every one of us can be proven to be a total idiot, in some area of life or another. But Starbucks makes idiots out of staggering numbers of people, every day. Maybe they're idiots to begin with.

If you purchase a Starbucks "grande" size coffee drink at approximately $4 every day, that's $28 a week, not counting sales tax.

You can purchase a 12-ounce bag of grounds of the same coffee, or one that's practically identical, at most supermarkets for between $8 and $12. You get about 6 full pots of coffee to that bag of grounds. Each full pot equals about 8 regular cups, or about 4 "grande" paper cups of coffee.

If you're going to argue that it's the TASTE that makes the difference? Please. You probably also still believe that M&Ms have different flavors. It's all psychological, and the makers of M&Ms know it. They are all just SUGAR-COATED CHOCOLATE... every color. The colors are just vegetable dye – no flavor. Nothing more.

And if that designer coffee tastes so wonderful, Ms. Gourmand, why all the add-ins? Milk, honey, cane sugar, nutmeg and powdered lhasa apso urine?

The only real difference between Starbucks coffee and homemade – besides the sucker-bait prices – is that you must make the coffee yourself, and be denied the 10 minutes of STANDING AROUND while a lanky, uncombed music major with jagged bass-player's fingernails handles your order and chats up the female employees with his rapier-wit and charisma, while "processing" your expensive, chic coffee THEMED beverage. Sometimes you even get to witness his finesse at flipping the fridge open with the grungy toe of his sneaker, making the coffee maker gurgle oh-so bubbly and juggling a gallon milk jug with his pinky. A honed machine, this t-shirted champion. Your money at work, oh connoisseur. And you can even get your coffee with some LEFT OUT. That rip-off is cleverly called "room for cream." Putz.

You also get your coffee in a tall paper cup, with one of those clever wrap-around cozies to keep your special little multi-tasking fingers from getting burned, you workhorse you, and don't forget the plastic lid... and the wooden stir... don't let all those trees die in vain, Mr. Greenearth.

When you make coffee at home, do you use such trivial accessories? More than likely not. And if you do... what kind of trend-whoring moron... nevermind.

And then the paper packet of Equal... and the cinnamon... and nutmeg... and the dab of honey. Test the spirits to make sure whether you feel like whole milk or half-n-half today. Oh, I forgot, it's milk on workdays, half-n-half when you "splurge" on the weekends. This all qualifies as obsessive-compulsive behavior, did you know that?

Damn the torpedoes! This cup of colored water with heaping dairy and spice additives is visual proof that you are hip. 21st Century. You've arrived. Now back to some more WoW on your $4,000 laptop! Worth every penny when you're a Level-70 Dwarf Priest and Hand-to-Hand Battle Shaman! A back alley encounter with a drunk Marine would do you wonders, oh mystic warrior.

Wow, am I bitter. Anyway...

A decent travel mug costs about $10. It holds about 2 regular cups' worth, or about the same as a "grande" size paper cup. Maybe a bit more. If you want to go further, a stylish metal thermos will run you as little as $20. And it's the SAME COFFEE, Sherlock. It really is. Don't "oh contrairé" me – get over it.

So, are you ready for this? A $4 Grande size coffee every day for a year comes out to $1,456.00. No I didn't misplace the decimal point. You're pouring a part-time McDonalds employee through your bladder every 4 years – with room for cream.

On the other hand, a travel mug of coffee, yes, coffee made by YOU (sorry), is... nearly twice as much coffee per day as a single Starbucks cup, with a price that figures out to about $2.50 per pot, or 41 cents per travel mug. Or $179.65 for the whole year. That's the 41 cents, times 365 days a year, plus the 1-time $20 and $10 costs of the thermos and travel mug.

Let's see now. $1,456.00 vs. $179.65. Again... $1,456.00... $179.65. PUTZ!

But wait, you didn't just buy a cup of coffee. You got a decaf double-espresso latté frappiola with fog grass germ and extra foam. You can't just whip those up at home, now can you?? Well, alright, you got me. (Pardon my nit-picking, but what the hell is the flippin' POINT of a decaf espresso? And isn't foam just AIR? Sorry – those are such nagging concerns.)

Could such an otherworldly beverage be proof of your sophistication? Would Bach or Voltaire even comprehend a double-mocha soy-caramel machiatto with sprinkles? Where were such drinks before Starbucks? In the minds of crazy people, that's where.

Yes... yeah... okay... the other case for coffee is that it's a medicinal herb and that the coffee-culture is really our health consciousness raising its head triumphantly at last. I ask, if you drink coffee for health reasons, why aren't you matching that robust self-heroism with an equally sound financial sensibility? And where was all this health-consciousness before Starbucks came along? Dennys?

But you can't afford not to look cool – got it. Don't let me block your determined path. By the way, if you've ever seen a prostitute strut up and down the boulevard, you must know that all whores consider themselves cool.

Tonight On Showbiz Moments You'll Love

YOU'D LOVE IT! ADMIT IT!

Ann Coulter flees up a dead-end staircase... from zombies.

Babs Streisand discovers the secret trap door onstage, mid-song. "People... People who need people... are the luckiest pe –"

A swarm of hornets is released in the studio, on-air, as Rusty Humphries rants about himself. "And the other thing I find bemusing is – SSHHEE-ITT!!!"

The American Idol judges get up on stage and perform their version of "The Aristocrats."

Dick Cheney has his final heart attack, at the wheel of a golf cart rolling toward the lake, with a 50-year old bleach blond "masseuse" trying to unzip his fly with her teeth.

Garrison Keillor has an off-moment. "And that's our show for tonight, bitches."

A sudden change in Bill O'Reilly's voice mid-sentence, as intense rectal itch syndrome (IRIS) strikes.

On a dare: Nancy Pelosi. Condi Rice. Rush Limbaugh's spare bedroom. H.L.A.

Katie Couric, on her last CBS Evening News broadcast, pops top, hoists her jigglers and shouts "Can't find Bin Laden? I got your OSAMAS right here!!"

Danny DeVito runs as fast as his stumpy little legs will propel him, from a marauding giant robot yelling "DESTROY... DESTROY..."

Charlie Rose has sudden convulsive diarrhea, mid-question.

CNN suddenly cuts to something else – the weather, sports, an old scratchy "Mayberry RFD" rerun from Nick-at-Nite... shit, anything – as Larry King and guest Whoopi Goldberg discuss producing offspring together.

During an interview, Oprah casually gets up and puts on a strap-on dildo.

Maury Povich confronts Dan Rather in a trucker bar.

Alan Colmes admits on camera that he hasn't defecated since age 10.

Bigfoot on the Hollywood Squares! Oh wait, it's Al Roker, nevermind...

The President closes his farewell address to the nation with "and now, my fellow Americans, fuck this shit!"