October 26, 2007 § Leave a comment
Fucking Shit, Steve: YOU DID EVEN STE(P/V)ENS!
A.O. Scott describes “Dan In Real Life” as:
for the most part, winningly gentle and observant
I don’t know if you have seen the other reviews (Rolling Stone, for example offered a three out of four star review; which translates to “Good,” somehow), but this gentle comedy bullshit is the kind of pablum that Middle America wolfs down by the god damn ladle.
This is the problem, and Steve, you were already dangerously close to being a part of it. It wasn’t enough for you to cash in on Evan Almighty, was it? You had to be in a movie with DANE FUCKING COOK. And thereby you made a movie that anyone with a functioning brain can pre-judge into the hell it came from. I highly doubt that NBC isn’t paying you enough for your time on The Office. This is borderline retarded.
Note: this is the first of many entries in the Kill All Your Darlings series inspired by the book of the same name by Luc Sante, whose title was from Faulkner. Sante is a god. Buy the book, now.
October 24, 2007 § Leave a comment
A Rockie, probably Jeff Francis (but might be LF Matt Holliday, I can’t tell; all white people look alike to me) ponders this stupid fucking wall.
I can’t remember if it was 8:31 or 9:31 when this was posted, as my blog was originally set to a different time zone for some reason. This all was posted, originally, during the top of the second inning of game 1 of the world series.
If the Red Sox Fans just want to be normal fans, can we make it an overall normal and take away their shitty homefield-advantage ballpark from them? Which is especially an advantage park when you’re playing a team in the World Series who has probably been at your stadium maybe thrice this whole year, a mere percentage point or two of the time you’ve spent there?
I HATE the Green Monster. I HATE the barely-existant wall in the right field corner. I don’t really hate the Red Sox as a team. It’s Schilling and Beckett and Manny who stand out to me, as they seem like a douchekeg trifecta unparalleled in sports history.
I don’t have a zoom in yet, but here’s what happened. Bottom of the first, Dustin Pedroia his a ball off what I’m told (wasn’t home yet) was the tippity top of that eyesore in left field. The ball bounces back into the field, but it’s a homer for some reason. For Some Reason also the words I used when I heard about Paul Byrd’s HGH history being brought up before Game 7 of the ALCS.
Then in the top of the second, Garret Atkins hits the ball smack against the wall. It’s what I imagine to be a few feet below where Ellsbury’s ball hit. That’s a double, though, not a home run. Is that red line, that redchristdoIhateFenway line, the distinguishing mark? Could someone at least say that and do a side by side comparison?
And yes, I ❤ Deadspin. Even if Leitch tries to argue that Schilling is a likable person or player or whatever.
Addendum: What I had meant to say, but forgot to say. I always thought it should be about where the ball ended up, not where it hit, with dome stadiums as an exception.
October 15, 2007 § Leave a comment
When a criminally overlooked TV show is about to end it’s run, a reliable phenomenon begins, a phenomena known as The Overdue Hype Machine. The earliest proponents, simultaneously with those late-to-the-game, they do their best to make sure all eyes and ears are at attention when the final season starts.
This doesn’t always work right, but when the machine works at it’s best, and when it’s operated by the right people, you might find yourself with a long piece of writing you just want to settle down with. The New Yorker has given us just one of those pieces.
A particular nugget of greatness from Margaret Talbot’s epic piece on The Wire in the October 22nd issue of The New Yorker:
Filming on city streets in marginal neighborhoods carries its peculiar risks and rewards. On one occasion, a car involved in a high-speed chase smashed into one of the actors’ cars, and everybody had to dive out of the way. Another time, a man got shot yards away, staggered onto the set trailing blood, and was treated by the show’s medic. Once, a man pressed a package of heroin into the hands of Andre Royo, the actor who plays the sympathetic junkie and police informant Bubbles, saying, “Man, you need a fix more than I do.” Royo refers to that moment as his “street Oscar.”
The article is great, and the full page version of the illustration you see above, which features Kima, Bubbles, and Prez, amongst others, in typical New Yorker caricature, is worth your time and money alone. Now, if the machine starts to work on you, it’s as simple as NetFlix or HBO OnDemand. The former will work as fast as you watch the shows, while the latter, I’m not so sure of. HBO On Demand’s website, when you start to sift through it, doesn’t make it look like they’re going to get where they need to get fast enough. Who knows, though.
Or, like Huey said on last week’s The Boondocks season premiere, you can “just download it off the internet like everyone else.”
October 15, 2007 § Leave a comment
October 11, 2007 § Leave a comment
God Save The McNultys.
Some things never change. Some things do.
Joe Torre will probably not be donning the pinstripes in the next season. And if Tony La Douche-a is brought in and not Donny Baseball or Jumpin’ Joe Girardi-O, then the other dominos will probably fall. Odds are, The Sandman will no longer Enter the Bronx. I’m pretty sure Posada could be following him out the clubhouse. They might not be the only ones, as Mussina gave the pre-Game 3 lecture to try and get the minds right. Not to mention the fact that Abreu and A-Rod could join the ranks of newly non-Bombers.
The worst case scenario is that the Yankees could become my next Knicks. A team once true and defendable that falls to unbelievably low levels. Once the likes of Van Gundy, Ewing, Oakley, Starks, and even Hubert Davis were no longer in the Garden, I lost my love of basketball. I tried to cheer the Pistons on, only because Phil Jackson, Satan himself, was coaching the even evil-er Kobe/Shaq Lakers, but that didn’t last.
But thank the fucking gods that David Simon’s West Baltimore isn’t changing.