Pop Culture Blog: Music, Movie and Humor
Leveraging low-hanging synergies outside the vertical fruit box since 1999.
This time last week I was ripping around the Big Rideau on a jetski with one of my best friends – chasing boats so we could jump off their wakes. I still have a bad case of ‘watercraft-back’ but it was the most fun I’ve had in ages. Today, I’m back cleaning my apartment, doing laundry, getting a head start on the work week via some pre-emptive client emails and generally pining for the Canadian countryside.
This September, I’ll have lived in the North End for 6 years. I love it here, and I don’t think I’d do as well in any other neighborhood, but I think the charm of city-living is wearing thin. There are few elements of my job that I couldn’t do on a wireless connection from the end of the dock at my family’s house in Portland, Ontario. But I’m required to live in one of only about 5 North American cities where I can do what I do – and they all involve paying small fortunes to live in smaller shoeboxes. I feel like a veal, and I want to appeal.
If I won the lottery, I’d buy an island or every house in my parent’s secluded summer neighborhood. Then I’d move all of my closest friends in and we’d start a commune of some sort. Maybe commune is a bad word – It conjures up images of Waco, Jonestown and Heaven’s Gate. I’m not suggesting anything crazy like a secret settlement that worships me as a prophet. And besides, everyone knows that cyanide is ingested a lot quicker when mixed into Pabst Blue Ribbon as opposed to purple KoolAid. It’s the carbonation, you see. You know, maybe this could work. I’m off to get a $2 scratch ticket. Update: I won $10. Baby steps.
Are you familiar with The Goonies subculture? Well are you? I thought I was, but then did a little surfing and discovered that the cult following that this silly little film has produced over the last 19 years is nothing short of staggering. There is a Goonies sequel in the works. The city of Astoria, Washington, where the entire film was shot, has markers on many of the main locations as fans come from all over the world to visit. There are even little conventions from time to time. The Goonies’ cult following is alive and well, and I’d be frightened if I didn’t love the movie so much myself. I saw it twice in the theatre in 1985, had the Commodore 64 game, and had this poster on my bedroom wall.
I feel comfortable admitting all of this, because the webmasters of thegoonies.org make me look like James frigging Dean on the comparative nerdery scale. They get full credit though – the site is well designed, engaging and their forum is obviously a haven for Goonies fans around the world. And check out this cool but obsessive film they made about their own trip to Astoria. One of the guys edited himself into the movie in a few spots. I briefly felt sorry for him, but then remembered I was inside my glass house writing about the Goonies on a Saturday night – and decided not to throw any stones.
Would a Goonies sequel be a complete trainwreck? It’s got all the characteristics. But Richard Donner has made many great flicks over the years, and I think there’s at least a snowball’s chance it’d be decent. Unfortunately neither John Matuzak (Sloth), or Anne Ramsey (Mamma Fratelli) made it out of the eighties alive. But I have great idea – Donner could help get the sequel green-lit if he got one actor to play both parts. They’d save a bundle. I have the perfect candidate in mind. Dick – for heaven’s sake – call me.
I went out on the razz last night for the first time in a while, and am feeling a little brain dead today. I wanted to write something, but needed inspiration. After a quick search I found a decent meme to fill out. Brace yourselves and feel free to play along in the comments.
3 snacks I enjoy…
1. Salt & vinegar potato chips.
2. Anything with feta on it. And I do mean anything.
3. A really good chicken pot pie. I consider it a snack as they rarely fill me up completely. I dump vinegar all over the top of the pastry and then crust it with salt and pepper. Tasty, buddies.
3 songs I know all the words to…
1. There Goes The Fear – The Doves
2. The Pixies‘ entire catalog.
3. I watched Morrissey’s recent set at Glastonbury this morning, and he did an old Smiths song I love called The Headmaster Ritual. I knew every single word – and there are a lot of them. Hadn’t heard it in a few years and surprised myself. I once wrote all the words to this song on my desk in Mr. Sarnevitz’s match class (circa 1990) and had to come back after school and clean the entire classroom.
3 locations I would love to run away to…
1. Greece. There’s feta there. Lots of it.
2. My parent’s new house in Ontario. This location in particular is one of my favorite places on earth.
3. Rachel Weisz‘s lap.
3 recently seen movies I like…
1. Batman Begins – Apparently Bale didn’t really commit career suicide by starring in American Psycho afterall. But I don’t know if being typecast as a giant bat is a great deal better.
2. War of the Worlds
3. Sin City – I will be racing, not walking, out to get this DVD when it comes out. What a brilliant film. See it.
There will be no Quizzlet this week, out of respect and condolence for the citizens of London, England. My thoughts and prayers are with you during this very trying time. Please pray for me so that I don’t have a stressful weekend thinking of the London terrorist attacks, even though I am 3 thousand miles away in Boston. Or accidentally walk past a barber shop and hear an Omarion record.
And I thought I was narcissistic. Flash-in-the-pan R&B singer/actor/dancer Omarion was still in London after Live 8 during the bombings yesterday, so he did what any sensitive man-of-the-people would do – he asked his fans to pray for him. He wasn’t in any danger or even the vicinity of any of the blasts, nor did he mention any of the dead in his statement to his fans. I can’t really do this clown justice so please just read it for yourself. I have Star Wars figures that are 5 years older than this self-absorbed little breakdancing shite:
“Omarion was in London during the tragic bombings that struck this morning,” a statement by the singer’s publicist said. Making no mention of the fatalities or casualties of the blasts, the singer’s statement concluded, “He would like his fans to pray that he has a safe trip and a safe return home. He appreciates your support.”
Today, in fairly typical big-mouthed egotistical “star” fashion, his web-site is engaged in a damage control scramble featuring the title “Omarion Story On Reuters A Hoax”. Now I ask you, what do you think is more likely? The fact that this priviliged clown opened his fat mouth without thinking, or that Reuters is involved in an elaborate scheme to make him look like more of a simpleton than he manages all by himself? When will the man stop keeping Omarion down, yo?
Stay tuned for his next starring Hollywood role in “London Got Served“.
“I grab a dog. I choke him and I kick the shit out of him. All day long got my foot up a dog’s ass. Just bang, bang, bang up his ass. That’s my pleasure.” – Mr. Jones
The 16 hours in the car were well worth the three full days up in Ontario. Janet, Jim and I arrived at 3:30 Friday morning after driving up post-work because we wanted to be on hand for Canada Day. Many of my American friends have asked me recently what the signifigance of Canada Day (July 1st) is. Glad you asked – It’s similar to Independence Day, only instead of being beaten back to Blighty by the minutemen after the invention of the long-range bored rifle – the Brits just sort of got bored and left Canada quietly.
During our time at the new Pye compound we hung drywall, landscaped, fashioned enormous illuminated maple leaves onto boats, prepared a huge deep-fryed Mexican feast for three sets of neighbors, got lost on the lake for 5 hours in the dark, caught sick jetski air, floated amongst fireworks and hung huge portraits off of ladders balanced on stairs. That we all returned with little more than a few mosquito nibbles to show for our chicanery is truly miraculous.
I don’t quite remember at which point choking a 1/2 wolf, 1/2 Rottweiler seemed like a clever fricking passtime – but luckily Koba had watched us rip through several bottles of wine at dinner and didn’t take it too personally. But then again, he also chased Spud up a tree twice and was already in the doghouse. He didn’t need to add mauling moi to the manifest. I can go on and on – and yet might – about our glorious weekend up North. But a picture really is worth a thousand words, so I’ll leave you with this massive new holiday gallery for now. Happy 4th you Yankee buggers.
Sorry this is late, kids. I’m in the Canadian wilderness on a 56K dial-up with a dodgy cellphone signal to boot – and I’m loving it more than if I’d just watched Justin Timberlake choke on an errant McMuffin. Being ‘connected’ on vacation defeats the purpose. So I’m going to wrap this up quickly so I can get back to the real motivation behind any well-deserved holiday – helping my father drywall the basement. Besides, a mink will probably break wind and interrupt this connection – so let’s just get on with it.
Appetizer: Where do you plan to go on vacation this year?
I’m already here, baby. My parent’s new digs in Portland, Ontario Canada. I’m up here with my sister and my buddy Jim, and we’re having a Flinstone-gay old time. Tonight is the boat jamboree where all the neighbors meet in a nearby cove, hook up their brightly-decorated bateaus and then drink their faces off like upper-middle class pirates. My father has fashioned a huge maple leaf out of Christmas lights and a corrogated steel pipe and attached it to the front of our vessel, “The Filthy Whooore”. Gaudy, gaudy patriotism. Brings a tear to the eye and a verp to the throat.
Soup: What color is your bedroom? What would you change?
It’s the multiple colors of many frayed movie and concert posters. I’ve been in the same apartment for the last 6 years, and DeNiro’s face just doesn’t hold the same decorative charm that it did when I was 25. I’m days away from ripping them all down and bringing my bedroom kicking and screaming into the fact I’m now in my thirties, and that the fastest way to woman’s heart is not actually through a fraternity house basement.
Salad: Do you have a bumper sticker on your vehicle? What does it say?
I covered the loathesome stickery topic only recently, and will definitely defer. Deferring…. now.
Main Course: What’s the worst pain you’ve ever been in?
I broke my leg whilst playing basketball at a keg party in 1992 and then had to have my bones reattached via a metal plate and 5 pins. So I didn’t really have to think about this one too long. It’s a funny story which I’ll get around to telling properly someday. Must press on, as I’ve just spotted a gassy mink through the bay window.
Dessert: Who is your favorite celebrity and why?
Dean Martin. His singing voice was matched only by his acting ability and incredible sense of humor. Unbeknownst to most, he wasn’t actually a booze-bag – his drunken persona was a big part of his charm and he milked it for all it was worth. When Frank and Sammy were howling at the moon, Dean had usually already been in bed for hours. Anyhew, back to the labor – Happy 4th of July, everyone, if I don’t get a chance to check in again. P.S. – R.I.P. Luther.
I took my work crew to see War of the Worlds tonight, as I’ve been tasked with HR responsibilities (aka HR period) for the company. But I enjoy the “take the nerdlets out to see films you’d be downloading anyway” angle of the position. That I’ll also be in charge of sensitivity training could be viewed as a bit of an error on management’s part. Although in my own defense – I did cancel the “It’s Not Sexual Harrassment If She’s Asleep” T-Shirts I had planned for this year’s harbor cruise.
2005’s War of the Worlds is a very good movie. Worthy of both Orson and H.G. Although I did find Tim Robbins’ “Everyone knows that wars of occupation never work” line detestable and about as subtle and out of place as Elliott calling his brother “Penis-Breath” in the first 15 minutes of E.T. – Spielberg gets a big thumbs-down in my book for letting that little liberal turdlet seep into the otherwise fucking spellbinding movie. It’s Shindler’s List Meets V. It makes Independance Day look like, well E.T. – Forget I said anything.
Hanging over the entire marketing effort for this movie has been Tom Cruise’s bizarre stint on Oprah, Scientology and Katie Holmes. After the movie, I met my sister and her friends from work for a beer, and one of her buddies went on for 15 minutes about how Katie Holmes was one of 3 major actresses approached by the Church of Scientology to pretend to be Tom’s girlfriend – because he’s really gay. Listen man, I saw huge alien Tripods chasing Tom across Connecticut for two hours tonight. Not a barrage of rodents vying for access to his bunghole. But then I remember the whole Lestat thing and think – Dave, quit while you’re ahead.
… a great song by a truly great Canadian. And I thought of the title tonight because I’ll be heading up to the Great White North for Canada Day – which is this Friday, July 1st. The song is rivaled only by Bud the Spud and Little Wawa in terms of ruling the entire repetoire. Have a look here if you want to play it alone on the guitar in an air-conditioned room whilst slathering yourself in poutine and maple syrup. That might just be the only way to help my American friends grasp the true essence of Canadiana, get arrested for indecency or whichever comes first.
With songs like Give Me Cold, Cold Beer, The Hockey Song, The Bars of Vancouver, “Wop” May, The Man in the Moon is a Newfie, She Don’t Speak English and Snowmobile Song rounding out the catalog – I know I’ve probably peaked your interest in Stompin’ Tom Connors. Now, mine is always peaked – which is why I’ve learned the hard way not to go outside in tight shorts – so I did a few searches for recent news on old Tom.
The Canadian version of the upcoming Live 8 concerts takes place in Barrie, Ontario on July 2nd, and will bring a sudden influx of over 35,000 people into the community. But starving Africans aren’t the real draw, as the line-up includes a veritable who’s-who of Canadian rock icons. Not so fast, Celine. While Barenaked Ladies, Bruce Cockburn and Bryan Adams don’t exactly have me rubbing my snowballs with glee – the show closes with Our Lady Peace, The Tragically Hip and Neil fucking Young! I used to spend a lot of time in Barrie and know it pretty well. And for that reason I can honestly say it would take Neil Young to get me to go back. Actually, a hand-written note from Neil himself. Actually a hand jo… I don’t much care for Barrie.
A DJ in Ottawa has made the news this week by raising such a stink over that fact that Stompin’ Tom was not included in this roster of Canada’s finest that it has cost him his job: “A true Canadian icon like Stompin’ Tom, it’s unbelievable this guy’s been overlooked. I made a vow to play non-stop Stompin’ Tom until Bob Geldof put ‘The Stomper’ on the bill.” Since the station only had one Connors song in its library, Big Joe Mufferaw, Brown played it six times in a row until he could get a colleague to rush out and buy more Connors CDs.
Put the fuckin’ Stomper on the Bill, eh? You don’t like Mondays, Geldof? Well I don’t think you’ll like gettin’ gooned by the fuckin’ Stomper much neither. Fuck’s sakes (and scene). Ottawa DJ Jeff Brown – Pye in the Face salutes you, buddy.
As it’s his birthday, our old roving photo-hound friend, Gary, is the subject of today’s Quotelet. Here he is during his Epixome rounds with the lovely Houston Rockets Power Dancers (cheerleaders). Send him your best, your jibes and your best jibes. I never told you this, but I’m extremely impressed with the way you saw that flailing business and massive debt through to the level of success/trim you’ve reached today. So yeah – fuck you, birthday buddy.
“Houston? We have a massive erection.”
Martin the Mouth was a long-haired and shaggy East Londoner who used to hang out at the Hind’s Head of Bray in the late 90’s. Everytime he came in, he’d try and recruit me for his deep kitchen cleaning business. While there was no other way I’d have rather spent my one day off a week, the notion of spending 12 hours scrubbing through years of muck within derelict kitchens around London frightened me worse than spotted dick.
“Cah mon Dave, me old China! – 20 pound an houwa, and only one day a week!” He was incessant. So finally I asked our chef, Gus, what a “deep cleaning” entailed. “All surfaces and equipment, mate. You don’t want none o’ that. Never mind with that Martin twat leadin’ the bleedin’ charge”. So that pretty much settled it – I would continue to spend my days off at the Hobgoblin in Maidenhead, and not deep cleaning grimy meat slicers from Windsor to Blackpoole.
Yesterday I wanted to do something productive that did not involve my laptop or the sun (I got seared again on Saturday), so I settled on a task I’d been avoiding for months – nay – over a year. It had been a good 365 days at least since I’d last deep cleaned my shower and bathtub. I stocked up at CVS with every related corrosive chemical known to mankind, cleared away all of my roomate’s girly shampoos/scented oils, and stepped sheepishly into the terrible tub.
Long story short – I scrubbed away for over 2 hours and the facility now glistens with nobility. But I simply cannot move today. My back, arms, chest – all stiff as a board. I walked to work today like a pre-oil Tin Man. However, I can now take a shower without having to worry about contracting West Nile.
Appetizer: What time do you usually wake up each day?
I wake up at 8:50. That may sound ‘late as all heck’ to some people, but I stay at the office until 8pm on average – so don’t envy me too much. Also feel free not to envy the fact that I share my bed with a cat 91% of the time. The good news is I can stay up later than the average Joe and still get a fair amount of sleep. Although I do spend that extra time watching British TV. With a cat.
Soup: When was the last time you bought groceries?
During my brief stint on the Atkin’s diet I hit the Golden Goose in the North End and bought enough salami and American cheese to constipate Jabba the Hutt. I buy food on a ‘need-to-eat’ basis and don’t keep much in the house. Which, as you can imagine, results in one of the unhealthiest diets known to man. So now, in addition to sharing Jabba’s gastrointestinal traits – I’m also beginning to look like him. “Me yarga. Milona na di kato?”
Salad: How many books have you read so far this year?
I haven’t. Not a single one – and I’m embarassed. I could write a book based on the first half of this year though. It would be entitled “How to Hook-up Digital Cable and Tivo in Your Bedroom and Never Read a Book Again”. I see a theme developing this week. And a severe lull in brain activity from watching 2 episodes of Big Brother every night this week.
Main Course: What is something you consider to be very elegant?
I was recently interviewed by the Boston Globe for an article being written about Boston bloggers (it runs on July 3rd and believe me – I’ll link to it for you). I work near the Public Garden, so I decided to walk over and take the call there. As I strolled around speaking to the woman interviewing me I noticed an area on the pond’s shore that had been fenced off. A large sign read “Swan Nesting Area” and a huge white (you guessed it) Swan sat on her nest, her head nuzzled in her breast to fend off a light rain that had started. I thought that looked quite elegant. Anyone know any good Swan jokes?
Dessert: Who taught you how to drive?
When I was 15, my father took me to the CCHS parking lot and told me to let it rip. I drove around in circles, spun out in the snow and basically had the time of my life. I don’t think I’d ever driven a car up until that point. I have some friends who’d racked up DUIs by the age of 15, but I was a late bloomer. My mother and an auxillary cop driving instructor fine-tuned my driving skills in the weeks prior to my test, and frequent blog contributor “The Len” taught me how to drive a stick over near White’s Pond a year later. So, so hot.
Last Friday as I was walking home from work, Anthony Anderson and his crew walked right past me in front of the godforsaken Alley on Boylston street. Being a big fan of The Shield, and an even bigger fan of Kangaroo Jack, I was pretty psyched. His career has taken an incredible leap this year – going from the dregs of… uh, Kangaroo Jack, to the reason he’s gracing us with his presence here in Beantown. Namely, a starring role in Scorcese’s next film, The Departed, which is currently filming in Southie and other locations around the city. A secondary-unit was shooting a scene in a North End restaurant a block from my apartment Tuesday night.
Anthony’s co-star is Jack Nicholson, among many others, and old Irish has more than lived up to his deviant reputation so far during the production: “Jack suggested using a [prosthetic appendage],” adds the source. “He also wanted to dust the [posterior] of one of the actresses with cocaine. Marty said, ‘Go for it!’” This old dog can still hunt. Oh – and birth calves from the looks of it.
