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Saturday, February 14, 2004
Even when there was no Squishy, there were still the Valentine's Day poems.
I would be very sad if we didn't have them to look forward to every year.
Go check them out.
And snowing hard. Outside, you could hear all the kids in the neighborhood yelling their heads off with glee.
The show in Waco was.... eh. We had a lot of technical problems. I'm just glad to be home safe and warm.
Friday, February 13, 2004
Inclement weather, new entry
It's sleeting here in Austin. Yes, you read that right. We thought winter (or what passes for "winter" here) was behind us already. Sleet. Nice.
Anyway, there's a new entry up, an interview with Gramm, part of an ongoing series of interviews that I hope to get to someday.
Also, we have an LCP Show tonight in Waco at the Hippodrome (I have no idea what a Hippodrome is, but I hope it doesn't eat me) at 8 p.m.. If you live around there and don't mind driving in freezing wet, come and check us out.
Thursday, February 12, 2004
L'il Biggie Smallhead
L'il Floaty Omie Head write about a film event, plus other sweetmeats and treats.
Bonus: Jeff (who does not, in real life, look like Freddie Prinze, Jr.) writes a damn good analysis of what could be done to improve the usually superlative The O.C.. Did it peak too quickly?
Movies this week
I was having some Internet problems at work, homies, but now things appear to be fixed. Praise be.
50 First Dates: To me, Adam Sandler is like that one friend you had in high school that you didn't know whether to love or to hate. He'd go out of his way to invite you to his bad-ass party with all the girls around, but then he'd have drugs there and the police would come and you'd get in big trouble with your Mom for being anywhere near it. Or he'd buy you an ice cream cone at McDonald's, and you'd love it, but right when you were about to take your last bite, he'd slap you hard on the back and you'd choke on it. Or he'd help you get a date with the girl you really like, and then pull down your pants while you were talking to her. I have no idea what the fuck to make of that kind of behavior, and I damn sure don't know what to make of Adam Sandler. Here's what we know:
Point: He is funny.
Counterpoint: He doesn't seem to really try very hard to do anything with that funny.
Point: He hires lots of his old buddies from SNL for his movies, showing that he is a loyal, stand-up guy.
Counterpoint: It's dudes like Rob Schneider, who already makes enough shitty movies on his own.
Point: He was phenomenal in Punch-Drunk Love
Counterpoint: The chances that he'll be that phenomenal again in anything is as slim as his voice as The Waterboy.
Point: His movies are made for low budgets and he doesn't use his stardom to make huge, bloated, shitty vanity projects.
Counterpoint: Could be just a lack of amibition and drive.
This movie is being panned as a poor man's Groundhog Day. And when I say "Poor Man's," I mean like a dude that has to rob the other bums to put a pack of Wrigley's Spearmint on layway. Drew Barrymore is here, but it doesn't sound like this movie is anything like probably the best Adam Sandler straight comedy, The Wedding Singer. That's really just too bad then.
Highwaymen: This is sort of The Hitcher Lite and is mostly notable in that Jim Caviezel is in it. He also plays Jesus in the upcoming Mel Gibson movie ("The Passion of the Pissing Off of the Jews") and is poised to become a pretty big star. But he's also pious as all-get-out, doing things like refusing to let J.Lo take her clothes off for a love scene and making loud pronouncements about his faith. Which is cool and fine and all, but dude, you're not doing Jesus any favors by starring in movies like Angel Eyes and Highwaymen. I know those titles sound a little Biblical, but you did read in the script where the titular "Highwaymen" were not, in fact, the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse, right? Highwaymen, in fact, sounds like the white trash version of Changing Lanes with lots of blood, gore and spark plugs. It's for people who tune up their carburators instead of smoking a cigarette after sex.
My Architect: I don't know a damn thing about architecture. Here's how I approach it: I see a building. I either go into it or I walk past it. That's it. I know I've ranted before about ugly architecture, but my knowledge of it goes about as far as knowing what strikes me as patently obscene to my tender senses. So then there's this story about an illegitimate son trying to understand his father, the famous architect, who secretly had three families. That's the thing about bigamists. Obviously some different people really loved him, so he must have had some sort of allure (or he must have been the world's greatest liar). The son tries to understand him and does some sneaky things in the documentary (like not revealing who he is until the end of the interview). It sounds like the son is an understandably bitter dickweed. Still, though, it sounds like there's some pretty buildings in this movie.
The Triplets of Belleville: With all of my fiber (I've been eating lots of cereal), I beg you to go see this. It truly is remarkable, just a wonderful little film that despite the flash of some very animated titty in the very beginning, is just as much a family film as anything else out there. I absolutely loved it and it made me very happy when I saw it. In Austin, we're lucky enough to have it screening at the Dobie Theatre with "Destino," a visually mind-blowing short originally conceived by Salvador Dali and Walt Disney that Disney animators have restored and fleshed out. We live in an age of very few miracles, but these two things together fully qualify.
DVDs: Still haven't seen Thirteen yet or the DVD set of The Critic. Also need to try to watch Spy Kids 3-D for a review (it comes with four pairs of 3-D glasses! Kick ass!), so I'll let you know how that is. My parents lent me a copy they bought of Once Upon a Time in Mexico which looks simply incredible on DVD. And... that's it!
Tuesday, February 10, 2004
Smallville recap: "Ya house... it's on FIYA!"
L'il Dead Zone is a kid who can see the moment before somebody dies just by touching him or her. He doesn't like it. Clark tries to offer an assist, but learns that he can change people's destinies. It sucks not to be predetermined, huh? Also, Lana's mysterious Talon guest just gets weirder and weirder. Is he Batman? Or just batty?
Don't know why I forgot to post this sooner, but there you go.
Driving to work this morning I realized I may be the last person who listens to hip hop who actually finally got the words to Mary J. Blige's "Dance For Me." Don't want no hateratin', holleratin' in this dancery? Brilliant.
Just pretend I wrote that two years ago, all right?
Monday, February 09, 2004
There's lots to write, lots of chunky, meaty, inviting from the bone material, and no time to write it.
Friday was a no-sleep night, so Saturday was pretty wiped out. Then Sunday was a catch-up day, filled with errands, getting my hair cut (after about three months without a trim, I was sporting a pseudo Mexi-fro) and finishing up a recap.
There's still a lot happening, lots of fun that was had.
My brother visited Friday night with his all-girl crew and we hooked up our GameCubes for some two-TV-set Mario Kart. It was a transcendent gaming experience, especially since all the houseguests were straight-up Kart freaks. It's a little screwy to get things set up (broadband adapters? Crossover cables? Nintendo has a "Fuck the Internet, fuck multiplayer gaming" attitude that simply doesn't jibe with the quality and group-dynamicism of its games. Who's in charge over there? Fuckwit the Luddite Hermit?) but once the games started, we were all hooked. Much competition was there for the having, and we partook.
Watched lots of TV, but, hey, that's my job.
Missed the Grammys, on purpose. Fuckdatshit.
Made the perfect pina colada, a colada so perfect that it obnoxiously sat in my home blender, challenging all to step up and lay a greater claim to perfect taste and consistency. There were no takers.
Had a great meal from Curra's, which is one of those little, awesome restaurants in Austin that you forget all about until you go and pick up a mollete (French bread topped with Mexican white cheese, chorizo and black beans) and it's the greatest thing you ever ate.
Swore off sweets. This happened about eight minutes into jogging on the treadmill at the gym yesterday. I hadn't been in a while and I was huffing and puffing. Two nights before, trying to sleep Friday, I was thinking to myself, "I don't like this." The "This" was referring to how my body feels squishy and lumpy in places it didn't just a few weeks ago and which is a direct result of not working out and eating a lot of crap. So right there on the treadmill, I thought to myself distinctly: "Fuck chocolate." No more after dinner little treats from the oversized candy bowl, no more cake or donuts at work when somebody puts them on the Altar, no more goddamned Pixie Stix, at least for the next few months. These sweets will not stand!
And then it was Monday. I woke up and went to work.
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