Oh Land Gets It

FINALLY. Someone has been able to visually capture the inner turmoil I feel when having to decide on an outfit before a party.

OSCAR NOMINATIONS 2012: The Gold Rush Begins

I used to be the guy who spent almost as much on movie tickets as I did on monthly rent just to see every Oscar-nominated film pre-Academy Awards. Of course, that was when movies were slightly less expensive and I was living in Chicago where my studio apartment cost 500 bucks a month. Man, that still hurts…

My fervor for filmgoing based on nominations began to wane when sweet and talented Reese Witherspoon, playing sweet and talented June Carter Cash, beat out fellow Best Actress nominee Felicity Huffman who was playing a pre-op transsexual. Now I rely on my own taste, research, and instinct when it comes to choosing a movie rather than relying on those served up to me by people who will probably never invite me to their house for dinner.

Sure, I still eagerly watch the nominations, map out some movies I need to see and gather with a group of friends as we watch the awards but the naivete of thinking the best man or woman will win, has been replaced with the stark reality that the Academy tends to make some pretty dismaying blasphemous choices amongst their delightfully spot-on good ones. This morning was no exception.

I’ve decided my delight and dismay at the nominations can be best expressed by imagining how writers, actors, directors and other glitterati reacted to their names being announced by sort-of-sweaty Tom Sherak and hot-as-glowing-embers Jennifer Lawrence earlier today.

And the select nominees are:

Melissa McCarthy (Actress in a Supporting Role, Bridesmaids) and

Annie Mumolo & Kristen Wiig (Best Original Screenplay, Bridesmaids):

After a chardonnay and cupcake-infused slumber party with Tina Fey and Amy Poehler at Maya Rudolph’s beach house, the ladies are all calmly encircling a coffee table, heads bowed, fingers crossed and looking like they’re either about to have a séance or try Stiff as a Board, Light as a Feather. Then…squeals, high-five-ing, genuine gasps of disbelief, hugging, more squealing, nostril-flaring, Whitney Houston impersonations, and comments in Wiig’s signature nervous sing-songy voice like “Whaaat’s happening!?” and “It’s Oscar time and I’m readaaay ta parrrrrtaaaay!”

Brad Pitt (Actor in a Leading Role, Moneyball)

In the slightly macho, slightly I’m-covering-up-a-lishp-by-shaying-my-s’s-like-thishhh way of speaking over which millions of women and misguided gay men still inexplicably swoon, says “I shtill think my besht work wush in True Romance. Shtill, I’ll take it. What do you think, Angie? Not talking to me right now? Come on, don’t be like that. You have to actually be in shomething besides a dress or constant state of well-managed anorexia in order be nominated, honey.”

Bérénice Bejo (Actress in a Leading Role, The Artist)

In keeping with her character, she says nothing. Now THIS is dedication. Or cultured European nonchalance. I can’t tell.

 

Martin Scorcese (Best Picture, Best Director, Hugo)

“Honey, you’re gonna need to get another dress! And no, you can’t sit this one out. You ask that every year.” Examining his prolific eyebrows in magnifying mirror, “Looks like we’re gonna have to go in for a trim, boys.”

War Horse (Best Picture—Steven Spielberg and Kathleen Kennedy, Producers)

STEVEN: I still don’t get why E.T. didn’t win.

KATE CAPSHAW: Get over it honey.

STEVEN: Right, just as soon as you get over whatever treatments have made you somehow morph into a 38 year-old plastic fem-bot version of Julie Christie.

Gary Oldman (Actor in a Leading Role, Tinker Tailor Soldier Spy)

“Hmmm. I didn’t think anyone recognized me in that one. I mean, I’m such a genius chameleon and make even crappy movies like Batman Begins good. And trust me, it’s not an easy feat to make a movie with Katie Holmes’s fat cheeks and Christian Bale’s ridiculous gravelly voice decent.”

Jonah Hill (Actor in a Supporting Role, Moneyball):

INSERT: Weight reference / joke

Christopher Plummer (Actor in a Supporting Role, Beginners):

To his wife as they lounge on the yacht of a foreign dignitary in the South of France: “Well, now. That’s nice.” With a sly raising of the eyebrow, “I just hope I’m more remembered for this than not wanting to have my picture taken with that little terrier from The Artist. More champagne?”

Meryl Streep (Actress in a Leading Role, The Iron Lady):

On the terrace of an Italian villa, soaking in the unseasonably warm sun as she sips some pinot greege and straightens the many layers of bohemian blouses and scarves in which she is ensconced: “Awww, that’s so sweet. Well, I guess this old gal from New Jersey’s still got it.” She takes a generous sip of the wine and continues reading the script for WORKING TITLE: OSCAR VEHICLE FOR MERYL WHEREIN SHE’LL PLAY THE CARICATURE OF A YET TO BE IDENTIFIED ICONIC WOMAN FROM THE 70s OR 80s.

Nick Nolte (Actor in a Supporting Role, Warrior):

As he finishes his early morning yoga session and contemplates combining protein powder with Miller High Life: “What? Man. Shit. Maybe they’ll finally lose that fucking mugshot picture now. I’m just glad people didn’t say, ‘Aw fuck I thought that was Gary Busey in Warrior.’ Shit. Ohhh…oh!” Remembering what he was doing earlier, bows head and says, “Namaste.”

Enough of This Shit

There's an epidemic out there. Not the kind that kills Gwyneth Paltrow in a movie none of us saw, but the kind that makes you want to punch your computer screen or de-friend someone on Facebook for posting 73,000 versions of the same thing on your Wall. I speak of the Shit [Insert stereotype, race or sexual preference] Say epidemic quickly devouring bandwidth on YouTube.

From Shit Girls Say to Shit Liza Minnelli Says these video montages don't seem to leave a stone left unturned in the realm of people we want to make fun of/pay homage to. Now I enjoy a comedic montage of cliched phrases and expletives as much as the next person, but I grow weary of being told of a new video under the veil of Shit X Says every 18 minutes.

To help nudge this trend out of center stage, I'd like to suggest a few topics YouTubers can cover so we can just be done with it and go back to watching pandas sneeze, Icelandic singers attack reporters, weathermen scream at roaches, and music videos from the era of Kurt Loder and Kennedy.

a talented Joyce DeWitt lookalike gives birth to Shit Liza Minnelli Says

In no particular order:

Shit White Girls Say When they watch Shit White Girls Say to Black Girls

Shit Julia Roberts Says to Herself in the Morning When She Feels Irrelevant

Shit You Hope No One Heard You Say About Them at a Party

Shit You Say To Pull Your Foot Out of Your Mouth at a Party When You Realize Everyone Heard You Say That the Host is A Neurotic Slut With Crappy Furniture

Shit You Say While You're Shitting

Shit Carol Channing Says

Shit Carol Channing and Tatum O'Neal Might Say to Each Other if they Were Both Dropping Acid

Shit Julia Sugarbaker Might Say to the Conservative Party 

Shit Nancy Grace's Twins Say 

Shit Nancy Grace's Twins Say in 15 years

Shit Andy Cohen Says to Get Laid

Shit People Who Slept With Andy Cohen Say

Shit Selma Hayek and Penelope Cruz Used To Say When Their English Was Indiscernible

Shit Facebook Says to Friendster

Shit Gay Guys Say...Oh shit. Have we come full circle? Oh. Okay. Good. Now stop this madness.

Jan Hooks Is My Hero

 

How I’ve never seen or heard this genius parody of I Am Woman is beyond me. But I’d like to file this song under Jan Hooks: Prophet of Wisdom and cross-reference it with How the Kardashian’s Got Their Grotesques Asses Handed to Them [30 years ago].

Blue: The Sequel

Goooosh JZ. You’re so behind. Eiffel 65 already wrote a song about your daughter even way before Beyoncé had escaped the clutches of Destiny’s Child. Get with it. Or name your daughter Green.

The Innkeepers Wants to Say Boo

After a couple of holiday weeks of inventing as many adult beverages as possible with St. Germain Elderflower Liqueur and making meals out of leftover party dips, chips and prosciutto, there's nothing better than settling down with a bar of chocolate and Ti West's latest horror film.

He who beautifully brought us the supernatural flashback to 80s era horror in The House of the Devil, has returned with a ghost story, The Innkeepers, that will make you never want to stay in a small town hotel again...if you're actually prone to doing that.

Healy and Paxton try to convince themselves they aren't about to shit their pants

On their last weekend as desk clerks at the infamous Yankee Pedlar Inn before it closes [insert foreboding tone] FOREVER, Claire (Sara Paxton) and Luke (Pat Healy) decide to drink some beer, take long naps, and uncover the secret behind the hotel's angry ghost, Madeline O'Malley.

Luckily they won't be too busy working since there are only four guests: There's the verbally abusive and temperamental woman with her young son. There's the dusty old man from the Wilford Brimley school of creepy old dudes who looks like he has no eyes. And there's the former TV star turned new agey psychic, Leanne, played by Chico's-clad Amazon Lesbian Queen, Kelly McGillis. What starts as an optimistic adventure eventually takes a turn towards a holy-shit-balls-Pandora-why'd-you-open-that-fucking-box nightmare.

This story is more than fun and thrilling to watch. The players are quirky, drunk, sexy and silly and...GASP!...talented. Healy nails the nonchalance of a slacker unsure of himself and McGillis grabs you with the saucy claws of a practiced thespian (you'll seriously want to watch her drink and smoke and drink and quip over and over again).

But Paxton is unequivocally the true star. Her genuine eagerness, soapy scrubbed naivete and all around adorkable curiosity make her clumsy, clever and incredibly scrumptious, a beacon of blonde light in hotel full of dark, deadly secrets—with nary a happy ending in sight.

See this movie right this second and support other talented moviemakers like West. I don't just say this because we both have the same last name and are most likely related. Unless it will get me a job on his next project. In which case, that's exactly why I'm saying it.

Multiple Bore-gasm

 

Being a Texan means being at the ready to either defend my people or be the first one to say what the fuck were those scary ass trailer park twats thinking when they decided to breed?

So when I heard that WeTV was introducing a series called Texas Multi Mamas I 1) wondered if this was some sort of sy-fy movie wherein a Southwestern Hydra breeds with a  barefoot hillbilly in Crapshoot, TX, and wreaks havoc on the small town before being taken down by a buxom local woman clad in cutoffs and carrying a sawed-off shotgun 2) decided I should cancel any creative productivity I was in the midst of and totally watch 4 episodes in a row.

Texas Multi Mamas, it turns out, is a Real Housewives type of reality show except, instead of having several shoes / cars / dogs / cosmetic procedures, the ladies have twin, triplet or quadruplet litters of children. 

They drink wine, they compliment each other, they castrate their dogs. What WILL happen next?!!

Sadly, my enthusiasm for the show immediately waned when I discovered that these ladies were mostly…gulp…NICE to each other. And…the horror!…HELPED each other with their problems. And…shiver…lived in BORING, understated, bland homes that cost less than the touch-up surgery Adrienne Maloof’s husband gave to her yesterday while they were sitting in traffic.

Such banal “plot lines” as getting a dog fixed, picking out a trendy shirt for a husband, buying a bikini in a strip mall, and the scandalous Hooters background of one of the Multi Mamas (grab a bible and save her already!) made this the television equivalent of watching an avocado seed sprout in a glass of water. The only drama to speak of was when several of the Mamas thought one of the other Mamas was talking too much. Hmm.

I still watched the 4 episodes, but I think what kept me in front of the TV was the stories I was inventing for these boring as fuck women (lesbian affairs, homosexual husbands, sweatshops where their multiple children knit scarves and help keep the family afloat). I refuse to watch this show again. Unless it happens to be on. And I happen to be in front of the TV. 

Deep Blue Science

Only three days into the year and already we're off to a promising start...in the realm of crazy Australians and their f'd up shark encounters anyway. Australian researchers have just discovered nearly 60 hybrid sharks roaming waters off the eastern coast of Australia. The sharks are the progeny of two sharks from different climates. Researchers say that, since sharks are basically bigots and only mate with their own kind, such a great number of hybrids indicates that sharks are joining bloodlines to create a breed more suited to climate changes.

Thomas Jane is ready to defend you from science

What researchers didn't say was that Saffron Burrows is behind all of this hybrid business and that the sharks will soon wreak havoc on the world, eating Samuel L. Jackson in the midst of one of his preachy speeches, and just begging Thomas Jane to wrangle their asses (sassy black chef commentary from LL Cool J is also a strong possibility).

Equinox Gym Probably Doesn't Give a Fuck About You

The end of the year is here. We're only hours away from a chance to start afresh in 2012, which means...it's time to vehemently break up with undeserving significant others, soul-sucking friends who offer no reasonable return, and gyms who no longer deserve your membership dues. Yes. That's right people. A gym.

When I first sought a gym in New York, I wrote a piece about the whole process, approaching the situation like I would if I was choosing someone worthy of dating. After much debating, I eventually settled on someone named Equinox.

During our memorable three-year relationship, I overlooked the occasional lack of hot water, watered-down Kiehl's toiletries, leaky ceilings, phone stalking by managers, and other less than luxurious occurrences.

Despite the sporadic kerfuffles at the gym, when I decided to leave Equinox and move on to Pilates, yoga, swimming and occasional starvation for the sake of fitness elsewhere, I felt like our past—and the thousands of dollars I paid in membership dues—was strong enough to lend to a reasonably civil break-up.

WRONG.

I was instead treated to a heaping helping of the tacky dismisiveness and nonchalant cluelessness that plagues the service industry these days. So, in light of the piece I wrote about desperately seeking a gym several years ago, I've decided that the retort to my less than graceful exit from Equinox should be in the form of a break-up letter because, let's face it, the bastard won't give me the time of day now, much less a face-to-face confrontation.

Dear Equinox,

I'm so sad that things have ended as they did. I really wanted to remain friends. I mean, after all you've helped me stay in shape for the last several years and those fabulous pools of yours at Greenwich and Time Warner were the stuff dreams are made of—even when I was sometimes sharing them with 60 year-old women who hadn't managed to wash their make-up off and obnoxious turds who have no idea how to share a lane.

You've introduced me to Pilates, to spinning, to kickboxing. You've enabled me to burn calories in the company of Mary-Louise Parker, Sam Champion, Cheyenne Jackson, Giuliana Rancic, Sean P. Puff Diddy Daddy Combs,  and so many other glamorous New Yorkers (the tacky ones were just as fun to watch, too, even if all they did was stand in front of mirrors, fart, look at their abs and talk on their cell phones).

Things just haven't been the same lately, though. I think the rift between us began when you phone-harassed my sister and my best friend in an attempt to get them to join your club. Apart from annoying, it was just creepy and sort of desperate.

When I told you I was going to leave you, you couldn't even look me in the eye. You scribbled something on a form and, without telling me you were doing so, charged my credit card 11 days before you were supposed to, saying "Oh, that's just what we do." With that dismissive gesture, you took all of our beautiful experiences together and shat on them like an inbred lapdog would on a $175 throw pillow. I totally felt like just a notch in your elliptical machine, you bastard.

Maybe we could have gotten back together. But to get me back you'd have to do a hell of a lot of groveling...and you'd also have to seat me next to Mary-Louise in spin class. Then and only then would I MAYBE I'd think about it. Until then, you're just Bally's with a better haircut.

Trying so hard to write "Fondly" without gagging on hypocrisy,

 X

Roebuck Yourself

Sears is reportedly planning to close approximately 100 its stores since its sales for the fourth quarter so far are off 2.6 percent from 2010. So it’s safe to say that not only have the Kardashian’s managed to assault television and annihilate the sanctity marriage, their sweatshop clothing line has now managed to cause severe financial detriment to decades-old company. I’m pretty sure the tectonic plates shift irregularly and kittens die when they open their gooey glossy mouths to speak but that has yet to be scientifically proven.

3 prostitutes model the Armenian Line of Raquel Welch's wig collection

Legal Weapon

Mel Gibson’s ex-wife, Robyn, was just awarded with 425 million dollars in their divorce which will take effect on 9 January, 2012. After over three decades of marriage, that’s like winning a $13.7 million lottery 31 times! Except, in order for the volatile, macho, bigoted convenient store clerk to sell you the winning tickets, you have to sleep with him and bear him a litter of 7 all while wondering just when he’ll snap and kick you in the face like a defenseless wallaby on the side of an abandoned Outback road. 

Gibson wondering what Danny Glover would do

Holi-drinking

As the only boy in the family, my masculine father looked to me to carry on family traditions. When it became apparent that I was more likely to watch Priscilla Queen of the Desert than to follow in his football footsteps, he zeroed in on two traditions he was certain I could carry forth: homemade eggnog on Christmas eve and Oyster stew on Christmas day.

Being lactose intolerant and more inclined to drink vodka than whiskey, the homemade eggnog tradition fell to my sisters. And having a gluten allergy that prevents me from eating the saltine crackers involved in making the stew (not to mention my aversion to that horrendous fishy odor), oyster stew eventually fell off the radar.

Instead, several years ago, quite by chance, I began my own Christmas morning tradition that continues to live on. I leisurely wake up, swiftly follow my first morning cup of coffee with a cocktail, turn on an episode of Dynasty, and, with the giddy glee of a child opening the perfect present, order underwear online.

This year was no different. However, rather than pouring a glass of champagne Joan Collins would have approved of (as I had grown used to doing), I decided to invent my own cocktail. The recipe is as follows:

• 1 part St. Germain Elderflower liqueur (seriously, this stuff is the liquid version of deity-worthy ambrosia)
• 3 parts Titos Vodka (this vodka is low in price, high in quality, gluten free and made in my homestate of Texas – it’s pretty much the only clear spirit I serve to guests)
• 6 parts apple juice (the less sugar the better)
• 3 parts pear nectar
• lemon juice to cut the sweetness (about 1 tblsp per serving)
• topping it off with some soda for a bubbly effect is completely optional 

Not a seasonal beverage, this drink works perfectly in the winter and I can absolutely see myself sipping it poolside in the summer—if I can find anyone with a decent pool. It’s delicately sweet, intoxicating in every sense of the word, and has a complex flavor that you’d like to linger.

dramatic over-the-shoulder glances while sipping this drink are recommended

 

Seeing as Dynasty was on my television at the inauguration of this cocktail, I’ve christened it the Krystle Carrington. Any similarity in color between my drink and her frosted hair was purely coincidental. Maybe. 

Bette Meddy Chreeesmas

As we gear up for that day where no gift you've purchased measures up to the materialistic anticipations of your loved ones, here's a little Christmas classic to keep you warm and fuzzy and totally wanting to smoke a pack of Parliament Lights whilst watching All About Eve.

Holiday Entertainment

In case you've grown weary of watching the same three holiday movies over and over and OVER on AMC, (I think we can all agree that seeing Bing Crosby's White Christmas once is seeing it one time too many), I've got a few back-ups that gently remind us that the holidays are truly for all of us— psychos and little demon creatures alike.

Black Christmas (1974)
 


Featuring:

• Margo Kidder drunk and sporting a velvet choker
• Andrea Martin with a Pam Grier fro and John Lennon glasses
• Olivia Hussey with her Zeffirelli Juliet allure in full force
• The most uncomfortable obscene phone call scene that'll make Harvey Keitel's full frontal in The Piano seem virginal

Black Christmas (2006)

Featuring:

• Andrea Martin with tamer hair
• Michelle Trachtenberg with a filthy mouth
• A chick who totally looks like Janice Dickinson
• The most disgusting scene involving a cookie cutter ever created

While She Was Out (2008)

Part domestic abuse thriller, part psycho-killer horror, part Christmas-brings-out-the-worst-in-everyone movie featuring:

• Kim Basinger armed with only a tool box against a gang of hoodlums
• Lukas Haas looking creepier than ever
• One of the best juxtaposed uses of a redwood forest and grimly vacant master-planned community

Gremlins (1984)



I know I know I know. We've all seen this one. But come on. Who doesn't want to hear Phoebe Cates's creepy Christmas monologue during the holiday season? Then there's that whole microwave scene.


Elves (1990)



Admittedly, I've never seen this gem of a film. But how can you go wrong with a flick from the highly acclaimed production company, Action International Pictures? And for serious, any movie where an attractive bad actress nonchalantly says "Had a rough day at work...Santa got murdered." has got to be worthy of critical praise.

If all else fails, just try and enjoy the company of your family and friends...also known as vodka, St. Germain, cranberry and Bravo TV. Nene!!!

Kim Kiminey, Kim Kim Kiree

The death of the giant rabbit eating, mentally ill puppet from Team America this week garnered more weepy antics across North Korea than the final episode of Sex and the City did in the living rooms of women across America wearing shoes they couldn't afford.

In order to hopefully cheer these folks up—seriously, they make the rejected Bachelorettes (ABC) look sane—I’d like to suggest a few other Kims who might be better suited for taking the dictatorial reins than his strange little son / twin / costumed creepshow Kim Jong-un.

KIM CATTRALL: She has already secured herself as an icon so she won’t have to waste valuable time perfecting a signature haircut or crafting an outfit that will remind people she’s better than they are. Plus, she could solve North Korea’s hunger problem by parlaying her I Can’t Believe It’s Not Butter endorsements into some sort of fake buttered food campaign.  

KIM FIELDS: she’s been off the radar since Living Single went off the air. But having been on two successful television shows, she knows how to be a public figure. Plus, since she’s been away for a while, she’ll work extra hard to stay relevant by being a fair yet powerful ruler. Unless of course Dancing With the Stars calls, then she’ll be outta there and on her way to LA for a dance number involving roller skates, sequins, and the theme song from Facts of Life. 

XXX: No. Not that one who shall remain un-named. Sears would be upset. Plus she’d only rule for 72 days before quitting. Plus she’s a whore and that’s illegal in North Korea. Allegedly.

KIM BASSINGER: She’d be a horrible ruler. But I just can’t help thinking that speaking Korean with her adorable Southern lilt could pretty much make anyone eat out of her little ol’ hand. Take that, Andie MacDowell!

And my personal favorite:

The KIM RICHARDS and KIM ZOLCIAK Difecta: It’s apparent that neither Real Housewife could hold a country together on her own—Richards is as fragile and crumbling as our nation’s economy and Zolciak can’t even hold her legs together much less a country—but together they could be a genius political pairing. Richards is just the right amount of spitfire batshit crazy pants that North Korea is used to. And Zolciak, though not the smartest cookie in the jar, can most likely scare the shit out of any adversary with the flip of her wig and an evil glare from her sidekick, Sweetie.

I see a reality show spin-off in the works

And there you have it. I’ve basically just saved the world a whole hell of a lot of trouble and anxious guessing. Now to help the HFPA pick the least deserving Best Picture for the 2012 Golden Globes. Moneyball. Moneyball. Moneyball.