Sunday, July 27, 2008

Don't Get Hot and Flustered - Use a Bit of Mustard.


Two pieces of Hollywood "news" have the chunks rising in my throat as I type this. I've known about them for days, but I've only just now let the knowledge sink in to the point that I can process and then immediately trash it.

I'm simply pulverized by this latest news.

  • MTV is "remaking" The Rocky Horror Picture Show.


  • John Waters is writing a treatment for a "sequel" to Hairspray - the film based on the broadway musical based on the film.


  • Hollywood - a land of creative waste, where they take the classics - whether they're horror, musicals, science fiction, whatever - and throw them to figurative hyaenas that tear them to shreds, shitting out shiny, sleek new films bereft of any emotional or artistic value.

    The Rocky Horror Picture Show. You can't remake this. You just can't. To try is to miss completely why the film worked in the first place. Its success was purely accidental, and will never ever happen again.

    1975 was the height of the sex, drugs and decadence era that started with the "Summer of Love," morphed with the Manson Family, and would end when AIDS epidemic wreaked havoc across the world.

    Frank N. Furter and his bisexual, transvestite antics were a call to people around the globe, saying, "You can suck dick and wear women's undergarments and be cool as hell!"

    It was shocking then because homosexuality was, for the most part, still a subject of derision. Gays were portrayed as lisping, timid perverts scouring bathrooms and lurking in parks. Frank was assertive. He was strong. He killed people with pickaxes. And he boned everything that walked.

    Before that geriatric asshole Ronald Reagan destroyed everything good and turned the country into a seething cauldron of moronic right wing fucks, we were almost to the point where we would be able to just get along. Rocky Horror is a product of that time - it was just fun.

    To remake it is a huge mistake. It just won't work. Kids today - they don't give a fuck about homosexuality. It's not shocking... it isn't even interesting. "Big deal, he's a transvestite," they'll say. They see more shocking shit on TV every night. Drugs - big deal. Underwear - ooh wee.

    But all that is beside the point. The point is this - WHY WHY WHY WHY WHY would you even want to attempt to recreate what Tim Curry already made perfect?

    Much to his chagrin, Tim Curry IS Frank N. Furter. Sure, the character's been portrayed around the world on the stage by tons of actors - but Tim Curry originated the role on the stage in 1973 and immortalized it on film in 1975. Great voice, awesome, erotic moves, some of the best facial expressions ever captured on film - this is what Tim Curry brought to the character. Who will the cast who could even hope to do a fraction of what Tim Curry achieved? No one.

    So, MTV - fuck you. Don't desecrate a cult classic. The film's still showing in theaters around the world - why not just let the original continue its existence unabated instead of spreading your asscheeks and taking a giant, corn-filled shit on it? You people ought to be ashamed of yourselves. Assholes.



    The other news - Feh. John Waters has always said he will do anything for money, but I just thought he was saying that to be cute. After the last botched abortion that was Cry-Baby: the Musical, you'd think he'd be a little hesitant to go tacking his name on to any project that Hollywood buttfucks suggested. But you'd be wrong.

    He's doing a sequel to Hairspray and they're hoping to bring the original cast back.

    This news isn't as pernicious to me as the other, but it's still pretty icky. I've bloviated about my adoration for Hairspray before, so I'll spare you. I've been trying to think up an acceptable storyline for a sequel to the dance-happy story of Baltimore's racial struggles and the power that comes to a young fatass named Tracy Turnblad, but I just can't.

    My friend Chris did, but I'm not going to share it with you here. Because after this sequel comes out and flops, I'm going to force him to write his idea and get it produced. Because it is awesome and amazing and he is a genius for coming up with it.


    Hollywood is packed with shitheads who don't care about art or creativity or even quality. Fuck that shit.

    Thursday, July 24, 2008

    Fat Cunt Ruins Indiana Jones


    What is it with these assholes?

    Here I am, trying to enjoy a research-fueled viewing of Indiana Jones and the Kingdom of the Crystal Skull - I'm writing a tie-in book - and the circumstances are already pretty poor indeed.

    I'm at the City Cinema on Second Avenue and 12th Street, which, if you're seeing the main feature, is quite the glamorous old skool theater - but if you're seeing one of the older films, consists of tiny tiny Smurf Village-sized theaters with screens about as big as George W. Bush's brain and sound quality about as professional as listening to a transistor radio through a soup can attached to a string. Not really one of your higher-end cinemas.

    So here I am, right, in a nearly-empty theater with my friend and future coworker Lil Chrissy, when 3/4 of the way through an obese chatterbox and her hulking, idiotic boyfriend decide it would be a good idea to sneak in and "watch" the END of a movie.

    Of course they sit right behind me. I am, as evidenced through my daily tribulations, an asshole magnet. If someone's going to do something annoying and inconsiderate and horrifying, they always always ALWAYS choose to do it next to me in order to GET ON MY FUCKING NERVES.

    I'm already pissed off that these twats have distracted me from the film in any way. I need to track Irina Spalko's every move. I must memorize her inflections, her hairstyle, her everything - because she is, in my estimation, one of the cinema's more entertaining villains.

    Then Fatty and Smugs start talking. Not whispering - that would make sense even for rude people. These assholes are just plain talking, as if the sound emanating from the theater's speakers is an annoyance that's hindering their ability to talk to one another. Then the stupid, fat wad of shit actually takes some papers out of her bag and they start reviewing something. Is it plans for their shotgun wedding? Are they getting Hiz -n- Herz airbrush-style tattoos of each other's names and reviewing the art to make sure the apostrophes are in the right places?

    I don't give a fuck. What I DO give a fuck about is the fact that these people are actively participating in one of the many societal faux pas that have come into being due to the advent of the internet, cell phones, cable, VCRs and DVD players, video games, and blackberries.

    As our dependence on technology grows, our ability to function as humans dwindles.

    "SSSSHHHHHH!" I hiss, glaring at the two of them.

    And they get mad at me. Yes, I have inconvenienced these two stupid pieces of shit - I have actually attempted to derail their conversation they're having OVER A MOVIE IN A PUBLIC THEATER.

    The bovine turd mocks me. "You hear what he say? He say SHHH!" she cackles. They mumble some more insults, but I guess I've made my point - she struggles to break the vacuum her accumulated fat has created in the plastic bucket theater seat, then grabs her super-sized soda an shuffles through the seats to the aisle.

    "You can pass me my soda?" she shrieks in a voice of confidence as if she's cracking the best joke in the history of man.

    "You got it in yo hands!" her brainiac boyfriend responds.

    "I know, I juss wanted to say dat," she chuckles. Boy, she really told me. She really put me in my place.

    Fats McGillicuddy and Waddles O'Malley talk loudly to each other as they exit the theater. They've been there a total of five minutes, but they've managed to derail any sense of enjoyment I could possibly have achieved at this moviegoing event.

    And they make it seem as if I am the one responsible for ruining THEIR good time. How DARE I ask them to stop talking in a theater where other people have paid to NOT listen to their butchering of the English language? What am I thinking to ask them in what I consider to be a relatively polite way to stop talking while I'm trying to watch a film?

    This happens to me in every movie I ever see. Either it's the assholes who bring their two-year olds to see Rob Zombie's Halloween and don't take the baby out when it starts screaming because they're too busy carrying on separate conversations on cell phones, or the fuckfaces who check their text messages every five seconds, illuminating the theater like retarded fireflies blinking stupidity on a hot summer night.

    This sort of behavior used to be situational. I used to enjoy the occasional idiocy that escaped a shithead's lips in a moment of excitement. For example, when I saw Halloween: H20, I laughed along with everyone else when a frightened patron shrieked, "THEY SHOT LL! THEY SHOT LL!" when LL Cool J supposedly died. And I still to this day scream, "Don't be fooled! He head gonna grow back like a snake!" which is what some dipshit advised Jamie Lee Curtis as her character Laurie Strode tentatively approached the recently-decapitated body of her mass-murdering brother Michael Myers.

    But those were isolated incidents in a much more innocent age. Now it's a free-for-all of doom in a theater.

    Yet another example of how we have devolved as a species. I barely ever go to movies anymore because these shitheads are now the majority. People who AREN'T checking their phones or talking to one another have gotten to a point of acceptance and don't really seem to care that others are doing so. Either that, or they're just too scared to say anything. Whichever one, all of them - each and every one - needs to die painfully and slowly. RIGHT NOW.

    I hate these people. When did we lose our ability to think? When did we stop considering others? I mean, Jesus.

    Tuesday, July 22, 2008

    The Art of Giving.


    One of my yoga instructors has been pushing a meditation technique called Tonglen on his classes pretty stridently for the past several weeks and, as skeptical as I am toward this sort of stuff - I am, after all, in a yoga class, so I'm trying this shit out.

    Tonglen, in essence, is the act of "taking and giving" through meditative and conscious breathing. For example, if you are perambulating the subway platform and see a grubby, filthy, lazy god damn bum - you inhale, mentally extracting from that hobo all of his pain and suffering and exhale back into the vagabond inner peace, tranquility, joy, and love.

    One particularly sycophantic student in a recent class posed the question, "But, like, after you've inhaled all that suffering, what do you, like, do with it?"

    My teacher flipped his ponytail back and stated that the best course of action is to imagine that you've got a flame burning in your belly and you drag the suffering into that flame, charring it out of existence. Easy enough.

    You can do this for any situation. In my yoga practice in general, my instructors tell me to focus on something that needs help or is suffering and give the results of my yoga to them. In making yoga not about you but about something else, you are "growing spiritually" and giving energy to something / someone that needs it.

    For the most part I give my yoga practice to the animals of the world because I've come to the conclusion that en masse humans are carbuncles that need to be lanced.

    But more recently I've given it to two friends - one who has gone through extremely traumatic surgery and is still recuperating and another whose spouse just passed away. While it may not change their condition physically - perhaps my concentrating the massive amounts of energy I create and expel during yoga will in some esoteric way help them. Who knows.

    Tonglen, a recent introduction into my practice, harkens back to a lesson I learned in my very first yoga class way back in 1994 - the simple mantra, "Inhale pink, exhale blue." When you inhale suffering and exhale peace or whatever - at least you feel better temporarily.

    I have been doing Tonglen unintentionally since I first heard about it. I can feel my breathing deepen and become more focused when I see distress.

    My problem with Tonglen arises in that I find myself using it at all times and for all reasons. For example:

  • To aid the fatass in ending her rabid fixation with toaster strudel.


  • To get the stupid hipster to stop wearing ironic t-shirts, standing there on the corner acting as if he doesn't care that he's living in the most impressive city in the world, blowing his fucking cigarette smoke into my face.


  • To get our current government to slip up and do something that is traceable so we can arrest all of them and they'll finally get what's coming to them. Each and every one of them.


  • To help the vagabond in the Broadway / Lafayette subway stop quit intentionally pissing his pants because it's summertime and he reaks like murder.


  • To end the production of ham.

  • I doubt very highly that this is what the monks of old had in mind when they came up with this difficult and expansive practice, but if I can get one jackass to stop wearing gladiator sandals while simultaneously bringing tranquility and peace to the world, then I shall not live in vain.

    Monday, July 21, 2008

    Madagascar bound

    I'm a-headin' to Madagascar, y'all. Today I went to the Madagascar Mission to the United Nations up on 43rd Street and 2nd Avenue to pick up my 100% official visa for entrance to that fabled land of fossas, lemurs, chameleons, exploding palms, and aye-ayes. Meanwhile, here's the sign hanging in the Mission's restroom:

    Monday, July 14, 2008

    Dipshits A-Plenty


    Why do people continue to be so stridently, unrepentently and staggeringly stupid? We're careening to our collective doom here, and all we care about is iPhones and whatever corpuscular mass managed to slither its way out of Angelina Jolie's snatch.

    Last Friday I had to go to the post office to mail some important documents.

    Now, it is a sad fact that my post office is adjacent to the Apple Store in SoHo - a deadly walk on a regular day, what with all the stupid tourists milling around outside of it TAKING PICTURES OF THE APPLE STORE, glaring at their iPods and iPhones, hunkered over with their laptops, drooling on themselves as if they are preparing burnt offerings for their own personal Gods. I mean, it's a fucking store. You want to come to New York? Fine. But if you're going to fly here from Rancho Cucamonga or Paris or Japan or wherever the fuck you're coming from, you should go to things that matter, like the Statue of Liberty or the Public Library. Central Park. Any of the world-famous museums we have here. THOSE are things you can't see in your home town. The Apple Store - fuck off. You've got one in your mall, and it's less crowded.

    I knew that last friday was the day the gaywad iPhone 3G was being released. I was aware of the fact that it would probably be a nightmare. But I simply HAD to mail this earth-shatteringly important document. So I rounded the corner, and as expected, there as a FUCKING queue of people out the door and around the corner, stretching from Prince to Houston St. That's right - a full city block. Did it twist around and spill onto Houston itself? I don't know. What I DO know is that it was a line of MORONS.

    Y'all - you were standing in line for a phone. A PHONE. It won't get you in touch with anyone any faster than your older iPhone that you've had for about a year.

    This desperate need to be on the cutting edge of technology with phones baffles me. Why have be become so dependent on these communication devices? I don't WANT to be accessible 24 hours a day via TEXT, CELL, EMAIL, IM, et cetera. I don't understand people who are on their cellular telephones ALL DAY LONG. Just ten years ago, cellular phones were for people who needed them, like doctors. Now, anyone who can manage to fasten the glue-tabs on their adult diapers can talk on a cellular phone, generally screeching with such obnoxious abandon that anyone within a ten-foot radius will be as intimately involved in their conversation as they are.

    So there I was, looking at all these people standing in line for HOURS to get a phone. It made me stop to ponder once again how sick the human race is. If people could get that excited to spend that much money on something that would HELP OTHERS - imagine what could get done in the world. Instead, we're addicted to these inane little contraptions that are destroying our social skills, building up yet more waste, and contributing to the DEATHS OF THE WORLD'S LAST GORILLAS. Will you be proud of your iPhone collection when the last gorilla on earth is dead so you could talk to Tanya about how great the party you went to on Saturday was?

    Yes, I have a cellular telephone. I begrudgingly got one when I lived in the boondocks in northern California and was driving dangerous one-lane backroads on a daily basis. I have had four cell phones total since 1999. Each time I get a new one I feel enslaved. I remember the days of rotary phones and answering machines, the days when you were able to walk down the street without seeing the majority of douchebags waddling along their necks slouched to one side as they yammer incoherently to someone about superfluous crap.

    I remember when you didn't have to scream at people to get out of a doorway because they were too busy checking their text messages to realize that they were acting like complete cunts. I remember a time when you could to to a movie theater and not have to sit through an ocean of blinking lights, assholes checking their phones every six minutes, and - amazingly - holding conversations during the film as if their complete and utter assholeism is the most normal thing in the world. If you yell at these assholes to get off the phone, they get mad at YOU! Amazing.

    This furor over the iPhone - from news coverage on a daily basis (headline-stealing, as a matter of fact) to the lines of jackasses winding around the corners of Apple stores around the world - just shows how sick we've become.

    Priorities - where have ours gone?

    Wednesday, July 2, 2008

    Karma Chameleon

    Picture it - I'm sitting in Padmasana, preparing to get ripped a new asshole by my Jivamukti-trained Yoga instructor Maria when she pauses, as she is wont to do at beginning of class, to give an intellectual / spiritual reading. In order for her students to better themselves.

    Last night's reading was about Karma and the many ways in which one can maintain good karma or reduce bad karma, blah blah blah. Meanwhile, she reads, "In order to have good karma, one must think only good thoughts and say only good things."

    Now, I'm not 100% sold on this karma nonsense. However, since I am a pretty dedicated Yogi these days, I feel I must at least make an attempt to create inner as well as outer harmony up in this piece. So, this morning I woke up and said to myself, I said, "You know what? Today's going to be a GREAT day to start practicing thinking good thoughts and saying only good things."

    Karma means "deed" or "act" and more broadly names the universal principle of cause and effect, action and reaction that governs all life. Karma is not fate, for humans act with free will creating their own destiny. According to the Vedas, if we sow goodness, we will reap goodness; if we sow evil, we will reap evil. Karma refers to the totality of our actions and their concomitant reactions in this and previous lives, all of which determines our future. The conquest of karma lies in intelligent action and dispassionate response.
    Anyone who knows me even slightly knows that the contents of my brain are basically a figurative cauldron of bubbling black muck, spewing forth in gurgling fits of heated rage some of the most hideous invective ever released from the mouth of man. If it's available, I'll insult it. I don't care what it is. A newborn baby, a flawless diamond, a child running with its mother flying its first kite in the park - everything will receive some scathing remark from this bitter bastard. Why? I was just brought up that way.

    My mother's side of my family is a pack of malicious assholes, showing no emotions other than contempt. Trying to get them to say the word "love," even to their own children or spouses, is about as difficult as scraping a leech off your leg without pouring gasoline on it. And, unfortunately, that trait is something that was passed directly along to me five-ten-fiftyfold.

    So here I am this morning, after getting my iced, locally-roasted coffee with soy milk in a biodegradable corn plastic cup from Urban Spring, walking down the street listening to "Devi Prayer" by Craig Pruess and Ananda (and I am only listening to that because I think it's pretty - it has nothing to do with my hippie mission for the day) when the onslaught of horror that comes from living in NYC begins. I have been out of my apartment for five minutes.

    Observe:
  • A morbidly obese girl, hair dyed pink in haphazard strands, waddles past - she's wearing a t-shirt that says "I LOVE CARBS" and has an anime bear on it. I bite my lower lip, but the mind can't be silenced. "I can see that," I say to myself. FUCK! A slip-up. I'll try harder.


  • The entrance to the subway is comparable to the Gates of Hell. First, I'm accosted by one of those well-meaning kids who expects me to give him my ATM card number so his organization can extract from my bank account a monthly amount in order to 'save the planet.' "I ain't giving my fucking ATM card number to no kid on the street," I say. "It's totally safe," he replies, seeing he's getting nowhere with me.

    "You know what? I have sacrificed almost every single thing in life that gives me happiness in order to save this fucking planet. I've given up eating MEAT, I don't consume dairy, I power my home with wind energy, I buy carbon credits when I fly, I quit smoking, I don't drive, I recycle EVERYTHING, I compost, I buy local produce, I have compact fluorescent lightbulbs in every single lamp in my home - even Mona - I don't do ONE FUCKING THING to contribute to the filth that is enveloping this planet in despair, so you're not getting my god damn bank card number!" I hiss, storming off toward the stairs, realizing too late that I could have been less agressive. I consider turning around and apologizing, but see that he's already ensnared someone wearing an oversized leather coat with Bugs Bunny stitched on the back.


  • Grotesque, miserable examples of humanity gone wrong have been hired by the freebie daily newspapers to hand out countless copies of these crap rags to people who disinterestedly take them solely because they're free and then throw them away almost instantly. Nothing gets on my nerves faster than this ABSURD waste of paper - and on a daily basis - that litters the streets and subways. Every single fucking day. The gnome at my stop tries to hand me one, to which I reply, "No, thank you" (probably the politest response she gets from anyone) when I notice that her neck is tattooed with the name "La'Trice" and she's got a gold stud in her eyebrow and one in her lower left lip. So ugly. So horrifyingly, disturbingly ugly.

    I can't for the life of me comprehend why people get tattoos on their necks or besmirch their already foul visages with gold accessories. I mean, GOLD MOUTH PIERCINGS? gross.


  • On the train, finally, and trying to regain composure, I look over to see a turd gnawing on an apricot right out in the middle of the subway, spewing juice and pulp all over the floor. Happily gumming the abused fruit, this woman is completely oblivious to the fact that she is contributing to the problem and making it next to impossible for me to balance out what has already become a pretty tragically "bad karma" day for me.


  • I look down to avoid the continued mastication, when I see a woman's feet in six-inch neon green heels, toenails painted electric watermelon. I scan up to see a stretch fabric camouflage dress covering the sagging, wattled body of a woman who must be in her mid-sixties. Her hair has been dyed the color of flesh and is in a Farah Fawcett flip.

    I can't escape the madness, so I just succumb.


  • I see a hipster girl with short shorts, fringed boots and a fucking headband. She's got that "I don't give a fuck about anything" look of smug entitlement on her face as she stares at nothing in particular.

    Headbands. WHY are thin, late-sixties style headbands making a comeback with these stupid, trend-hopping youngsters? These unattractive, superfluous accessories automatically make whoever is wearing them look like stoners, and stupid ones to boot. I keep picturing Jenny from Forrest Gump making the peace sign at Forrest after she's gotten the crap beaten out of her by her Black Panther-sympathizing boyfriend. If only people would do that to these stupid hipster kids.


  • Finally escaping the B Train, I ascend the stairs into the neighborhood of doom, SoHo. Once a crime-ridden hellhole of warehouses, lofts, used bookstores and "art," this place has become a magnet for eurotrash and middle American shoppers who flock here to buy everything they could find in their own cities for much, much cheaper, and to annoy me in the process by doing typical tourist things like stopping in front of me without turning around to see if there's anyone behind them, smoking, text-messaging while they should be GETTING OUT OF MY FUCKING WAY, and using air that could be put to better use in my lungs, not theirs.

    This neighborhood should be eradicated; it is a giant mall and a bad one at that. Two. Count them - TWO H&Ms, almost directly across the street from each other. Two - yes, I said two - Club Monacos, three blocks from one another. Two Starbucks. An Apple Store. Why bother? Go to the mall in your own fucking city and get the hell out of my way.

  • It is sad that I feel I'm taking refuge by being at work, but at least here I'm in an office with the door closed. Humanity is working all around me to assault me with fashion errors, planetary blunders, and many other issues, but here - I can pretend they're all far, far away and I can, as my first yoga instructor Jeannie said, "inhale pink and exhale blue."

    The karma thing will have to wait for another day because bad karma - it's in my blood, I guess. I should just accept it.