Random Thoughts: The Devil and Miss Stone, 300-Pack Abs, and Akon's Vibe

Some pop-culture-related nuggets that have been floating around in my head:

- Last summer I posted my positive review of The Devil Wears Prada to Blogcritics and got some feisty comments. “It’s not as good as the book!” “It glamorizes unhealthy female body image!” “There’s no conflict!” To which I say: no, yes and kind of. Now that I’ve rewatched it on DVD and also read the book, I still want to praise Meryl Streep, Emily Blunt and Stanley Tucci. What Lauren Weisberger, the book’s young author, couldn’t understand was that her boss could be both a bitch and a brilliant woman who is incredibly good at her job. It is too bad that the heroine deems slimming down to a size 4 (from an elephantine size 6) as a major accomplishment, and yes, the boyfriend is lame (he’s an aspiring chef and he’s complaining about her schedule?), but overall, the film is still entertaining fluff.

- In the spirit of re-thinking, or amending past reviews: my love, or should I say my really like, for Janet Jackson’s 20 Y.O. has sufficiently waned to wonder what exactly is wrong with it. I know it’s underwhelming, and I know I’m tired of her obsession with sex, but what else is there? It didn’t hit me until I listened to the chorus of “Show Me” for the 800th time: “Show me, ‘cause actions speak louder than words.” No shit? I mean, she’s forty, and this is what she’s learned? A cliché that’s older than she is? Since the whole album is based on how she’s a forty-year-old woman who still looks/feels/acts like a twenty-year-old, I had to ask: should a forty-year-old want to think like a twenty-year-old? How is that a good thing? If it means trite “insights” like that, then guess what? It’s not.

- Why are songs that are about how inspiring music is so uninspiring themselves? I was reminded of this when listening to Joss Stone’s new CD and her song “Music.” It’s so laid-back it’s practically asleep. I mean, the song is fine, I guess, but if music is really so awesome then why is its tribute so comparatively boring? It reminded me of Leela James' "Music" (even these titles are boring) which I found equally odd – all about how amazing music is, yet so underwhelming itself. Which made me think about Lauryn Hill’s “Superstar” which at least had good lyrics but was still a mid-tempo chill-out that embodied her own accusations: “everything you drop is so tired.” Ironically, Hill guest-raps on Stone’s “Music.” It doesn’t help.

- What is up with AfterElton.com’s horrible book section? They feature only four items right now – scratch that, make it three, as they actually repeat the same link twice. And the big feature is an interview with Augusten Burroughs from May 2006! Their other sections like movies and especially TV are chock-full of articles, columns and recaps. Granted, if the site is about how gays are portrayed in the media, then I guess TV probably has a bigger impact than literature, but when Bookslut features new interviews with Edmund White and Andrew Holleran in the last two months, you have to wonder who’s asleep behind the wheel at AfterElton.

- In his gorgeous new Italian cookbook, Jamie's Italy, Jamie Oliver recommends a local treat: drizzle really good olive oil over really good vanilla ice cream and sprinkle with sea salt. I tried it. I think I need better olive oil.



- I love how, in his new interview in Vibe, Akon basically admits over and over again that he lies whenever he feels like it, leading one to believe that you probably shouldn't believe anything he says. And yet, somehow, I don't think that will affect his career at all.



- And finally...I finally saw 300. There’s a minor hubbub in the gay community over its portrayal of the villains in the movie. I was doubtful going in, but now I kind of agree. Frank Miller, who’s historically inaccurate graphic novel the movie is based on, clearly has some (probably unconscious) prejudices that he needs to work out. His heroes apparently have to be white and very heterosexual, virile, macho and hirsute who live to sleep with only women (again, historically misleading) and kill people. His villains, on the other hand, are be-jeweled, manicured, effeminate RuPaul clones who stage massive orgies with lesbians, trannies and hunchbacks. It’s not just offensive for the stereotypes and negative associations he’s passing on to young straight men everywhere (as if an R rating is keeping out the teens), it’s lazy, outdated shorthand to contrast the “other” from the straight, white, male protagonist.

I wonder if it would bother me less if I really enjoyed the movie, but I hope not. As it was, the special effects were cool, the Abercrombie & Fitch models - I mean, the cast - looked good in leather briefs and capes, but I didn’t care about any of the characters.

(Thanks to AfterElton for the pic.)

Also check out: If She's the Devil, Then Hell Must Be Fabulous.
And: What Do I Call Her If I'm Not Nasty?
And: Soul Sisters: Amy Winehouse and Joss Stone.

Deep Thoughts with Amy Sedaris

When an unexpected guest doesn't know when to leave, and he happens to be gay:

You can always lie. Make up a story, such as: "Don't mind me. The doctors said the best thing for my yeast infection was to expose my vagina to the air."

OR

"Oh, I'm so glad you're here. You can help me pick out the best photos of my vagina from these contact sheets."

OR

"You can't stay. It's March Madness."

Thanks, Amy.

Check out other deep thoughts here!

Soul Sisters: Amy Winehouse and Joss Stone

When I was young, I wanted to sing like a big, black gospel singer. Is that stereotype offensive? Maybe, but I was, like, nine, so I didn’t know any better. But now that there’s a British neo-soul invasion storming the U.S., I might have to amend that to also wanting to sing like a young, white British woman.

For instance, if I want to sing like Amy Winehouse, which I so desperately do, I’d also need to get my drink on. Four of the ten tracks on her American debut, Back to Black, reference alcohol in some way. The torchy title track, with its cinematic strings and echo-chamber bridge, is the gut-wrenching kiss-off of a woman who chooses her drinking-and-drugged-out blackouts while her lover chooses another woman (“You go back to her/And I go back to…”). And even the songs that don’t reference her vices directly are drenched in self-destructive heartbreak.

Thank God for Phil Spector. The legendary producer’s iconic “Wall of Sound” influence is all over Winehouse’s album (her debut, Frank, was allegedly more jazzy R&B and was not released in the States). Strings, chimes, hand claps, harp and horns perfectly complement Winehouse’s lyrics without letting them weigh down a song. Winehouse’s powerfully deep, sprawling voice is often compared to the likes of Shirley Bassey and Sarah Vaughn and all the more impressive because she doesn’t rely on the melismatic faux-passion of so many of her peers. Combined with her inspiration from Motown’s 50’s and 60’s soul and a lifetime’s worth of heartache and Back to Black adds up to a sound well beyond her 24 years.

Luckily, she also has a sense of humor, as should any young, sassy soul singer. It’s hilarious when, in the old-fashioned standout “Me & Mr. Jones,” she blares out “What kind of fuckery are we?/Nowadays you don’t mean dick to me” and her girl-group harmonies echo “dick to me-e-e-e” in the background. But she sums up her reluctance to end the relationship by addressing the title character with “’side from Sammy you’re my best black Jew.” Yeah, I kind of love her.

So it’s all the more stunning when she hits you with the poetry of her words. I can’t help but quote the entire chorus of “Wake Up Alone”:

He gets fierce in my dreams, seizing my guts,
He floors me with dread,
Soaked to soul he swims in my eyes by the bed,
Pour myself over him,
Moon spilling in,
And I wake up alone

Reading about Winehouse’s penchant canceling sold-out shows for booze-soaked escapades in the tabloids, you hope she gets her shit together. Hell, even her management company staged an intervention, but as she documented in the riveting opening track, “Rehab,” she just said “No, no, no.”

However, her fellow Brit, Joss Stone, seems to be gushing “Yes, yes, yes!” all over her new CD, “Introducing Joss Stone.” From her new, funky, wild-child hair to her naked, graffiti’d body all over the album covers to an undeniable liberation in her actual songs, Stone seems to be having her own “Control” á la Janet Jackson moment. Her name ain’t baby…unless you’re under the covers with her.

Damn, girl done all grown up! How else to explain how, in “Put Your Hands on Me,” the lyrics “Bring me your sugar/And pour it all over me, baby” are followed by what can only be described as an all-out aural ejaculation? During the bridge she blares out a breathless rave of her man, ending with “I love him/I feel him/Oh, I’m loving those hands!” Easy, girl. Breathe.

Stone has described her third album as the first time she’s able to truly express herself (which is strange, as she received co-writing credits on most of her sophomore effort, Mind, Body & Soul), hence the title. She actually seems to be drawing from similar musical, if not lyrical, influences as Winehouse, employing girl-group harmonies and neo-Motown instrumentation. In interviews, Stone can’t help but gush about her producer and co-writer, Raphael Saadiq, which is appropriate as, according to his Wiki page, they’re dating.

Whatever is going on behind the scenes, “Introducing…” is a huge improvement over her previous albums. 2003’s The Soul Sessions was a fine introduction to the then-16-year-old prodigy, but, with a few exceptions, the album felt like generic Soul 101. 2004’s Mind, Body and Soul was even worse. It’s overly long and overly constricting, tightening its young star in a noose of forgettable R&B to the point where she can barely breathe.

So I can forgive Stone for going a little overboard now that she feels emancipated from record label influences. She’s not just breathing here - she’s belting, blaring and blasting all over the fourteen tracks. Some work, some don’t. The pumping bass, horns and sing-along back-up girls make the lead single, “Tell Me ‘About It,” a funky, appropriately brief blast of fresh air. The lush soundscape of “Proper Nice,” complete with twinkling harp and flirty back-and-forth harmonies, evokes a blissful descent into love. And if you’re inside while listening to the drum-‘n-bass propulsion of the opener “Girl They Won’t Believe It,” you’ll want to jump in the nearest convertible and bob your head back and forth in the wind.

Sometimes Stone and her loveryboy producer just seem to have too many ideas per song, but sometimes it comes down to Stone herself. She camped out in Barbados to pour all her energy into her lyrics, but the results rarely reach beyond easy clichés. “These are my words, and this is who I am as an artist,” she has stated in press releases. Fine, but who is she? Most of the songs are either about her love of love or her love of music. Both are perfectly fine, albeit unoriginal, themes, especially for a 19-year-old (what does anyone know about at 19?). But when she has fourteen entire songs all to herself to say whatever she’s bottled up for so long, I hoped she would sing about more than…singing.

Still, for what Stone considers to be her real debut album, she displays an awful lot of potential. Maybe within five years, Saadiq will dump her and she’ll be hitting the bottle and the blues with Winehouse’s gusto, but I’m hoping this bohemian, bare-footed soul singer finds her own way.

Both talented artists are welcome on my radio anytime. I’ll be the guy in his apartment, blaring at the top of his lungs, starting his own Chicago neo-soul (mini-)invasion.

Also check out: In Defense of Amy Winehouse.
And: What Do I Call Her If I'm Not Nasty?

If You Buy Chiquita Bananas...

...you support terrorism. Seriously.

U {Heart} Pierogis

Or you should, anyway. If you've had them, then you know what I'm talking about. It's basically Polish comfort food: flaky pastry dough filled with meats, cheeses and/or veggies and then fried. If you haven't had them, you can come to Chicago to go to The Pierogi Factory. If you can't do that, you can just read my review of the new restaurant in the latest issue of UR Chicago. No, that's not me on the cover, but I'm almost as sexy.

UPDATE: Due to new owners with a new website, my older work for UR Chicago will no longer be available online. Hopefully I'll scan them in soon with the appropriate links.

Also check out: UR Here.

The Food Detective

So I recently received results from a cholesterol test a few weeks ago. I knew high cholesterol ran in my family and even though I’m a fairly healthy eater and exercise somewhat regularly, I know that you can’t really override genetics.

Well, the results weren’t great. They weren’t terrible, either, so I don’t need any meds, luckily. Yes, I don’t get as much cardio exercise as I should and yes, I’ve always had a sweet tooth, but I was still surprised and disappointed. I eat almonds and apples every day; I always choose 100% whole wheat bread and try to avoid high fructose corn syrup (and it’s many variations); my desserts are usually low-fat (thank you, Skinny Cow).

So where did I go wrong? Could it possibly have anything to do with cooking over eighty recipes, and counting, from Giada’s Everyday Italian? They do tend to be filled with cheese and pasta and cream and butter…oh, man, I’m getting hungry. In fact, I think that’s an actual recipe. Cheese and pasta with cream and butter. If it’s not, I’ll make it one.

I do tend to adopt a “how often?’ justification towards culinary indulgences. As in, “well, how often do I ever have a big bowl of creamy, starchy Wild Mushroom Risotto?” Or, “how often does my dinner exclusively consist of Cheese and Rosemary Bread Sticks?” Eating these recipes only once may not be a problem, but when you eat numerous less-than-healthy recipes all in a week or month or year, it starts to take its toll. So let’s take a look back at some of the evidence and see if we can track down where I went wrong on my culinary journey to eat healthy and eat Italian at the same time.

Could it possible have been the numerous pestos? Granted, they almost all have a big clump of grated Parmesan added at the end, but it’s mostly herbs and veggies mixed with oil and nuts. That’s all good, right? The Mushroom Pesto used walnuts which are supposedly a Super Food, and the spinach pesto provides a good dose of greens. And when smothered over grilled tuna steaks or spread on whole wheat crackers, that’s even better, right? So there’s nothing to see here. Let’s keep it movin', people.

OK, I did have a brief affair with butter sauces. Can you blame me? These recipes are like the sexy bad boy – you know they’re bad for you, but you just can’t resist. First, I added basil and pine nuts and then splashed it over Mushroom Ravioli. Another time I added sage, spooned it over Pumpkin Ravioli and then crumbled hazelnuts and amaretti cookies on top. Oh, yeah, and that time I tossed some over lobster ravioli, too. I guess I should disclose that we’re talking about a stick of butter per recipe, folks. This doesn’t sound too good, but this was all months ago - like, before the holidays, so I’m thinking that, while I won’t rekindle this culinary romance any time soon, they’re also not the culprit.

You’d think the problem would be desserts, but I’m not convinced. Yes, I’ve made Panna Cotta on more than one occasion. But the Rice Pudding didn’t turn out right (not the recipe’s fault) so I barely had any. I would think it would be the two days I spent assembling the Chocolate Tiramisu, right? First, you have to make the Chocolate Zabaglione. Zabaglione is an amazing combination of eggs, sugar and Marsala wine that, when cooked, becomes a foamy, boozy ambrosia for dipping fruit and cake. Add chocolate and, well, you can just imagine how much I “sampled” to make sure I got the recipe just right. Then fold in whipped cream and mascarpone cream (again, much sampling), layer with espresso-dipped ladyfingers and you’ve got the chocolate tiramisu. I know, I know – how can I eat that and wonder about cholesterol results? Well, I actually made this the day after the blood test. So it wasn’t just a hit at the Oscar party, it’s also completely innocent. Innocent, I tell you!

Maybe I should retrace my steps the week of the test. First, there was the Salmon Baked in Foil served with Farro Salad. The salmon just steamed in the oven with tomatoes and shallots – all delicious and healthy – and the salad consisted of wild rice (farro is hard to find and takes forever to cook, FYI) with tomatoes, herbs and a balsamic vinegar dressing. So I’m thinking it has to be the Verdure al Forno. It’s a vegetable dish consisting of three layers of zucchini, plus the broccoli and cauliflower that I added. So what’s the problem? Well, between each layer is three, yes three, different cheeses (it’s like the Perfect Storm of dairy: mozzarella, fontina and Parmesan) and cream and bread crumbs. Needless to say, these might have been the best vegetables I’ve ever had. But, I made them 2 days before the test and they’re probably what pushed me over the edge by pushing their cream-coated way into my arteries.

Conclusion? Eat less vegetables. Well, at least less vegetables drowned in cream. The good thing is this is forcing me to find ways to still eat what I want, yet make the necessary changes for a healthier lifestyle. I’ll have more on that in another post. For now, I have to go make a very healthy version of cheese and pasta with cream and butter.

Also check out: Like an Afterschool Special, With Liquor.
And: Square One.

Rock the Cazwell

Imagine Eminem’s slutty cousin and Justin Timberlake's slutty cousin producing a baby and you might get something like Cazwell. Very white, very bald and very dirrrrty (that’s right Christina, I’m giving him 4 r’s), the Worcester, MA-born rapper is making a name for himself as the party-loving, powder-blue-running-shorts-wearing, NY-club-scene-regular, gay white rapper.

To say Cazwell is a unique addition to the pop landscape would be an understatement. Sure, there are other gay rappers vying for attention (Phudge Packerz, anyone?), but only Cazwell (first name Luke) mixes disco with hip-hop, trash with glam, homo with hetero and urban sleaze with positivity.

On his 2006 debut EP, Get Into It, the rapper doesn’t introduce us to him so much as he introduces us to his scene: NY’s 70’s & 80’s (read: pre-AIDS) sexual freedom, where sexy was dirty and sleazy and fun all at the same time. Maybe it’s because Cazwell didn’t actually live in NY during this time that allows him to be so nostalgiac for it, but his infectious beats and freaky humor more than make up for his lack of experience.

The opener, “I Buy My Socks on 14th Street,” pretends to be about his day-to-day life, but the lyrics - like “Why is everyone always looking at me?/Is it ‘cause I jerk off on my webcam for free?” – pretty much obfuscate any credibility. Maybe he has a webcam, but hours and hours of trolling the internet – I mean, research – has produced nothing. Why, Cazwell, must you tease us? The chorus pretty much confirms my frustrations with “You don’t know me/and I don’t know you.” Just when you think you know a faux-public-masturbating exhibitionist, they turn on you.

It’s not until “The Sex That I Need” that he starts flirting with his flip-flopping sexual persona. In this number, he describes being with a male hustler, than the pronouns turn to “she,” then he’s back to cheating on his bf with his bf’s brother. His use of 70’s porn guitar riffs seems especially appropriate here. On “Do You Wanna Break Up?” he brags “I scandalize girls that used to be guys.” By “Getting’ Over,” he’s back to men.

“All Over Your Face,” which samples the underground disco classic “Is It All Over Your Face” by Loose Joints, is the lead single and one of the most downloaded videos on YouTube, no doubt assisted by a cameo from NY club icon and girl-that-used-to-be-a-guy Amanda Lepore (pictured here), who also guest raps on the CD’s title song. It’s also where he drops all pretense of autobiography and becomes what is normally lacking in ego-driven hip-hop: the anonymous narrator. He’s playing the part of a horny club kid, taking us through a sex-soaked New York escapade, hooking up with ho’s (“That hotel was so cheap/I should have brought my own sheets”) and getting even freakier than he’s allowed himself to be on any other track, referencing bukkake, kinky duct tape applications, and his own enthusiastic skills (“I eat that ass like a cannibal!”).

It’s ironic that the song with Cazwell’s most exaggerated sense of personality – he’s admitted that he’s not anywhere near the nympho he plays on his songs – is the one that is garnering all the attention, even if it won’t be played on any major music outlet, including gay network Logo. When do we get to know him? Is he just a good-time novelty act, a one-night fling that we’ll forget once the dance club high (read: ectasy) wears off? The fact that Get Into It comes with eight remixes and three videos seems to suggest this. Even publicity shots seem to portray him as both a genuinely sexy, albeit quirky, good-looking guy and a self-parodying white-trash slezeball.

But he’s also stated that his next step is where he’ll really reveal himself, likening it to The Miseducation of Lauryn Hill. Since he’s playing with a certain sound now (he asked Queerty: “if anyone's going to rap to disco, shouldn't it be a gay guy?”), it will be interesting to see how he develops it over the course of a full-length album while combining humor with the maturity he’s hinted is underneath. The temptation to remain a gay club novelty act must be sharp as he knows not to expect recognition from the hip-hop community. “There are rules in hip-hop,” he has said. “And one is that you can't be a fag.”

But if he wants to last, he’s going to have to develop a musical persona beyond being the Notorious G.W.R (Gay White Rapper). Besides, that gimmick will only work for so long. I can just imagine the next much-hyped rapper coming up on the scene á la Amy Poehler’s imitation of reality show contestants on SNL: “I’m white and gay and I only got one leg. Jealous?”

Although I'm sure if Cazwell only had one leg, he'd make sure it was the sexiest, kinkiest, dirrrrrtiest leg ever. That's right, even his one leg gets 5 r's. Now that's freaky.

Also check out: Kings, Queens and Norah Vincent.
And: Scissor Sisters: Filthy and Gorgeous.

Spoilers!

See? Right there. In the title. Don’t read this if you don’t want to hear specific plot points about The Host. I must admit that most reviewers for this movie have been pretty good about warning their readers, but in general I feel like print publications have gotten exceedingly worse at giving away major plot points about a movie without any warning, much like the majority of movie trailers (coincidence?). I'm not even giving away anything surprising, so this review won't ruin anything for you. I'm just warning you: plot points. That's all I'm saying.

Anyway, you may or may not have heard about the South Korean monster movie The Host, as it’s receiving a lot of buzz but is still in only 71 American theaters as of this weekend. Already the most popular film in its native country, The Host is receiving all sorts of raves from American critics and audiences. A film this daring, enjoyable and outside-the-box deserves a large audience, but almost unanimous praise always raises the chance that people will be disappointed due to high expectations.

Just go and see it even if you don’t like monster movies, as it really will engage you on multiple levels.

The movie begins in a Korean science lab, where an American scientist orders his Korean underling to pour gallons upon gallons of formaldehyde down the drain since the bottles are dusty. (Oh, what I wouldn’t give to see Phil Hartman play this guy as an evil scientist version of his anal-retentive [chef/fisherman/fill-in-occupation character]: “First, we wrap the beakers full of poison in plastic wrap. Then we stuff each one into its own paper bag with packing peanuts. Now where did I put my duct tape?”) Interestingly, the director, Bong Joon-ho, admits that this scene was inspired by real events.

Leaking into the Han River, the toxins mutate a fish. It first develops three tails (all the better to slap three-eyed Blinky if he gets too fresh), then grows into a bus-sized monster with multiple mouths and an appetite for human flesh.

Cut to the Park family: Hee-Bong (Hie-bong Byeon) runs a food stand by the river; his fiery son, Nam-Il (Hae-il Park), is an aimless college graduate; his quiet daughter, Nam-Joo (Du-na Bae), is a professional archer; and his other son, Gang-Du (Kang-ho Song), is a sleepy, slothy father to an adorable, sharp little girl, Hyun-Seo (Ah-sung Ko).

Once the monster starts terrorizing people, the Park family becomes the center of the film’s attention, moreso than even the monster itself. Hyun-Seo is kidnapped by the creature (who likes to save bodies to snack on later), and the Korean government, claiming that any touch by the monster spreads a deadly virus, pursues Gang-Du after learning that he was sprayed with the monster’s blood.

Even though it’s a cliché, the film really is a rollercoaster. Believing Hyun-Seo is dead, the family’s public grieving goes from heart-touching to over-the-top, as they writhe around the floor, punch and kick each other and draw a circling crowd of paparazzi. Moving drama gives way to slapstick comedy...which can then overlap with suspenseful chase scenes that are cut with genuinely scary moments. If it sounds like the movie is all over the place, it is, but the results are fascinating even if sometimes uneven.

That’s not even the half of it. Just as many monster movies are viewed as metaphors for larger themes (Godzilla is a result of hydrogen bomb test and therefore represents the fear and fallout of using nuclear bombs), The Host has already been dissected and debated as a commentary of, among other things, the U.S. government, the South Korean government, the media and the Iraq War. Joon-ho admits that any social commentary had to take the back-burner to the family’s story, citing Signs as a major influence of how a scary movie can focus more on the family than the monster(s).

However, there’s a lot to look into here, with some references being obvious and some more subtle. For instance, the American government decides to step in after the Korean government mishandles their national crisis (a possible critique on both countries). The U.S. unleashes a chemical weapon named Agent Yellow, a barely-disguised derivation of Agent Orange, a similar chemical attack used in the Vietnam War.

Not much has been made about the title itself. A slightly deranged American official (is there any other kind?) confesses to a Korean doctor that, despite the U.S. and Korean government’s public statements to the contrary, there so far has been no proof of any virus, echoing certain claims made about WMD’s. So if Gang-Du is not an actual host to the virus, who is the host? Is Korea the host to the U.S.? Or is Korea hosting the monster? And is the “monster” really the U.S.? And can my brain please explode now?

Back to the film itself, one of the most refreshing aspects of the film is Joon-ho’s defiance of rules regarding the monster/horror/action movie genre. We see the entire monster early on and in complete daylight, instead of the climactic build-up leading to the shocking reveal in some shadowy haunted house or sewer system. Unlike everything from Godzilla to Starship Troopers, the monster isn’t huge and is therefore more limber, swinging under bridges like an amphibian Kerri Shrug. Our heroes, the Park family, are a rather bumbling group, antagonistic to each other and unlike the typical, invincible he-men heroes of other movies.

So: fine acting, seamless special effects (until a strange, eleventh hour dip into cheesy, low-budget effects that look sub-Photoshop), engaging use of multiple genres to tell a multi-tiered, metaphorical story, and actual, seat-jumping scares. Just so I don’t oversell the film, I will admit that it is a touch long and certain scenes drag. And, I guess if you're the type of person who doesn't like to "read movies," then the subtitles will bother you, but I didn't find them to be a problem.

OK, so I didn’t give away that many spoilers. I just wanted to make sure. I’m kind of anal-retentive that way. Now where’s my duct tape?

Also check out: Boo.
And: Sweet, Sour, Stupid.