Smoke Gets In Your Eyes: Stephen King's The Mist

There have been a lot of films based on Stephen King's stories so odds are, since we're talking about Hollywood, most suck. But after 1990's Misery, filmmakers seem to have an especially hard time with King's horror stories. Dolores Clairborn and Needful Things had their moments, but that's about it. So, it's either surprising or extremely logical that it took the director of two of King's most well-respected non-horror adaptations (The Shawshank Redemption and The Green Mile) to finally rise to the challenge.

Frank Darabont's The Mist, an adaptation of King's short story of the same name from Skeleton Crew, starts with a thunderstorm forcing the inhabitants of a small Maine town to crowd into the local grocery store for supplies. Out of nowhere, a huge rolling fog descends from the nearby mountains and blankets the town. When large, slimy tentacles emerging from the mist slide under the loading dock's door and snatch the awkward teenage bagboy, the customers decide that maybe they should stay put for a while.

As fear consumes them, locals clash with out-of-towners, middle-class clashes with working-class, and the secular clash with the religious. The latter is led by Mrs. Carmody (Marcia Gay Harden), a mean, judgmental Bible-thumper who's status as the town crazy slowly ascends to leader as her apocalyptic predictions start coming true.

And how do they come true? Oh, well, because of the giant bugs that emerge from the mist, of course. And the pterodactyl thingies that eat the bugs and break into the store. And the giant spiders that shoot deadly webs. And a giant, clawed squid/scorpion thing. And a giant thingy thing with six feet and tentacles and claws and other giant things. Yeah, needless to say, they're creatures not of this world (or my vocabulary). And the effects, not counting the first cartoon-ish attack from the tentacles, are mostly believable. The details on the bugs' and spiders' faces are so clear, you can practically see them viciously grinning before taking a chunk out of someone's spinal cord. And Darabont deftly maneuvers through the store during the creatures' attacks, making us aware of the actions and location of all the major characters without using the current, clichéd style of ADD-style jump-cuts.

Strangely, as fun and scary and gorey as the "monster movie" aspect of the film is, the real guts (if you will) is King's and Darabont's commentary on crowd dynamics. With a cast of sixty people stuck in one location, Darabont has a lot to deal with. As the situation goes from bad to worse, paranoia and desperation escalate. Their survival instincts turn from the beasts to each other. Cliques soon almost feel like tribes as allegiances switch and fractions grow and dwindle in both number and power. Early on, people think nothing of slapping or throwing canned peas at Mrs. Carmody (and Harden is so good and scary you'll want to as well). But, she keeps on keepin' on, and her preaching soon attracts more and more people desperate for answers.

On the other side is David (Thomas Jane), his five-year-old son, Billy, and an assortment of town oddballs and store staff. While David emerges as the early leader, Mrs. Carmody's influence outpaces his and soon her rabid crowd is throwing people outside as human sacrifices and demanding that Billy be next. While they're never explicitly described as atheists, David's group clearly doesn't agree with Mrs. C's viewpoint. It's as if Pat Robertson (dressed in cardigans and frumpy floral dresses) and Christopher Hitchens (suddenly both ruggedly muscular and sober) were battling inside a CVS and everyone was invited.

What's fascinating is, at first, the film seems to be taking sides. Religous lady = crazy. Easy, right? Yeah, a little too easy. Instead, David's actions, which Mrs. Carmody condemns as "hubris," often get him and others in serious trouble. Trying to save people only ends up with some getting killed for their efforts. On the other hand, at least the proactive ones are also the ones defending the store from attacks, unlike Mrs. C and her followers who stand around praying or pointing fingers (or, you know, sacrificing people to appease an angry God, which I guess is a sign of proactive tendencies).

Even better for a scary movie, Darabont, as the screenwriter, never overestimates the importance of an explanation. There are references to "The Arrowhead Project" that is taking place in a top-secret military compound in the mountains next to the town. A soldier who was stationed there finally admits that scientists tried to open a window to another dimension and...that's pretty much all we get. Since the characters don't know any more, neither do we. Explanations for scary stories are rarely satisfactory, since the answer either sucks out all the suspense (like in Tim Burton's Sleepy Hollow), tidily overexplains (like many episodes of The X-Files) or feels lazy or even too over-the-top (King's own It).

The point isn't how the people got into their situation, the point is how they react once they're in it. And King obviously feels the same way as store assistant manager Ollie, who states, "As a species, we're fundamentally insane." If you take away communication systems and electricity, how long until we just lose it? If our lives are in danger, how quickly do we throw someone else in front of a giant man-eating beast?

To top it all off, Darabont tweaks King's original ending. Instead of King's mildly depressing ambiguity, Darabont goes full-out cruel (and, interestingly, it's against David and his posse, so who wins?). Without giving too much away, the twist at the end is so heart-wrenching, so balls-out vicious in its mocking of anything we originally took for courage (not to mention sound values, reasonable judgment calls and actual compassion) that I may hate Darabont.

Except for the fact that I love him. Because he infused a horror movie with topical religious debate with confidence (unlike The Reaping), post-9/11 paranoia with just enough distanced respect (unlike the War of the Worlds remake), heart-breaking emotional depth without schmaltzy clichés (unlike...well...how many horror flicks even attempt that?) and, most importantly, actual scares (unlike 99% of the rest of them), that I hope he gives up on the Oscar-winning dramas forever. Stephen King has written over 200 stories, including over 50 novels, so there's a lot left for Hollywood to screw up. Here's hoping Darabont is already saving another one right now.

Sexy and Seasonal

I realized that, not only is Britney's "Gimme More" a perfect dance-floor anthem, it might also have to be my Thanksgiving anthem. When I'm sitting in front of my empty plate, waiting for seconds, I might just have to start chanting "Gimme gimme more! Gimme more! Gimme gimme more!" What can I say? I'm a brat for sweet potatoes.

And just for the fun of it, some pics that popped up when I Google Image-d "Thanksgiving." I thought the title of this post would apply only to Britney's song, but I think the last pic nicely fits the theme, too.







Food porn is real, y'all.

(Thanks to Elephantitis of the Mind, Natalie Dee and GetSheila for the pics.)

Also check out: Kiwi, Tab and Turkey.
And: Multimedia Love.

Mag Hag Reviews the News

I'm such a follower of magazines that I could assemble a fort with all the piles around my apartment. Maybe I have already, but that's not the point. The point is that I kind of ignore them until I'm between books and then I go through my "magazine purge" to catch up. So I just thought I'd summarize some of the best and worst articles, issues and stories that have finally landed in my hands in the past few weeks.

The Advocate - September issue: Hey, did you know that Every. Single. Homosexual. in America is already planning on voting for Hilary Clinton? You didn't? Really? Me neither, until I read this cover story on The Hils. (Get it? Like "The Hills" but with less bleach!) I really wish someone would warn me what my peeps are planning for my future so I don't get my membership card revoked when I accidentally think for myself. I also wasn't aware that signing on for this whole "gay" thing included pre-determined presidential candidates. Sorry, Obama! See ya, Edwards! Nice knowing you...um...other guys! I can't wait for the mag to tell me what else is in my future: the jobs I'll choose, the cars I'll buy, the turkey I'll eat (well, that one will be true in like 3 days). It's so comforting to know that my glossy-paged future will show up on my doorstep twice a month.

Time - 10/15 issue: Great. Just as my love for yoga blossomed this past summer like a lotus flower in spandex, I find out from this Time article that 50 minutes of yoga burns as many calories as a 50 minute walk, or less than are in three Oreos. I wasn't getting into it because I thought it was the best cardiovascular exercise (like, say, checking on my Trader Joe's gingerbread spice cake in the oven - up! down! up! down!), but this is still disappointing.

Details - October issue: Hey, did you know that Brad Pitt has, like, four kids? Which makes him a dad?!?! Luckily, Details illuminates the mystery that is Lé Pitt with a full two-page profile that also includes such nuggets of trivia as: he has a new movie! He's "partners" with Angelina Jolie! He's a worldly do-gooder! Although I will say in their favor, since they're profiling probably the most photographed man on Earth, photographers have to become more creative in what they do with him (not that you can tell by the waxy cover shot, but whatevs). Lé Pitt has a huge spread where he's saturated, inverted, negative-d, overlapped and more. It doesn't quite top his Rolling Stone-cover-in-a-skirt from a few years back, but it shows effort, however schizophrenic it actually appears.

Also, I never quite understood their whole "Gay or _______" feature on the last page of every issue. Is it satirizing how much gay culture has seeped into the mainstream? Or the two were blurred to begin with? Well, apparently, I won't have to worry about that anymore. Details is quitting the four-year-old feature like an inconveniently misbehaved orphan.

The Economist - 11/3 issue: Holy shit! Did you know that there are 218 million laborers worldwide who are under the age of 14? I was kind of skimming through the cover story about religion when I came across a column about Gap and how the retailer found out one its subcontractors was using child labor (more info here). 218 million. That's crazy. A positive twist, however: "Rather than simply cutting off factories employing children, Gap imposes and enlightened form of punishment: it requires suppliers to stop using child workers and to provide them with school instead, while continuing to pay them regularly and guaranteeing them a job once they reach the legal age." Wow. Even if it is just a PR move, that's pretty great. Too bad their clothes still kind of suck.

Jet - 10/22 issue: Jermaine Dupri wrote his new book, Young, Rich, and Dangerous: The Making of a Music Mogul, because, as he says, "No one is giving these young kids a book to read about something they love nowadays." Which is pretty cool and probably true considering how huge music is as a common reference between people. However, I don't really care about Dupri. I do care about the fact that he's dating Janet Jackson. Whenever anyone asks her about marrying her long-time boyfriend, she does her shy shrug thing and is all "if he wants to" or "if it's supposed to happen." But the article, unlike others, also mentions that if she does, she'll be a stepmother! No one brings that up! Dupri has a 9-year-old daughter. Can you imagine Janet as a stepmother? That poor girl will need earplugs to sleep through Janet and Jermaine's sex-a-thons. And the eating habits she'll pick up? One day it will be waffles and ice cream, the next a single lettuce leaf. It's a good thing she's cute.

Out - November issue: Out has this kind of great article about how aging gay authors, after chronicling the post-Stonewall life, now tackle something many of them only hoped to experience after watching many of the friends succumb to AIDS: aging. It's interesting to see how writers from Andrew White to Felice Picano address the issue differently.

However, the article then kind of address the so-called ageism of gay culture. White complains that while aging straight guys like Hugh Hefner are surrounded by young, beautiful women, the same can't be said for Gore Vidal. I'm kind of over this argument. Hefner is an exception. Yes, there might be more May-December romances between straight older men and younger women but so what? For the most part, most twenty-something women are not attracted to sixty-something men, and if they are, it's not always for the most heart-tugging reasons. Relationships between young men and older women are even rarer, something proven by the necessity of the term "cougar." (It's such a novelty that our culture is only now getting around to nicknaming it.) Notice, too, he compares a porn king to an author. Is any elderly author, straight or gay, ever surrounded by scantily-clad groupies 24 hours a gay? If White wants to live with a gaggle of gym bunnies, then maybe he should start a porn mag like Hefner did.

But it's the hypocrisy behind White's statements (he's comphttp://www.blogger.com/img/gl.link.giflained in other articles, too) that really bug me. As a 67-year-old man, he wants the attention of twenty-something men in bars because they're the most sexually attractive, right? So, if he thinks they're the most attractive, wouldn't they also find other twenty-something men the most attractive and not, say, sixty-something men? I mean, if White isn't even attracted to men his own age, why should I be? The kicker is that White does have a partner...twenty-five years his junior. Something tells me that if his aging isn't exactly graceful, it should at least be grateful.

There's so much more, but those are the facts and follies that caught my attention. Until next time, mag hag out! (Aaaand gross. I need a new sign-off.)

Also check out: 3 Reasons Why I Love Kelly Clarkson.
And: Why I Love The Onion.

The Preacher and the Teacher

Novels are dead! Readership is down! No one likes books!

The Virginia Quarterly Review had a very good essay a while back about how "the death of the novel" is an old cliché, so I won't opine here. I was, however, reminded of this for two reasons. First, I just finished Tom Perotta's latest novel, The Abstinence Teacher. And second, Camille Paglia, that lover of literature, that Amazon of the arts, declared in her most recent Salon column, "I don't care about any novels published after World War II." Say wha?

One of the supposed reasons for our country's supposedly declining interest in novels is our supposedly hyped-up attention spans. So, although she can devote an entire book to poetry, I guess it's no surprise that with her mile-a-minute mind and hectic life of teaching, public speaking and raising a son with her partner, Paglia might not have the attention span or time for novels. You'd think that our mosquito-on-speed lifestyles would actually make the usually shorter form of poetry more popular, but it has as much do with accessibility as with length.

Another alleged reason for the novel's alleged death is the medium's lack of relevance. Yet, major authors such as Jay McInerney and Don DeLillo both wrote "important" 9/11 novels, but did anyone besides their most rabid fans read them? I've heard people blame the fact that, even if a novel is tackling a relevant current event, novels by nature take so long to produce that the topic is already outdated by publication. But then, didn't audiences stay away from the two 9/11 movies (a medium generally considered more accessible), even with their great reviews and Oscar nominations, because it was too soon?

Tom Perotta seems to have found the right moment for his latest novel. After the evangelical Christian voting surge tipped the scales in the 2004 presidential election, Perotta told the New York Times he wanted to find out more about these people. Who are they, besides their religion? How did they organize for and respond so passionately to the election? He's tackling a current events issue with his usual, accessible, page-turning style.

Even better for Perotta, though the book is released three years after the fact (which isn't too shabby, actually), we're still in the middle of public religious debates - church vs. state, creationism vs. evolution, Project Runway vs. Top Chef (Bravo is my God), etc. Plus, the 2008 election is right around the corner and, even if religion doesn't play as big a role as in 2004, we still have supposedly progressive Democrat candidates who blame their religious upbringing for opposing gay marriage.

So this could have been a great time for a novelist, hot off the best-seller-turned-major-movie-adaptation Little Children, to explore religion's role in public lives. The Abstinence Teacher does just that...kind of sorta.

The story follows Tim, an ex-alcoholic/druggie/rocker turned born-again Christian. After his wife divorces him, Tim tries to stay clean, help raise his daughter (mostly by coaching her soccer games) and move on with his life thanks to the local church group, the Tabernacle of the Gospel Truth, and its leader, Pastor Dennis.

In the same "sleepy" suburb we have Ruth Ramsey, an atheist Sex Ed teacher who responds to a student's question about oral sex with a list of the STDs you can contract from it but finishes with "some people like it." Oopers! The Tabernacle hears of this and, even though they've only recently set up shop in the town, insist that the school teach abstinence instead. Caving to pressure and media scrutiny, the school officials agree and Ruth is forced to teach a curriculum she doesn't believe in.

When Ruth then witnesses Tim leading his soccer team in prayer after a big win, a team that includes both of their daughters, she creates even more of a public spectacle by grabbing her daughter and yelling at Tim. The two adults then begin a strange, interesting relationship, sometimes prickly, sometimes affectionate.

All of this is fine and good, with Perotta's usual astute observations and humor. Ruth imagines returning the Sex Ed curriculum back to her own: "In her mind, it played like a Hollywood movie, Michelle Pfeiffer standing before an audience of earnest, good-looking teenagers, rolling a condom onto a cucumber as triumphant music swelled in the background." A dated pop culture reference, sure, but appropriate for a forty-something woman.

The problem is that after luring the reader at first with multiple chapters about Ruth, Perotta clearly prefers writing about Tim. He devotes chapter after chapter to Tim's new marriage and his relationship with Pastor Dennis, slipping in one chapter here and there on Ruth. Isn't she the title character? Isn't this book supposed to be about her?

Also, even though Pastor Dennis is set up as Tim's spiritual guide and mentor, he's also almost the antagonist to Tim, constantly prodding him to behave against his natural instincts, to reject himself and find God. It's a complicated, tumultuous relationship. Again, Ruth doesn't fair as well. She's up against Joann Marlow, the beautiful, blonde abstinence advocate in heels and pearls who, in a presentation to the students regarding the new curriculum, makes abstinence seem both sexy and realistic. Even though Ruth and Joann have some tense, funny battles, Joann is nowhere near as realized as Ruth, Tim or even Pastor Dennis. Isn't she Ruth's foil? All we know is that she's religious and therefore a virgin. But considering Perotta devotes so much time to exploring the contradictions of human nature, is Joann who she says she is? And is it really so easy for her?

I wish that Ruth's story was as fleshed out as Tim's, but for Perotta to do that he would have had to give her an equally developed, sympathetic antagonist. It's telling that Perotta is able to humanize a character like Pastor Dennis. Dennis, after all, received his call from God while working as a top-notch, electronics-obsessed Best Buy employee. Perotta vividly draws the religious character who also happened to have lived in our mainstream, materialistic world. Joann, for all we know, has never had a spiritual crisis, never regretted a decision she's made, never doubted herself or, more importantly, her beliefs. Isn't that the person Perotta was trying to write about? Isn't her story of doubtless faith just as worthy (if maybe not as dramatic) as Dennis'? Perotta is usually so good at both satirizing and respecting his characters, he could have had a lot of fun and insight with her instead of just using her as a plot device. If he wanted to focus more on Tim, Pastor Dennis and both men's influence on their town, then maybe he should have called the book The Abstinence Preacher.

I'm not sure the book will be considered an important piece of "relevant" art - it's neither challening nor controversial, and probably won't be considered as anything more than a perfectly good book. Perotta gets all his usual details right - the stifling suburbia, the contrast between public personae and private doubts, the sacrifices necessary to live the way we think we should. I just wish he had been as curious about one of his most important characters as he said he was going to be. It's ironic that in a novel about abstinence-only education programs, he left out some of the most imporant stuff.

Also check out: Cradle to Tears.
And: Dear Filmmakers of The Road.

Blood, Boys and Bambinas

After breaking 2007's record for Most Posts in a Single Month (October. 9. Sad.), I have been largely absent from blogging due to crazy work hours and other writerly side projects. So, before I get to pop culture goodies that have been rattling around in my brain like so many Jawbreakers, here's a three-point update:

1) Spent any good time in an ER lately? Yeah, I have. On a Saturday night. Because I apparently swallowed glass or a thumbtack or a chainsaw or something. So my experience at the Illinois Masonic's ER is featured for a week at GapersBlock, a Chicago-themed website. Click here to read about blood-spattered equipment! Crazy patients! Communicating without cell phones! If you're still suffering from a post-Halloween hangover, consider this your literary hair of the dog.

2) November is also time for Reeling Film Festival, Chicago's 26th annual gay and lesbian film festival. I wrote about it for UR Chicago Magazine here and, after enjoying the opening night's film, Shelter, reviewed it here. Click on the links to read about sexy surfer boys! International gay scandals! And did I mention sexy surfer boys?!

3) In news that has nothing to do with me, Chicago, writing, or really anything already covered in this post, I recently found out that our Italian Culinary Princess, Miss Giada de Laurentiis, is pregnant! Food Network Musings has the scoop. Can you imagine Giada pregnant? Remember how, um, top-heavy Salma Hayek became during her pregnancy? Giada will be like the Italian equivalent. I hope she doesn't tip over. But it's very exciting news for her and her husband...as long as she's not lying. (Just kidding!) (Or am I?)

Enjoy these stories while I mentally upchuck the Jawbreaker ideas in my head onto paper. (Lovely image, eh? I think that time in the ER has kind of stayed with me.)

(And, P.S., I said "upchuck." I just thought I'd point that out.)

Also check out: UR Out. Seriously, You Are.
And: LOL @ NPR.

It's Britney's (Inner) Bitch

I so, so wanted to get this post up yesterday on Halloween because, really, what's scarier than the above image and all that it throws in your face? The bad wig, the bedazzled hat, the recycled picture with a bad hypnosis-meets-downward-spiral symbol, the title's threat (promise?) of a mental, physical or sonic blackout - it all screams "Boo!"

You know what's scarier than all of the above? The fact that I bought my first Britney album at the exact same moment that I could not be more sick of hearing her name. Embracing my inner trash-pop afficionado is one thing, giving money to an artist who will only spend it on Funions and sequined thongs is another.

I've been hesitant...no, completely uninterested, really, in buying Britney's earlier albums. The first 3 were clearly just crappy platforms for 1 or 2 good singles. In the Zone, however, seemed more grown-up and more in touch with what people who aren't 13-year-old girls actually want to listen to. But I couldn't get over the feeling that her newly-explicit sexuality was just a tired choice by an unimaginative singer unable to find any road for herself other than Madonna's well-worn sex-parade route.

But now, here she is, with bad wigs and no custody of her kids, plus what seems like a complete lack of interest in actually putting any effort into her music (hence the spacey VMA performance and lazy "Gimme More" video). After years of working her ass off to make sure everyone loved her - tweens, old men and every record-company-approved demographic in-between - the fact that Britney now doesn't give a shit could have produced a cringe-worthy album. It's what her fans dreaded and her critics (and, hey, everyone else) expected.

Instead, miraculously, the opposite happened: Britney's bad-girl, I-don't-care, I-don't-need-Timbaland-or-Timberlake attitude has produced a hot, balls-out album that's sometimes weird (in a good way), sometimes generic (also in a good way - more on that below) and almost always eager to shake its ass (obviously good).
There's nothing she could say that would shut up her critics or disperse the papparazi, so why not just get her dance on?

Most of the songs feature lyrics about how some Hot Guy has turned her on. Cool, fine, whatever - that's pretty standard. But within the typical girl-gets-boy, girl-rides-boy-like-Bronco scenarios is a pretty bold Britney who's obviously not interested in restraint for her critics' sake. Despite attacks on her weight, she's confident ("Get Naked (I Got a Plan)": "I'm not ashamed of my beauty"). Despite constant attacks on her thin voice, she's co-opting black gospel culture even though it highlights how reedy her instrument is ("Hot as Ice": "Can I get a witness?/"Preacher, preacher, I'm a teacher you can learn"). And even her porn-star growls are tempered with some sweet sentimentality, such as in "Heaven on Earth" when, for the first time, her naked, unmanipulated, unmultiplied voice declares "I'm in love with you."

But a pop star is only as good as her producers, and Blackout's crew (Timbaland protogé Danja, Bloodyshy & Avant, The Neptunes, etc.) seems to enjoy surrounding Britney's breathy moans with fat synths and unexpected extras. A Spanish acoustic guitar scaling up and down the rollicking "Ooh Ooh Baby" literally makes Britney giggle. "Break the Ice," otherwise a perfectly good club banger, never bothers recovering after its break-it-down bridge. And the baroque male vocal dominating "Get Naked" turns the song into a creepy, almost haunting ode to - duh - stripping.

The apex of the album is "Freakshow," a song that lives up to its title. First: Britney raps! And it's not awful - how freaky! Second, for a song about Britney's freak factor, there's something strangely musical theater about it all. It's like if J.J. Fad wrote a song for the "Rocky Horror" soundtrack. This is a perfect example of a song walking the fine line (if Britney didn't snort it) between so-bad-it's-great and just genuinely great pop.

All this outside-the-box thinking would reek of a post-Gwen/Fergie, weird-just-because-she-can viewpoint if Blackout wasn't rooted so firmly in pure dance music. "Radar," "Gimme More" and "Toy Solider" are all sassy, sexy, perfectly crafted club anthems. The only misfire is "Perfect Lover." It's a throwaway track that Britney - and Danja - seemed to forget about.

There's only two songs that showcase self-awareness and reflection and, as it has been pointed out by everyone, Britney didn't even co-write them. (She, in fact, co-wrote very little this time around) "Piece of Me"'s lyrics brilliantly wrap up everything Britney (and we, the audience) think of herself: "Don't matter if I step on the scene or sneak away to the Phillipines/they're still gon' take pictures of my derriere in the magazine." There's a point here: what is she supposed to do to protect herself at this point? Even if she cleaned up and reverted to her old, perky, bubbly self or escaped to a country cabin somewhere, we'd still find her and follow her every move. Closing the album is the only midtempo song in the bunch, the melancholy "Why Should I Be Sad" (too...easy...must...resist...so...many...answers). It's like 11 straight songs of dance music wore down her guard. Now all of a sudden we're getting lyrics like "my friends said you would play me, but I just said they're crazy." Britney's that much cooler for only devoting a single song to her ex, and it's a fairly gorgeous ballad at that.

She's aware, she's vulnerable, but, as she (or the songwriters) says, it's time for her to move along. Luckily, the attitude she's bringing with her - the attitude that has failed her so much in the media - works so well on record.

Also check out: Gimme More, Britney. Please. I Beg You.
And: 3 Reasons Why I Love Kelly Clarkson.

Why I Hate Hollywood

Reason #437:

Michelle Pfeiffer is set to appear in a remake of 'Grease'. The 'Stardust' actress, who starred in the 1982 sequel 'Grease 2', has been approached to join the cast for a new version of the original 1978 hit musical and has her heart set on playing an older character.

Michelle said: "It's a great idea and I hear they would like to get Jessica Simpson for the role of Sandy, she would be good."

Oh, come on! When will Hollywood (and by "Hollywood" here, I mean Jessica Simpson's dad) realize that Jessica Simpson is not a star? She is not an actress. Dukes of Hazard and Employee of the Month were not big hits and she wasn't even the main draw anyway. And don't get me started (don't even get me started!) on that supposed Working Girl remake, Blonde Ambition. Even more importantly, as a singer, she's never even had huge success. In eight years, she's had exactly one Top 10 hit. That's pathetic. Even LFO had two Top 10's. Yes, that LFO, of "Summer Girls" and "Girl On TV" fame. Yeah, the "she did a donut on my lawn" guys. They literally crapped out more hits than Jessica Simpson.

Please, please stop jamming this girl down our throats. We'd all be much happier, and I'm sure she would be, too, if she just laid low somewhere, eating her buffalo wings and chicken/tuna (chuna?), humming along to a karaoke machine in her living room.

Oh, and a remake of Grease? That would be Reason #438.

Source: All Headline News by way of Dlisted.

Terrible Twos

OK, so do you see this little blog post? And these two posts? The first is my 200th post, the others frame my 2-year blogging anniversary.

Yea.

I kind of let both milestones slip by for opposite reasons. The 2-year mark because I was super busy with other writing projects outside of blogging, the 200th post because I had a surge of inspiration for posts and didn't want to slow down just to toot my own horn.

But now, I guess I'm tooting.

This past year of blogging has felt so much more...inconsistent? haphazard?...than the first year. I don't know if I expanded my purpose for blogging or if I just lost focus. I think something happened around this post in December when I changed my blog's template for the 2nd time, which really wiped out a lot of its design (links, content, etc.) that I had to recreate. It became a Catch-22: I felt more disconnected from my readers and commenting slowed down, so I felt more disconnected from my readers. One's the chicken, one's the egg.

But for my first year, I really took the blog's title to heart. Focusing on pop culture, food, Chicago and myself, I really tried to find a balance and cover each subject equally. Then, I added "media" to the list and, separately, broadened my idea of what could be included.

Maybe I was getting bored as a writer. Maybe I realized there were more materials to use for writing than Showgirls and Paris Hilton. Maybe my new writing assignments on the side, while amazing and a direct result of this blog, were sapping my creative energies. I don't know.

But whatever - this is supposed to be a happy post! 2 years! 200 posts! Hooray! So, just because this post about tooting my own horn has come out as a pretty flat, atonal toot, I'm going to indulge myself a bit and list some of my favorite blogging moments from the past year (in no particular order):

Oysters and Mussels and Squid - Oh My! - In which I list the ways sea creatures required for cooking might attack me for trying to kill them. Also: British accents!

Kiwi, Tab and Turkey - In which I commemorate my favorite holiday - Thanksgiving - with two totally unrelated videos. Since Thanksgiving is yet again on the horizon, now might be a good time to revisit them: one's a hilarious vintage commercial for Tab, the other a beautiful, haunting, short animated movie. Also: "mind-stickers"!

Top Chef Check-In - In which I give Bravo some tips on how to spice up Season 3, which naturally include such ideas as making sure the judges make sense and showing off cute guys in tank tops. Also: brothy broths!

Of Booze and Political Statements - Besides my new writing gig, another new benefit of this blog is receiving promotional materials from PR companies to consider for review. One of the highlights was the documentary Small Town Gay Bar. So including this is more about the subject, not the writing itself. Also: homosexual hamburgers!

In Defense of Amy Winehouse - In which I take the local media to task for criticizing the idiosyncratic singer's bewitching flaws instead of appreciating them as quirks that make her stage presence that much more interesting. Also: singing vaginas!

So, that's it for now. Here's to another year!

(End tooting.)

Also check out: 1 Y.O. (Or, 26 is the New 1).

Got to Keep Your Head Up

If you live in an Alaskan town that experiences nighttime for one straight month, you basically want to be eaten alive by vampires. That was the main point I learned from 30 Days of Night, a new horror film based on a popular graphic novel.

The real-life town of Barrow, Alaska is the country's northernmost settlement and doesn't experience sunlight for two months straight. In the film, however, the writers mercifully cut it down to one month. Maybe the second month is being reserved for the sequel? I don't know.

Anyway, on the eve of the 30-day blackout, the majority of townspeople are smart enough to, you know, leave. Josh Hartnett plays squinty-eyed, and apparently not smart, Sheriff Eben (actually, any character Hartnett plays could be preceded by "squinty-eyed" - seriously, his eyes look like a baby's nostrils) who is investigating weird crimes like stolen cell phones and murdered sled dogs. Hmmm, I wonder if it has anything to do with the creepy stranger that just randomly popped into town that day? "The Stranger," as the movie creatively bills him, is played by Ben Foster. If Hartnett has cornered the market on squinty-eyed guys, then Foster owns the intense, male-authority-figure-worshipping, meth-faced creep. (See: "Six Feet Under," 3:10 to Yuma) It's apparently quite an in-demand niche.

Turns out The Stranger is just a seriously unhinged asshole who wants to become one of Them - the vampires that are staking out Barrow due to its constant darkness. With all communication systems destroyed, they launch their attack on the townspeople like The Matrix characters with fangs. They're leaping, flying and throwing people around, plus they're really pale and wear stylish long black coats and boots. Marlow, their ruler, waxes philosophically about his victims right before, during or after he crushes their heads or strangles them. Luckily, he's subtitled, because their vampire-language sounds literally like this: "Rowr maka laka. God? Maka laka rowr."

Eben alternately hides from and fights the vampires along with his estranged wife Stella (Rachel McAdams look-alike Melissa George, cornering the market on horror hotties - see: Turistas, The Amityville Horror), his, um, "sensitive" younger brother, Jake (sorry, pretty boy, the big, burly sweaters aren't fooling anyone - see you soon in the gayborhood!), and a group of racially- and age-diverse neighbors.

Despite the open fields around them, the town feels claustrophobic due to its 80-mile isolation from any other town. The dark sky and snow along with grainy cinematography lends the film a sometimes black-and-white look. Director David Slade has much more to work with than in his ridiculous Hard Candy, combing elements of horror, western and action films to create a vampire film that's actually scary and suspenseful. Unlike so many other ADD-afflicted horror films, this one takes it time setting up the characters and environment while still slicing in the occasional car crash or heated confrontation to ratchet up the tension. To appease the gore-fans, these vampires can only be killed by decapitation. Sometimes Slade cuts away when a noggin is hacked off (like when Jake is finally able to prove his manhood by attacking an infected little girl who terrorizes the group in a crazy grocery store scene), and sometimes he doesn't (mostly every other time).


However, the film frustrates with its inconsistencies. Sometimes the characters act the way real people would, i.e. most people would not only not know how to react to this situation, they would actually feel extreme grief when they come upon their friend's head mounted to a stake in a field. But sometimes the characters act like, well, characters in a movie. As powerful and numerous as the vampires are, they tend to just stand around as their victims run away. The survivors complain that bullets don't stop the vampires, yet a few scenes later we see the token crazy guy blowing them all away with a shotgun.

Sometimes it's predictable, sometimes not. Like, I wonder if that giant grinding machine in the town's utilidor introduced in the first act will somehow be used to kill someone later in the film? But, to the film's credit, a lot of my other predictions didn't come true. As the survivors spied on the town while hiding in an attic, I kept waiting for a vampire to appear right outside their window as Stella peeked out. It never happened.

For a good Halloween film, you could do a lot worse (let's just say I chose to see this over Saw 4, and not just because I haven't seen 2 or 3 and would therefore have no idea what was happening, right?). For a lesson in real estate, you could not do better: DO NOT MOVE TO A TOWN THAT HAS 30 DAYS OF NIGHT.*

* - Unless you want to get eaten by vampires, in which case, enjoy indulging your death wish, loser.

Also check out: What Hath Hilary Swank Wrought?
And: Boo.

Deep Thoughts from America's Next Top Model, part 6

Ambreal on Tyson Beckford's coaching skills: "Tyson bit my mango."

What the CW won't do for ratings these days.