Are we positive that  James "Whitey" Bulger and Frank McCourt are not the same person? Like 100% positive? older guy from Boston with a thick accent who comes out to make LA a worse place? History of extortion? Probable sociopath? Crazy wife who's at best an enabler and at worst an accomplice? Who am I talking about again?
I think it's very unfortunate that the Angels announcers refer to starting pitcher Jered Weaver as "The Weave". That's a horrible nickname. When reliever John Bulger comes in to relieve him, do they call him "The Bulge"?

Did you ever get a present for Christmas that you knew you weren't going to like? To make matters worse it was really lavish and intricately wrapped so you had to spend a long time scissoring straps and untangling ribbons and screwing around with bubble wrap and tissue paper all for something that you were positive was going to really underwhelm you? That exactly what I imaging having sex with Lady Gaga would be like.   

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     This is Bernard Hermann. I know that several of you probably thought that it was an obscure promotional still of a young Patrick Dempsey from the movie "Mobsters", but it's not. It's Bernard Hermann. For those of you who are not complete film sore nerds (One of the more unique and most obsessive subsets of film geekines), this man is probably the greatest film composer who ever lived. Back before the days when film scores were A.) Re-hashes of old film scores over the giant summer action movie B.) Shitty top 40 songs holding hands over some trite romantic comedy or C.) Some lo-fi indie band whining and strumming on a mandolin or something while hipsters bore me to death, scores were special. Real, orchestrated pieces of genuine music. Pure mood pieces that amplified and sometimes created the emotion of the movies they were often vastly superior to. Each one unique, each one creative. Theres is a day that is all but gone now and the number of truly great film scores seems to dwindle every year. However, like the films they adorn, we've got them forever... and a million Black Eyed Peas musical queefs can't take them away.
     Today is Bernard Hermann's 100th birthday. Well, he's not alive anymore or anything, but it would be if he was. He died on Christmas Eve of 1975, hours after he finished recording the music to his final film, Martin Scorsese's "Taxi Driver". If this does not require reverence, I just plain don't know what does.
     Here's a bit of one of my favorite works of his, the opening credits to Alfred Hitchcock's "Psycho" (Saul Bass' brilliant title design doesn't hurt, either). Plus, just to show I'm not a complete curmudgeon, in the comments section there's also a very good song by Busta Rhymes and music video by Hype Williams that samples from it. I give credit where credit is due. See, I'm not such a bad guy, right?.......

.....Eh, whadda you know!

  • Will I have the willpower to not buy the Groupon for Beard Papa's Cream Puffs in Pasadena? Tune in tonight around midnight to find out. (Cue dramatic organ music).

UPDATE: Look down.

I'm a weak, weak man,
Just so you know, if you're not a fan of the movie "Domino", we can't be friends. Even the stuff in that movie that doesn't work works, It's magic I tells ya. Magic. What, you're too good for a Tony Scott movie written by Richard Kelly with a cast that includes Mickey Rourke, Keira Knightley, Christopher Walken, Delroy Lindo, Dabney Coleman AND Tom Waits? Really, then the hell with you. In a world with guys like Wes Anderson and Spike Jonze stinking up the place here's a quick reminder that there's still actual fun stuff out there:  

Beat it


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Beat It.Today is the two year anniversary of the death of Michael Jackson. When I heard that I thought about the dearly departed and self-anointed "King of Pop"  and I came to a realization. When you get down to it, there really is nobody I can think of off the top of my head who I have less in common with: I can't dance to save my life, It rarely occurs to me to dress in anything that resembles a neon naval officer's uniform, I'm not much of a singer, I've never had any desire to touch any young boys, supple, Tootsie Roll-esque weiners, nothing. Plus, unlike Michael Jackson, I was born in an affluent neighborhood and then moved to an underprivileged one. Thanks, economic downturn.
     Most importantly, I was thinking about the outpouring of reverence for the man. I  was watching the news today as hundreds of people marched on his grave like it was the jheri curl juice-infused Lincoln Memorial. That got me thinking about talent in general. Michael Jackson was so talented that people were willing to forgive him for everything bad he did. Mind you, he didn't just do one or two things wrong. This guy might as well have sat down and with lots of careful consideration, created a list of things to do to alienate himself from his fans. He released bad album after bad album, bleached his skin and had enough plastic surgeries to turn himself into an effeminate version of Lord Voldemort. He hung out with an overall-clad chimp, stole Beatles songs from Paul McCartney and held them for ransom and even dangled a baby out of a hotel window. That last one is so awesome that I demand that you stop reading for a moment just to remember that and take it in.....
There, that's better...
     On top of all this, there's still the whole hiccup about Michael Jackson being a homosexual pedophile, but so beloved a homosexual pedophile that all of this seems to have been washed away from his fans minds, limited as they appear to be. 
     Now here's the thing: As a law-abiding citizen who has never committed anything close to any of these dastardly deeds, my death will carry with it no fanfare. Granted, I've never done anything as great as the great stuff Michael Jackson did, almost none of us have. However, I'd be willing to bet that none of you ever hung your genetically engineered, laboratory conceived child out of a widow in front of hundreds of camera-weilding onlookers. Well, me neither. Still, when Michael Jackson died, a large percentage of the world mourned. Were I to die tomorrow, I'd be lucky if the mexican place I eat at every day gives my girlfriend a free horchata and a sombrero to deliver my eulogy in.
     I guess the lesson here is that in order for people to love the art, they shouldn't necessarily love the artist. Or, indeed, the Propofol that said artist's private physician prescribes to lull him into a coma every night. Well, not that night two years ago, I guess.    

One final, barely relevant note: Michael Jackson's brother, Jermaine, has a son who he named, ahem, Jermajesty. J-E-R-M-A-J-E-S-T-Y! That man voluntarily did that to his child and is still not the shittyiest, craziest or most abusive person to children in his family. Now THAT'S talent. 

Just in case anyone doubts that I lead an exciting life, my Saturday night was spent covered in french fry grease and re-watching "Bride of Chucky". Jealous? Yeah, didn't think so.
     When I finally caved in to peer pressure and decided to start putting my thoughts on the interweb I did a bunch of reading on the subject. According to my research, the most important thing is that you should focus in on a single subject that you want to talk about a concentrate on it. The prevailing wisdom being that it helps you get readers who share that interest. Well, I regret to inform you that I often have a difficult time sticking to a single subject within a single sentence, much less an entire website. Therefore, welcome to what I’m sure will be a massively unsuccessful undertaking on my part. Yup, there’s my patented self-esteem at work right there.

     Just to warn you, it’s my intention to just write about stuff that it takes my fancy to pontificate about. Sometimes short, sometimes long. It’ll range from movie stuff to comic-book stuff to sports stuff to music stuff to real life stuff that actually matters to the world and probably back to something even more trivial than you’re used to. Therefore, if you’re interested in reading what I’m writing, you should be able to intake all of my erratic subject gear shifts. 

     One final warning: If I were to make a pie chart of the things in the world that I like and the ones that I don’t, well, let’s just say that the person who ate the pie serving of stuff I don’t like will be more full, like a lot more full, like if they can finish that much pie you’d just assume that they have an eating disorder full. So if you’re one of those people who lives life to the fullest and everyday finds new wonders that the world has to offer… firstly screw you. Secondly, you probably don’t want to read what I’ve got to say here. Of course, if you were one of those people, you probably wouldn’t be here in the first place. You’d be out hiking in a redwood forest or mountain biking through the plains or something else that I have no interest in. Leave that stuff to those people, stick around here for rants about fast food serving size variation and conspiracy theories about Voltron. 

     Everybody got that? Good.

     Anyway, where was I? Oh, yeah.