Scientific Finding of the Day: "Marijuana produced a small but statistically significant increase in sarcastic communications."

Lock your doors! There's a turd burglar on the loose!

I saw Sin City last night and... holy crap. It was so utterly unique, so twisted, and so over-the-top that it's definitely going to be an audience divider. People who get it will love it to pieces, and people who don't are going to despise it. I know that gets said a lot, but this could set a new standard for that statement.

Some of the dialogue is just plain goofy (that hardboiled noir dialogue -- you can either underplay it and hope the audience buys it, or overplay it and hope the audience understands), and the film is so hyperstylized that it almost defies description. I mean, the concept of Sin City (the comic) was to take the old noir genre and overcrank it until it reaches archetypal levels. So by adapting it to film, they've gone one step further into the practically (and often literally) absurd. In "Sin City," all the women are hookers, cold-blooded murderers, or both. The men are either pure evil or just evil when it counts. This isn't hard-boiled pulp fiction, it's overboiled.

(Speaking of Pulp Fiction, I knew without even having to be told which section of the film Quentin Tarantino "guest directed." It had all the humor and fun so desperately missing from Kill Bill. He should guest direct more often.)

The one thing that separates this from the comic, since it was literally lifted panel-for-panel from the books, is the humor. On the page this material reads quite straight, but spoken by actual human beings, it can't help but feel goofy. It took me (and the audience) a while to catch on to the tone, but once we did, it was a rollicking good time. Maybe that's Rodriguez's influence, but it may just be a side-effect of adaptation. Either way, this movie is really, really damned funny.

It's not for everyone. I have a feeling that, like Lost in Translation, people whose tastes don't mesh with the subject matter will go to see it because of the widespread acclaim and come away angry. But people who enjoy a good noir pastiche and don't mind absurd levels of blood (and it is pretty absurd) will love it. To death.

(See? Goofy.)

Wrong, wrong, wrong... Oh, so very wrong.

I can offer this Onion story (bad scenes in good movies, and vice versa) the highest compliment I can think of: Wish I'd written it...

The Bear: There is a bear who works at Sebben and Sebben. Nobody knows why. He is just there. Doesn't speak, doesn't have a name, just sort of shows up. Nobody seems to question this. Mostly he turns up in crowd shots.

Hey, makes perfect sense to me.

I am officially completely out of touch (and completely disgusted by) the general filmgoing public: Meet the Fockers "has become the most successful live-action comedy in history."

I hated the first one so much that I wanted to personally punch everyone involved in the nuts. I can't even imagine seeing a second.

It does make me wonder what they are going to call the third. "Meet the Baby Fockers"?

And here come the killer dinosaur themeparks, right on schedule.

A little bonus this week: A cut paragraph from this week's column, which is entitled "A Book Report on The Time Machine."

H.G. Wells is a very mysterious figure. No one knew what the H. or the G. stood for, except his mother. And possibly his family, if he had one. His friends may or may not have known. They might have been told once, and then forgotten, but pretended to know. Historians certainly don't know what the H. G. stood for, with the exception, of course, of those that do. However, we do know that he was born at some time in the past, and lived for some time in the present, which is ironic for the author of a book about a time machine. Eventually he died, which is not ironic.

I cut it largely because I wanted the column to end up around 800 words, partially because I want to keep it within the limits of most people's attention spans, and also to fit a joke earlier in the column. Anyway... go read it.

From the Cruel Baby Names file: Korn frontman Jonathan Davis and his wife, Deven, have named their newborn baby boy Pirate.

Pirate Davis. Arrr.

Run! It's Hogzilla!

Fortunately, someone shot it before it could destroy Tokyo.

The Internet can now officially say it has everything: Virtual Crack. Send some to those you love. But not any actual crackheads. They get confused easily and might try to smoke their monitors.

New column! This week, after spending the better part of a year watching some of the worst movies of the last decade or so, I reveal some time-tested techniques for enduring bad movies. The test subject is America's Sweethearts, one of the biggest clusterfucks in recent cinema history. Is it a romantic comedy? A satire? A screwball comedy? Utterly unfunny? Apart from the last one, no one, not even the filmmakers, knows. And, apart from the socially inept and people devoid of dreams, no one cares.

I now give you... the world's smallest Pac-Man game, although I have no idea why.

Send your friends some crack over the Internet!

Useless Factoid: Alan Moore is blind in one eye, and deaf in one ear.

Man, you just can't make up names like this... Miroslav Satan. Sounds like a Bond villain.

I like how the monkey appears to be copping a feel off of Tara Reid.

Boy, it's not often you get to say that. Or maybe you do. I can't really speak for your life. Perhaps that situation comes up all the time. All I know is that rarely are there pictures.

Man, I wish I could write about contemporary movies...

The plot wants to tap directly into the daydreams and parental conflicts of pre-teen girls. If it does well, look for sequels like Pony Princess, Wearing Make-Up To 6th Grade Princess, and Marrying Adam Brody Princess.

"About 55 million years ago the oceans burped" ...and practically destroyed life as we know it.

It practically begs for a sequel to The Core, doesn't it?

Did you ever tell anyone that when you saw Michael Jackson in bed with your brother he was rubbing his butt? asks the man with the Persian cat on his head.

Reality is most definitely on the fritz. Somebody call the repairman.

From the What-Will-They-Think-of-Next Dept.:Video Games for the Blind.

I'm sure Irwin Mainway would approve.

This week, Addicted to Bad takes a look at the inevitable path of sequels. The focus is Jurassic Park III, which grossed $180 million but no one has actually seen.

Because of chronic overwork and general scatterbrainedness, I also forgot to publicize last week's column, about Will Smith's cinematic abortion Wild Wild West, a movie I am ashamed to say I saw in the theater, and I honestly wanted to gnaw off a leg while watching it. The column is a set diary from the perspective of a hired gun writer brought in to spruce up the script.

I am taken aside by producer Jon Peters. Peters is wearing an oversized Wang Chung T-shirt and a feather boa, and, from what I can tell, not much else. He repeatedly calls me "Steve." I don’t have a chance to correct him. He asks me if I think the film needs more female impersonators, but does not wait for an answer. He asks me whether llamas are "erotic" or "sensual." I do not have a chance to answer.

A while ago, Music Tap published their annual Best of 2004 Reader Poll, and I was pleasantly surprised to find that he highlighted a few quotes from myself. For the fun of it, I've included my original e-mail to Matt below:

My best of the year 2004 (in order of preference, although that shifts pretty much hourly) are as follows:


Snow Patrol, Final Straw: Technically, this is a 2003 release (in the UK), but it didn't make it into American hands until late 2004, so I'm counting it. The melodies hook you, but when you dive deeper, the heart-wrenching lyrics (about the atrophy of a relationship) reveal a much deeper experience waiting underneath. Frighteningly consistent from beginning to end.


Secret Machines, Now Here is Nowhere: Pink Floyd meets Led Zeppelin by way of the Flaming Lips. The first two tracks are all thunder, albeit well-crafted thunder, but then the band slows down with "The Leaves are Gone," a "Pillow of Winds"-esque (from PF's Echoes) ballad of gorgeous simplicity, showing the Secret Machines to be capable of more than just raw bombast.


Tears for Fears, Everybody Loves a Happy Ending: May very well have been my favorite record this year, save two irritating issues. First, the sequencing is off. At the very least, "Who Killed Tangerine" should have been last. And second, "Closest Thing to Heaven" just doesn't fit the rest of the record. (In fact, it stinks.) Apart from that, this is a remarkably solid comeback album. Myself, I was always more of a fan of the post-Smith years, but I think anyone who enjoyed any era of TFF (or even just Beatles-esque pop) would love this one.


Porcupine Tree, Warszawa: A limited-release live album from my favorite group. Remixed from a 2001 Polish radio broadcast, this is the perfect introduction for music fans looking for thoughtful, accessible Pink Floyd-level songwriting and musicianship, or even long-time fans, who probably have it already. The thundercrack drum shot in "Even Less" gives me chills every time. Good thing it's been picked up for wider distribution (it's also available at PorcupineTree.com's online shop).


The Pineapple Thief, 12 Stories Down (ltd. edition): Yet another "PT" that not enough people have heard of, this album marks a return from the strong yet somber Variations on a Dream to the more upbeat, Smashing Pumpkins-meet-Coldplay rock of their breakthrough 137. Worth tracking down for the second disc containing extra tracks and the "8 Days Later" experiment, although a stripped-down (and remixed) release will be available soon from PineappleThief.com.


Local H, Whatever Happened to PJ Soles: I hated Here Comes the Zoo, so I was reticent to pick this one up. Fortunately, it's every bit a return to Pack up the Cats form and just as good as the hype has it. Worth the sticker price for "California Songs" ("Please no more California songs... and fuck New York, too.") and "Heavy Metal Bake Sale," which make me laugh every time, the rest of the songs on here are just as strong, proving Scott Lucas is one of rock's underappreciated genuises.

Headline of the Day, from IMDB News: "Disney To Produce a 'Passion of the Christ' for Kids"

Two things I learned this weekend: One, when you're out of dishwasher liquid, dishwashing soap is not a suitable alternative.

Two, if you need a chuckle, just picture your boss saying, "Yeah. Yeah, now cup my balls."

Well, it works for me. Maybe I shouldn't have admitted that.