...of charm and strange: the blog

The last day of 2003 has arrived, and with it comes this year's "best of" entry. Enjoy!

They're making a movie out of one of my favorite books ever! And they already filmed it! And it stars Colin Farrell! How did I not know about this before? What the hell? I'm far too excited about this. I will be livid if they fuck this up. Have I mentioned that it's one of my favorite books ever?

New entries down at the Trailer Park: The Prince & Me, Win a Date With Tad Hamilton!, and The Dreamers.

Merry [insert holiday of choice here], everyone!

After the disaster that was my first attempt, today I'm making a second attempt to spend a weekend in Vancouver, and this time I'm bringing reinforcements. By tomorrow there will be ten of us up there, and when we all go home on Sunday I'm going to make sure that the other car stays close so that if (when?) the Rav breaks its ass down there will hopefully be someone in there who will be able to fix it.

See, I know it's going to happen on the way back, after I've had all the fun, and my guard is down, and I'm hundreds of miles away from home instead of just 50. The Rav is a crafty bastard, but I'm developing a sense for how it thinks.

I have a lot in common with Jessica. Behold as I respond to an offhand comment regarding the nature of my appeal by wondering if I am going to die alone.

It's up a day late because my internet was down for the last 24 hours. In related news, the last 24 hours have been awful.

I received a very special package in the mail today. Feast your eyes on...NUN-CLOWNZILLA! The wonderful Pam has officially secured her place as Nun-Clown's biggest fan. Nun-Clown is currently considering sparing her life when the time comes for it to tear open the ribcage of every human being on the planet while reciting passages from the Holy Bible.

Please note the last three digits of the filename. That just happened on its own. Interpret that however you like.

Chris: So I ran into a stop sign last week.

Eric: With your car?

Chris: No, I was on my bike.

Eric: You hit a stop sign with your bike?

Chris: Well...I actually hit it with my head.

Eric: HA! Sorry.

Chris: It's okay. I was riding with no hands anyway.

Eric: Where were they?

Chris: In my pockets.

Eric: What? Why?

Chris: It was cold, so I...yeah. It seemed like a good idea.

Eric: ARE YOU SERIOUS?

Chris: Yeah. I actually saw what was going to happen, but my hands got stuck in my pockets so all I could do was wiggle around until my head hit the stop sign and I fell off my bike.

Eric: Wow. That's really, really funny.

Chris: My head still hurts.

Eric: Heh.

I'm sure this is all just a big misunderstanding. How much do you want to bet they were just trying to talk "street" so they would seem cool to their tour manager? Maybe we'll be treated to a press release from Justin or JC saying, "We apologize for our seemingly racist comments to Ibrahim Duarte. By saying 'You n*****s ain't worth s**t,' we were trying to convey our unending appreciation for the fine work he has always done for us. We thought we were being very open-minded and hip by trying to say it in a language that n*****s would understand."

In an interview for the Alien Resurrection featurettes, Winona Ryder is going on about what a great time she had making the movie, and then -- I swear -- she goes, "I had such a great time. I stole so much stuff off that set. I have, like, alien goo in my basement." See title.

In which I recount my abusive relationship with the Alien series, brought to light once more now that the Alien Quadrilogy box set has taken over my life.

Jesus. I was just unfortunate enough to see the new video from JC Chasez. The "plot" of the video goes like this: JC sees a couple of hos making out in an alley, and he follows them to a lesbian club filled with women making out with each other, who proceed to lick his face and have a threesome with him in the back room. Here's the chorus:

Some girls dance with women
No one ever gives them attention
I wanna get in with them
So pass me a drink and let's go

You know, because lesbians are only into women because their lives have been too sheltered for them to be aware that there are MEN out there! Men with PENISES! And surely if one of those MEN with PENISES were to wander into a lesbian establishment, these women would be so GRATEFUL that a man was finally "giving them attention"! Lordy. If a guy wandered into a real lesbian bar with an attitude like that, he'd limp out with two black eyes and no teeth or testicles.

During my temporary stint at Unnamed Software Company, I once was asked to deliver something to one of the upper floors of the building. It as brightly lit and terrifyingly professional-looking, so once my task was complete I was anxious to return to the land where everyone knew better than to ask me to do anything that required intelligence.

The problem was, there were many, many doors up there and I couldn't recall my way back to the stairwell. (I had brought several cheesecakes with me to mark my trail like Hansel and Gretel, but, embarrassingly, I had consumed all of them before reaching the third floor.) Most of these doors were locked. One of them wasn't. I pushed it open and found myself in a dark office. Suddenly, a voice came from behind me, scaring the bejesus out of me and inducing a flashback to high school, where being in the wrong hallway resulted in the deployment of a SWAT team.

"What are you doing in Boss Clay's office?" It was Linda G. I explained that I couldn't find the stairs, and was just trying doors. She pointed out that EXIT signs were very helpful when it comes to finding exits. I scurried back down the stairs.

When I got back to familar territory, Boss Kim introduced me to none other than Boss Clay himself, who happened to be the head of our entire division. It was something of a big deal for me to meet him. I didn't know (and still don't, really) what to say to someone so important, so I instinctively went with the only light bulb that went off in my head at the moment.

"Nice to meet you! I was just in your office." He stared at me and looked alarmed. I realized how odd that had sounded, so I tried to fix it. "No, I mean, you weren't there. I was just in there by myself." His mouth opened a little, but he still didn't speak. He was now staring the way you stare at something you grew in a petri dish.

More misguided attempts at damage control: "Oh, I didn't break in or anything. I was just trying to find my way to the stairs and got lost." Silence. "Don't worry, I didn't steal anything! Ha, ha, ha!" Isn't humor supposed to alleviate awkward situations? Well, one or both of us doesn't know what from funny, because nobody was laughing but me, and it was the kind of crazy person laughter that exists only to fill silence.

And that's why I was never asked to deliver anything upstairs again.

When I parked my car this morning, I noticed that one of the front tires was a bit flat. When I came back to drive it home, it was nearly completely empty. I navigated the car back home in a lopsided limp that inspired several drivers to honk at me and gesture at the flat tire. Because it had somehow escaped my attention that the passenger side was like a foot lower than the driver side. I was under the impression that there was an invisible and morbidly obese person in the car with me! Assholes.

Seriously, the Rav will know no rest or peace until it has pinned me to a tree like Mel Gibson's wife in Signs. I actually think this car wants to hurt me. Even if it's just emotionally. Maybe it was manufactured on an ancient Indian burial ground or something.

It's nice to know that I'm not the only one confused by this song. It didn't even occur to me to be confused at first, because it can now just be assumed that any song you hear on the radio is about something unspeakably filthy, but I'm actually stumped when it comes to "Milkshake."

I haven't laughed this hard since Pamie's poop boobs. And once again, I'm in the health sciences library and receiving glares of hatred from intellectuals in response to my uncontrollable fits of giggling.

I think the music industry has run out of normal things to sexualize beyond recognition, and now they're forced to try and convince us that weirder and weirder stuff is sexy. Have we actually arrived at breast milk now? And, I mean, I know this was a million years ago and not even Sisqo cares about Sisqo's music now, but remember in "The Thong Song" when he sings, "She's got dumps like a truck...truck, truck..."? So...what does that mean? She's built like a truck? Trucks don't even have legs. Is Sisqo attracted to women with no legs? Because they can't run away? Or perhaps women with tires? Is Sisqo attracted to Rosie from The Jetsons? And then...she takes huge dumps? Like poop? Is poop "hot" now? I'm so out of touch with my generation. I need to watch more MTV.

As you've probably noticed from the lack of updates, I've been a bit busy with this joke of a film project. The last four days were a blur of shooting, editing, technical difficulties, very little food and even less sleep. The film is, however, COMPLETE! And I'll be back to my usual bloggy self after a few days of recovery. Until then, feast your eyes on a few "making of" pictures!

It's that magical time of year once again. If you think I'm referring to the Christmas season, you're wrong. I'm talking about autumn finals. You know, that magical time of year. The one where you don't sleep and are constantly fighting the urge to hurl yourself off a cliff, except that there aren't really any cliffs around here, so the extra work it would require to find one isn't even worth it?

Autumn finals are, in my opinion, the worst of them all. Winter and spring finals are by no means a big gay walk in the park or whatever, but when December rolls around, and there is something like 20 minutes between sunrise and sunset (if you're lucky enough to see any sun at all), I just want to crawl into bed and hibernate. I would leave a note on my door that said, "DO NOT WAKE ME UP UNLESS IT IS FOR CHRISTMAS, GOOD SEX, OR POSSIBLY A NICE SANDWICH."

Some people argue that spring finals are worse because you are mere weeks away from months of being able to put your brain in a drawer and not take it out again until school starts in September, but luckily I am a lazy bastard and hate outdoor activities, so I am not the least bit eager to get out and run around in the beautiful sunshine that teases others from out the window.

I stayed up until 2:30 AM last night writing a dialogue-free Absurdist play in one act. It ended with everyone onstage shooting themselves in the head. Hopefully, this kind of cop-out will appear to be absolute genius when viewed in the context of Absurdism. This weekend, I still have to write a play analysis paper, throw together a 15-minute surrealist/expressionist film (the fact that we, as yet, have no camera or script will hopefully not prove to be too much of a hurdle), and write an essay for my exchange application explaining why exactly I deserve to study abroad. For reasons I still do not understand, "BECAUSE I HAVE THE MONEY" is apparently not an acceptable justification.

It's cold, dark, and wet outside nearly 24 hours a day now. For me, the magical part of this time of year is when these miserable properties suddenly become positive the moment I'm able to stop worrying about school, eat everything in the house, cover myself in blankets, and concentrate on enjoying the company of my friends and family until the new year.

He's in a grave, and it's getting deeper and deeper with every statement he makes, and yet he is not actually dead. Somebody please change this.

I don't usually enjoy Peter Travers, but this top 10 list is rocking my world right now. And including Angels in America even though it's an HBO miniseries? I believe Mr. Travers may have found a new fan in me.

Suck it, Jack Valenti.

Because it never gets old to say bad things about bad movies, read my official review of Honey over at Moviepie!

Eric: I saw a store today called "Spray-Tan of America."

David: "Spray-Tan"?

Eric: Yeah. Do you know what that is?

David: Isn't that just spray...paint?

Eric: I don't know. Wouldn't that be a bit much?

David: Well, then...watered-down spray paint?

Eric: Don't look at me. I was wondering if you knew.

David: Well, I don't.

Eric: Fake tanning is sick, dude. [pause] And spray-tanning is what Meryl Streep and Goldie Hawn were doing at the end of Death Becomes Her.

David: "Spray-Tan...OF AMERICA." Because they have to differentiate themselves from Spray-Tans of other nationalities that might be located nearby.

Eric: "Spray-Tan of Bosnia-Herzegovina."

David: "No, sir, that's across the street. Please stop coming in here every day."

Some pictures from the set of Bridget Jones: The Edge of Reason. I continue to be surprised every time I realize how much cuter Renee Zellweger looks when she's "fat" as opposed to "a piece of sinew, and thus physically acceptable to Hollywood producers." (UPDATED: The pictures I originally linked to disappeared, so I linked to other pictures from the same site instead. Whatever, Z Review.)

The National Board of Review has put out their top 10 list for 2003, with Mystic River taking the top slot. It's interesting to see movies like Cold Mountain or The Last Samurai on there, because they've been touted as Oscar contenders since they were greenlighted, but you never really know if they're going to secretly suck or be forgotten five minutes after being released. A great example is the fact that I stab myself in the face repeatedly whenever I see the trailer for The Last Samurai, and yet here it is ranked higher on the list than Lost in Translation. I am revolted, yet intrigued.

And the Independent Spirit Award nominations just came out! Not much else to say about that, except that I'm confused by the absense of Evan Rachel Wood's name under the "Best Female Lead" heading.

It was a very good week for me to be broke, because I've been to three free screenings so far this week. Angels in America and Big Fish were both completely perfect and brilliant and everything I hoped for, and that's all I have to say about that. Then, of course, I saw Honey and my eyes have not yet forgiven me. It's actually pretty astounding, y'all. I've never seen anything like it. I didn't know this degree of badness was even legal in this country. I mean, I'm not even allowed to get married, and they can show Honey in multiplexes nationwide? THAT'S WACK, YO!

I don't know how much credence to give this story since I just heard it on the radio from a jackass DJ while driving home tonight, but apparently Britney Spears has more hate websites on the internet than any other celebrity. Ever. There are more than 2,000 websites out there devoted to hating Britney Spears. They also read some numbers for other much-hated celebrities, such as Jennifer Lopez (163) and Justin Timberlake (206). But wow, man -- they don't even come close to 2,000. That's kind of scary. But not particularly surprising.

The most amazing thing happened to me yesterday, the kind of thing that makes you think that someone out there is watching out for you (like God, not like the benevolent stalker from Mary Pickford's Daddy Long Legs).

Laura and I went up to Nick's building to visit him and there were a bunch of free screening passes available in the hallway, courtesy of the RA or something. There were a few passes to see Big Fish, which I had already gotten ahold of, but then I saw them:

FREE SCREENING PASSES TO SEE HONEY TOMORROW NIGHT. (WHICH IS ACTUALLY TONIGHT.)

Yes, there were Honey passes, and they were glorious. I grabbed several of them, and Laura said in a strange voice, "You're not really going to see that, are you?" I told her excitedly that of course I was going to! I also invited her to be my Honey date. People, she didn't even crack a smile. She was like, "NO." But I-- "HELL NO. And if you go see that movie, I will lose respect for you."

So, I'm still looking for a date to go see Honey with me. Does anyone out there appreciate the art of a truly awful movie and want to go with me? No, that's okay. I'll go to the screening...ON MY OWN TERMS.

While out of town, David and I had plenty of time to predict/write the upcoming Flashdance-clone Honey, a movie with which we are unnaturally obsessed and horrified. Behold the lengthy (and drunken) conversation which took place in its honor!