Slowly Going Bald

I stole this idea from McSweeney's, but was actually inspired to steal it after seeing that Bells On also stole it. Plus, when you think about it, when's the last time McSweeney's was so consistently amazing you would feel bad stealing from them? They started out all Sex, Drugs, and Cocoa Puffs, but have totally slid down into IV. Anyway, here's my list:

"Jeopardy!" Categories In Which I'm Pretty Sure I Could Beat Ken Jennings:

Living With Massive Debt

Science Fiction Media Of The 1980s

"Timing" And Other Reasons It Didn't Work Out

How To Apprehend Livestock

Arcane Country Bands Of The Mid-To-Late 20th Century

Acceptable Reasons For Wearing A Shirt Two Days In A Row Without Laundering It

Navigating Strange Neighborhoods While Mildly Inebriated

The Oeuvre Of Luis Guzman

A Walking Tour Of Quesadillas In The San Fernando Valley

Dave Matthews Band Lyrics (Pre-2002)

Indian Leg-Wrestling

Stand-Up Comedians Below The Cultural Radar

What It's Like To Think You're Original When Really, There Are A Ton Of Guys Just Like You

Living With Sweat

Possible Retro-Future Ramifications If Kirk Had Saved Joan Collins From Getting Hit By That Truck

Hot Pocket Flavors

If you knew me better, you would know that I probably spend too much time compiling imaginary, themed mix CDs in my head. I'm trying to come up with songs that reference every year of your 20s, either in their lyrics, title, or both. I've listed songs below that I think could make the cut, though some are there just because they fit the qualifications for the list, not because they're personal favorites (I'm pretty indifferent on Incubus, for instance). I'm more than willing to double up on songs, since a 10-track CD would be pretty light, so really, any suggestions would be welcome. (Well, not all. Let's try and keep the cornball stuff to an absolute minimum. Anyone who offers up Five For Fighting's "100 Years" gets a time-out and a punch in the chode.) Soon enough I can compile them and then rebuild the fourth wall I just kicked over. Anyway, here's what I have so far, just off the top of my head:

20
(needed)

21
(needed)

22
"When Yer Twenty-Two," Flaming Lips

23
"Dancing Nancies," Dave Matthews Band
"What's My Age Again," Blink 182
"Pardon Me," Incubus

24
"Twenty-Four," Switchfoot

25
"Streets of Where I'm From," Old 97's

26
(needed)

27
"Let It Ride," Ryan Adams

28
(needed)

29
"29," Gin Blossoms

Sure, I could bury myself in Google and try to put the rest of the list together. But really, it'd be a lot easier if you all did it for me. And besides, it's always better to get songs that have a personal meaning to someone, even if it's not me, than to just throw them on there because some search algorithm said they'd fit.

So, have at it.

[And, yes, I'm admittedly surprised that the day I published this post, which I originally cobbled together 3-4 days ago, is also the day that Peter Lynn is also writing about themed mixes. I have no idea how these things happen, but I like to think my subconscious sent out some kind of beacon that alerted him to the idea.]

• It should be noted that the place was called Hotdog. Or maybe HotDog. Or Hot Dog. It's hard to say. The signage was in all caps, and the one inside was adorned with sequins. Regardless, it stands (or stood, since it's about to relocate) at the corner of Santa Monica and Fairfax, which is pretty much the pulsing glittery heart of West Hollywood. And it's called Hotdog. And that's all I could've hoped for in my first experience.

• Being a straight man in a gay club feels a lot like spying on people who shouldn't have let me into the party.

• Really: Hotdog. I think all gay clubs should be this blatant. Were I to found one, I would name it something like Jimmy Cock's or Frank's Ass Shack or Lance's Bait and Tackle Shop. Or Dudeville.

• Man, some of those guys were cut. Insanely. I wish I had the build of a gay guy. Holy crap.

• There was always at least one dancer up on the mainstage, and sometimes as many as three. He was a ripped but blandly handsome guy in a G-string whose job was to dance back and forth to the insistent house beat, which pumped out a consistent 4/4 thump thump thump thump no matter what song was playing. (The DJ was pretty slick at blending all the crappy songs into one long crappy song, but more about him later.) The performer(s) also had dollar bills tucked into his thong, and the DJ kept exhorting us to "be sure and tip these dancers, y'all." This was somewhat surprising, as most straight clubs I've been to don't have a scantily clad woman gyrating on a pedestal and letting drunks shove sweaty bills into their underwear, though I admit that would definitely spice things up. But I couldn't help but feel a little sorry for the dancers. It's not like they're actually doing a routine or anything, and they're up there for what must feel like hours. And the money has to be terrible.

• More topless guys than I expected.

• And now, presenting The Top Five Guys That Cruised Me:

5) The guy who gave me the eye as he walked past and turned to look. I would place him higher on the list, but since it was just eye contact and nothing else, he's just good enough for last place. Sorry, bud.

4) The guy who squeezed my upper arm as he slid past me through a doorway. Touching people as you pass them is nothing big, and I do it all the time at clubs to part the sea of humanity. But this guy squeezed.

3) The guy who gave me a shoulder check as he walked past me, even though there was at least 2 feet of clearance to my left and I was standing to the rear of the bar and there was practically no one nearby.

2) The guy who quickly squeezed my ass as I was bent forward over the bar trying to order a Newcastle from a dour-looking Hispanic bartender. Thanks, guy.

1) Eduardo. As I was standing idly near the dance floor, content to chew on a short red plastic drink straw and observe the mass of intricately coiffed and high-cheeked young men frolicking before me, a man probably 8-10 years my senior slyly approached me with a small smile. I made the kind of darting eye contact women use on men in this situation. He came up and said hi. I said hi. He introduced himself, and I did likewise, at which point he said I had nice eyes. A million thoughts and possible rejoinders ran through my mind, not least of which was, "If you like that, you should see my [pick your favorite euphemism]!" I also thought that I kind of agreed, that I do have some pretty good eyes, even though they're hidden by glasses and a general look of confusion. But instead I just thanked him and, I believe, returned the compliment. (I wasn't quite sober enough to muster a decent response, and besides, if it were a girl I knew exactly the kind of flirtatious and funny response I would use, but not wanting to totally lead him on, I decided to pass.) So we talked about where we're from, and what we were doing there, and relationships, or as much as two guys can talk about those things in a few brief minutes while surrounded by a swirl of brawny men in muscle Ts grinding to disco. He was more than a little handsy, but not overly so; he seemed content to settle for mildly exploratory, e.g., tugging on my jacket's lapels while saying "But we'll be all right" as he reassured me about how it's inevitable that people get over bad relationships and move on to new ones. I eventually told him I was going to get a beer and that I'd be around, but I didn't get another drink, just took a couple laps around the club and then headed for home, the disparate group of acquaintances with whom I'd traveled having long since split up to pursue individual agendas. But that was Eduardo, the No. 1 guy to cruise me, who was polite and soft-spoken and whose breath smelled like vodka and bubblegum and whose English was heavily accented and not completely sure of its idioms. I hope you have a good week, man.

• Everybody smelled pretty good. You'd think that a couple hundred guys all wallowing around in different colognes and who knows how many exfoliants would create an olfactory nightmare, but it didn't.

• I'm pretty sure the girl in the mermaid costume on stage wasn't always a girl.

• Speaking of girls: Man oh man, there were some pretty hot women there. And why not? The dancing's good, if you're into boring house stuff, and they can let their guards down and go someplace they likely won't be hit on. This makes for an oddly target-rich environment for a straight man. It's a little unnerving, almost.

• The air is charged with hormones and the expectation of random hook-ups, which isn't all that surprising: Aside from being a gay club, meaning a place that's celebratory and encouraging, it's also, you know, full of men. Watching men approach women in a straight club is to observe a classic and dangerous game, since the burden is very nearly always on the man to approach the woman (tough), and then to be interesting (tougher), etc. Typically, broadly speaking, the man is the initiator. But Hotdog/Hot Dog/HOTDOG is full of nothing but initiators, all trying to initiate with one another, and they're all more than a little horny and getting drunker by the second. Hence the ability to walk in and pair up with someone literally within minutes.

• Seriously, though, the giant disco ball surrounded by six smaller ones? Come on.

• The DJ was almost antagonistic to the whole thing, since he kept urging us to "drink the f**k up" and tip the dancers and get nuts. Like, does this really need to be said? Everyone already seems to have had these ideas, and they don't seem to bear repeating. Talking DJs are annoying. I don't want to hear you remind me to drink or anything, I just want you to throw on some Kanye and let me works my magics.

• It was a long night, but an interesting one. I made several laps of the dance floor, content to watch various ages of guys and their respective fag hags dance while I just coasted around, oblivious. I don't plan to make a habit of frequenting gay clubs, since in addition to playing some pretty annoying (to me, anyway) music, they don't have that much to offer me, what with my not being gay. But I hung out with friends, danced a little, and even got my ass grabbed. How could I top that?

Long. Boring. Good effects. But I'm not gonna lie, I saw the 9:30 a.m. show, and several times I closed my eyes for 20 seconds at a time just to get some rest. Mainly during the scenes where Orlando Bloom and Johnny Depp were making out. You've seen it once, you've seen it a hundred times. Anyway:

Clickety-click.

Oh please no. No. Please, oh just and loving Creator, not like this. Not like this. Please no. This isn't Dan and Casey rallying; this is Jubal Early floating through space, lost, alone, unresolved. This is coldness. This is ambiguity. This is heartache. I will miss this show like no other, and it will always hurt like hell that things never got resolved. Do you hear me? It will never get any easier.

I don't even know what to say. I've got a piece over at Pajiba that begins to work through my grief. All I can do is read back over some of my favorite exchanges from the past three years (and there are many, many more), and smile:

Keith: I never want you to think that your mom is the villain in all of this.
Veronica: Isn't she?
Keith: No, it's not that simple....
Veronica: Yeah, it is. The hero is the one that stays ... and the villain is the one that splits.

Keith: Who's your Daddy?
Veronica: I hate it when you say that.
Keith: This is important, you remember this, I used to be cool.
Veronica: When?
Keith: '77. Trans-Am, Blue Oyster Cult in the 8-track; foxy, stacked blond riding shotgun; racing for pink slips. Wait a minute, I'm thinking of a Springsteen song. Scratch everything. I was never cool.
Veronica: I don't know which bothers me more, "foxy" or "stacked."

Veronica: It's all fun and games till one of you gets my foot up your ass.

Keith: So how was your date?
Veronica: Oh, you know. Lousy conversation, but the sex was fantastic!
Keith: That's not funny.
Veronica: I don't know. I'm pretty sure it was.

Veronica: [voiceover] Tragedy blows through your life like a tornado, uprooting everything. Creating chaos. You wait for the dust to settle and then you choose. You can live in the wreckage and pretend it's still the mansion you remember. Or you can crawl from the rubble and slowly rebuild.

Veronica: Got any enemies you know about?
Wallace: Well, there's the Klan.

Veronica: [voiceover] J. Geils was right. Love stinks. You can dress it up in sequins and shoulder pads, but one way or another, you're just gonna end up alone at the spring dance strapped in uncomfortable underwear.

Veronica: [voiceover] So this is how it is. The innocent suffer, the guilty go free, and truth and fiction are pretty much interchangeable. ...There is neither a Santa Claus, nor an Easter Bunny, and there no angels watching over us. Things just happen for no reason, and nothing makes any sense.

Veronica: Mrs. C. I trust you're well.
Kendall: Oh, well, if it isn't Little Miss Teen Getaway. Your dad and I were just dealing with a little trouble.
Veronica: Like, trouble with a capital "T," that rhymes with "C," that stands for —
Keith: Veronica!
Veronica: I was gonna say "cute."

Logan: As a rule, I like to start every school day with a hot blond waiting for me in the parking lot.
Veronica: Me too.
Logan: I'm not blond.
Veronica: Or hot. Got a question for you: remember back when you were doing the deed with Dick's stepmom?
Logan: Mmm, vaguely. I remember she thought I was hot.
Veronica: Were you with her on the day of the crash? You two talked on the phone a few times that day.
Logan: Man, you're obsessed with my sex life. Do I need to start carrying around a webcam from now on?
Veronica: Logan...
Logan: Day of the crash, day of the crash... uh, I'd really have to consult my feelings journal to be sure.
Veronica: Kendall stood to make millions by sending Dick and Beaver over that cliff. There was an insurance policy.
Logan: Kendall requires a domestic staff to make cereal. You really think she could plot a murder?
Veronica: Were you with her at 7:03?
Logan: Actually, she kicked me out before the sheets were dry. But considering her husband's fondness for handguns, and the fact that Dick and Beaver could come home at any moment, who could blame her? Anything else? Oh, I, uh, I got to second base with Tammy Forester in 8th grade in Duncan's closet. Last summer, I made this townie girl moan without even using my hands. Is any of this relevant? Should I make a list?

Veronica: You're patronizing me?
Keith: To be fair, I am your patron.

And, to cap it off, one of the series' classic scenes. It would be impossible to pick a favorite moment (Veronica's tearful paternity scene in Season 1 is gut-wrenching), but this one comes awful close:

So, a few weeks ago, I posted a list of phrases that, I posited, could not be salvaged by adapting them into lolcat pidgin. I mainly did it because the thought of a puppy or kitten on I Can Haz Cheezburger channeling some kind of unspeakable evil seemed funny to me. Sue me.

Now it seems that Lee over at BiWeekly Brilliance has aided me by actually creating one of the fake pictures I alluded to earlier. Check it out.

Anyway, thanks, Lee. I think the whole lolcat thing is beyond weird, yet I find myself powerless to look away. Hell, I even made my own.

If I had a penny for everything I liked about Waitress, I would have many pennies.

For starters, the film is the first romantic comedy I've seen in a long, long, long time that didn't feel as if it inhabited that godawful stereotype known as "romantic comedy." You know the ones I'm talking about: Reese/J.-Lo/somebody falls for Matthew/Josh/Matthew again in a sappy, phony, abrasively manipulative piece of tripe that's a trial to watch. These films are ostensibly aimed at women, but that's like saying The Transporter 2 is aimed at men, when really it's aimed at the lowest common denominator who have decided that the cars-go-boom id that often fuels us as a gender is something they'd like to live by every day. Hell, I like a well-done action movie as much as the next guy, but I'm not dumb enough to think that that's all there is. Same thing with typical romantic comedies: They're not actually good, but most women don't even bother defending them as good. They just watch them. My brothers and sisters, this should not be. Waitress is wonderful for many reasons, but the one that encompasses them all is its stubborn refusal to be a complacent, shallow, emotionally artificial movie. It's resonant, honest, open, and downright warm and fuzzy, and screw anyone who wants to bust my balls for saying that. Where most movies are syrupy and off-putting, Waitress is genuinely sweet and engaging.

Writer-director Adrienne Shelly imbues her heroine, Jenna (Keri Russell), with the kind of deep-rooted sadness the genre usually avoids like the plague. She's living in a small Southern town, where she works as a waitress and lives with her dull, abusive clod of a husband, Earl (Jeremy Sisto), and isn't happy in the least when she turns up pregnant. Jenna isn't worried to tears over how she'll work the baby into her life with Earl; she isn't frightened of what Earl will do to her or the child; and she certainly isn't grinning blissfully at the thought of decorating a nursery in her tiny house. She's worn down by life, and it's tragic. But that's not to say the film is overly dark. Shelly balances the mood with a mild, light humor, often driven by Jenna's fellow waitresses, Becky (Cheryl Hines) and Dawn (Shelly). Shelly delights in crafting quirky dialogue that sounds almost vaguely formal, as if the characters are inhabiting quaint stereotypes of Southern people who have never actually existed. (Off the top of my head, there's the moment when diner owner Cal [Lew Temple] explains his theory of life and happiness to a distraught Jenna, ending with something like, "That's my truth, summed up for your feminine judgment." It's nothing groundbreaking, but it's still fresher than you'd expect.)

The same goes for the relationship Jenna initiates with her doctor, Dr. Pomatter (Nathan Fillion). Rather than (a) rule out an affair from the get-go or (b) have Jenna and the good doctor wait it out until Earl is deus ex machinaed right out of the picture, Shelly has Jenna and Pomatter begin a sexual affair after a few meetings. It's heartbreaking to hear Jenna's narration, spelled out in caustic letters to the unborn baby she's already resenting, in which she relates how she gets "addicted" to actually mattering to someone, to having her words and feelings fall on the ears of a man who isn't dumb and cold. But Shelly's film is ultimately a comedy, so she only flirts with the legitimate complications that would bog down a drama: Earl has a few moments of tenderness for Jenna, which doesn't redeem him but does at least portray him as a feeling mammal. And Pomatter is married to a beautiful, wonderful, supporting woman, which is why she's on screen for a total of maybe 30 seconds; any longer and Shelly would risk having the audience oversympathize with Pomatter's wife and start to hate this handsome guy who's apparently willing to take it wherever he can get it. That's the tricky part about making a comedy where all these annoying feelings are involved, but Shelly pulls it off by keeping things somewhat light.

Look, this obviously isn't a full-on review, just a few brief thoughts about a movie I saw on my own time, for my own pleasure. But the film is so relentlessly sweet, and so damn honest about it, that I found myself more moved than I had been for a long time in the presense of a romantic comedy. Not that I was moved to extreme emotions: The humor here are solid, but not uproarious; the sadness here is deep, but not unbearable. Rather, Waitress is so honest about what it wants to do, so willing to wear its heart on its sleeve and quietly lay out a simple, kind, and emotionally true story that the effect is captivating.

me: so, there's a pretty decent shot i'm going to a gay bar with jeremy next weekend, and i'm looking forward to it
it'll be a story, that's for sure
Sis: pajiba jeremy?
me: yeah
Sis: what do straight people do in gay bars? will they be able to tell you're straight right away?
me: i'm pretty sure they just drink
i'll be at a bar, knowing i won't get laid. it'll be a lot like when i'm at a straight bar

[Wherein the author answers any possible/probable questions you might have. Who knows, one day I might even post the matching questions. But for now, on with the answers:]

Brown

Blue

6'2"

More than I'd like

Since I was 7

When I was 20

14

Third

Maybe someday

Possibly, but right now it sounds totally unappealing

Sandwiches

Two gallons a week, and right out of the carton

Only during the playoffs, if at all

More than 1,000

More than 40

About 200

To the right

Newcastle

Once, so far

Grimace, Ray

A few chords on the guitar

Old 97's

Probably blue

[UPDATE: Peter Lynn has taken a stab at providing the questions. His responses for Questions 2 and 4 are way off, but everything else seems to match up. Damn him. Next time I'll have to be more elusive.]

"Veronica Mars" has been canceled.

It wasn't mentioned on the CW's fall grid at the upfronts, but that's no surprise. And sure, there's a tiny, tiny glimmer of a chance the show could be saved in the next month. A part of me would like to believe that will happen, because at the end of the day I'm a gullible softie. But not even my own weaknesses can distract me from the bad news. I'll have more on it later, probably next week after the finale, but for now, all I can do is sigh and feel bad and at least try to be thankful the show lasted three years.

"Veronica Mars" has been canceled.

That's all I got.

I know I'm slightly late with this, and that in the 24 hours since it's gone up the original post has received something like ~400 comments, which is insane/amazing, but over at Pajiba we're taking votes on your favorite novels of the past 15 years. Why the past 15 years? Because it's our game, and those are the rules. The goal is to come up with a list of 5-6 books people would most like to see discussed on the site, meaning we'll actually have to read them and then talk about them, so try not assign us anything too horrible. It's tough to limit myself to five, but the timeliness factor helped a little. Here's what I came up with:

1. Infinite Jest, David Foster Wallace
2. The Amazing Adventures of Kavalier and Clay, Michael Chabon
3. Everything Is Illuminated, Jonathan Safran Foer
4. The Memory of Running, Ron McLarty
5. The Fortress of Solitude, Jonathan Lethem

I know, I'm like a giant walking stereotype of modern twentysomething reading habits. Anyway, we're taking votes for the rest of the week, so feel free to post your own list. I think the results, once tallied, will be pretty interesting.

me: if i were a superhero, i would be shovelin dan the shovelin man
i would go around planting trees
and speaking out about the environment
and having anonymous sex with groupies
and i would drive a bus
and i would get in adventures
they would want to make my life into a kids' cartoon, but it would be too risque
Sis: haha
kind of like tek jansen?
me: tek jansen wouldn't be fit to clean the grit from my shovel or wash my sheets, not without extensive training in my shovelin man ways
Sis: haha
you need sleep
me: i can sleep in my bus while jenny drives me to the rally
Sis: who's jenny?
me: duh, sarah
the redhead who's organizing the rally i'm speaking at
she saw my shovelin dan photo and said the image of me in that hat made her feel like a woman should
Sis: wow
just... wow
me:
for i am shovelin dan, the shovelin
MAN
gonna dig me a hole, gonna plant me a tree

Because some weeks all you wanna do is turn up some 1994. With that in mind, break out that Mossimo T-shirt you don't fit into anymore and listen to these up loud.

First up: I still own this album, and give it the occasional spin, and always enjoy it. I love every track (and am oddly partial to "Cajun Song," but I digress).

"Until I Fall Away," by Gin Blossoms.

I don't know why this next artist has disabled embedding on his YouTube video, which is pretty dick and defeats the entire purpose of the site. His official music video is right here, but for the purposes of convenience, here's another version:

"Bad Reputation," by Freedy Johnston.

Finally, this is a great single from an Austin pop group. Mention them at parties; impress your friends that read Pitchfork:

"April's Fool," by Cotton Mather.

And, what the hell, in honor of the early '90s: the original short film Bottle Rocket. Because sometimes it's good to remember what's on the list of things Dignan's not supposed to touch.

It's time once again for everybody's favorite religion column:

Jesus, Etc.

Go take a look. In a somewhat related coincidence, Jerry Falwell died today. It's worth remembering that his family is probably having a rough time right now, but that doesn't mean he's not a divisive, small-minded, angry little guy, who was publicly destroying my faith. Okay then.

That's all for now.

P.S. A fresh hot pretzel for whoever names the chapter and verse of the two oblique but still pretty guessable scripture references.

A sample of the film's dialogue:

"You can touch it if you'd like."

Said by Lindsay Lohan to a polite Mormon boy she's trying to seduce, after sliding off her panties while sitting with him in a boat in the middle of an Idaho lake. ... Yeah. Don't even get me started on her see-through wife-beater with no bra, which was seriously the most exploitative thing I've seen on screen all year. Garry Marshall, what the hell is wrong with you?

Anyway: Clickety-click.

• I sure don't know what's gotten into me recently, considering I posted all of once during the first two seasons of "Veronica Mars" and have suddenly begun spouting off at length about it. Believe me, I'm more than aware that gallons of digital ink are being spilled daily about every show on TV, and that sometimes it feels like the whole blogging community is, in the words of Agent Bedhead, a case of "too many people writing, and virtually no one reading." But I am unable to stay quiet about the movies and music and TV shows that move me, to shut that fire up in my bones, if you will. What's more, I know that these are dark times for "Veronica Mars," with the show's renewal for next year looking slightly better than before but with the possibility that the show will be rebooted drastically, forever altering the show's universe. So maybe that's why I keep writing about it: I want to spend as much time with it as possible while I have it. And I can live with that.

• That said, this week's episode, "Debasement Tapes," was one of the most visually captivating in a long time, a solid hour of beautiful compositions, dependable camera work and gorgeous lighting that helped smooth over the bumpier moments of the plot. There was almost no non-diegetic sound: I could be wrong, but I don't remember a single voice-over from Veronica, and there were also fewer emotional music cues than usual. The voice-over is a key ingredient to the show, and to noirish P.I. material in general, and without it the series slides a little from being told through Veronica's eyes to simply being about a girl named Veronica. It's a minor but essential difference, and I think the show hurts without it. Still, the cinematography was as stunning as ever: Look at the interplay of the blue and yellow signs behind Veronica's head, the golden light on her jaw. The shots here aren't just functional; each one is composed with regard to the series' unique sense of color and style. The same goes for the reverses on Veronica and Wallace while they talk about Piz and relationships:

The scenes are deceptively simple, but wonderfully balanced and artfully executed, with the blue and green fighting for attention with the splash of red from Wallace's shirt. The world of Neptune has always been candy-colored but never extreme; the blasts of color are meant to recall neon signs reflecting in puddles on streets that this girl should be avoiding.

• The mystery of the week centered on the disappearance of backing tapes belonging to Desmond Fellows, an aging pop-rocker played by Paul Rudd in low-key braggart mode. It's something like 19 times more entertaining than the mystery last week, wherein Veronica attempted to broker peace in the Middle East, because this one focuses on good music and heartbreak, two staples of dependable storytelling. When Desmond took the stage at the end to sing some "solo stuff" he'd been writing since the band's demise, he sang Cotton Mather's "My Before and After," a pop single from a dysfunctional band whose rocky history was surely a blueprint for that of My Pretty Pony, Desmond's fictional group. Cotton Mather also appeared on the "Veronica Mars" soundtrack, in an awesome branding tie-in and a sure sign that somebody on set, maybe writer John Enbom, is a big fan of the pop group from Austin.

• But even better than the serviceable plot was the way it looked playing out onscreen:

Come on, that's just nice to look at. It doesn't matter that it makes absolutely no sense for a desk lamp in a police station to have a blue bulb, and that's the whole point. "Veronica Mars" has always played around with these joyous pastels, crashing pink and purple and green against each other in the most unlikely of places, like the stained-glass window in the lobby of Keith's P.I. office (which I'm starting to really miss, but that's another headache). Look at the way these shots balance the blues and oranges so well. To me, it's more than just aesthetically beautiful: It's pleasing on an emotional level I can barely understand, much less express. Something about the balance of contrasting colors, the light, the framing that serves as its very own character. It's just gorgeous:

I can't get over the way the blue light glances off her hair, and how it plays against that shock of orange light behind her. Man:

• The scene at the nightclub was amazing, too, in that it united the episode's emotional arc — Veronica realizing she might like-like Piz, you know, like a boyfriend — with its commitment to reflecting those emotions with the light around the characters. Things are dark in this scene because of its location, with red and yellow spilling across the stage, but the smaller lanterns hanging nearby lend it a necessary intimacy. Veronica looks at Piz and says, "Piznarski, you're a good guy." This is a crucial moment in their developing whatever it is: Piz knows he's a good guy, which is why he's not with Veronica. (Desmond earlier in the episode looks at Piz and says, "You're single and you're very nice. There's a correlation." Piz has just been handed the Bible and the Tao of Steve rolled into one.) So when Veronica says that to him, he just looks back at the stage with the kind of detached confidence no 19-year-old should possess.

And that's when Veronica takes his hand.

• Sure, I gasped a little, but not out of shock that Veronica has developed the warm fuzzies for yet another guy whose heart she will eventually shred like Kleenex (I assume Duncan and his baby are still fine in Australia, but at least she could mention him once in a while). No, it was just the skill of the moment, the combination of earnest acoustic pop and good editing and the fact that I'd been pulled deeper into a trance for 45 minutes by the show's consistent visual beauty. "Veronica Mars" is special for that consistency. Many other great dramas, if not all, take time to find their footing when it comes to lighting and camera work, either starting out rockily before discovering what works or slowly evolving (or devolving) into a look that's often directly at odds with the show's roots. For instance, "Buffy" got a little brighter and sharper over the years, to its betterment, while "The West Wing" went from soft lighting, stationary cameras, and formal compositions to murky non-illuminations, self-consciously jittery photography and film-student trick shots. But "Veronica Mars" has always known aesthically where it wants to go, and that confidence in part fuels its storytelling. I know that Veronica and Piz will never last; Chris Lowell, who plays Piz, is set to recur on the "Grey's Anatomy" spinoff. And even if he wasn't, the show thrives on pain and breakups, as I've written many times before and will inevitably mention again. But still, for one moment, as the camera pulled away and they stood there, hands gently clasped and bathed in sweet incandescence, I believed anything was possible.

Spider-Man 3

Georgia Rule

Pirates of the Caribbean: At World's End

RozieD sent this my way. It's a disturbing glimpse into a frightening but all too real side of Texas. Enjoy, if you can:

Daniel,

First of all, how's it going? It's hard to believe you've been here for almost two years now. Who could have predicted when I interviewed you that there would be so many managerial and staff changes?

Speaking of staff, your supervisor, D——, asked me to speak with you, but as I will be out of the office next week, I'm opting to send you an email instead of holding a more formal meeting in my office. You should still consider this a verbal warning, though. D—— has brought it to my attention that your behavior of late has been a little off. Specifically, he says he has witnessed you performing the following:

• You softly sing the chorus of Berlin's "Take My Breath Away" when our most recent hire walks by your desk, a girl you have described (rather ill-advisedly) in intraoffice emails as "cute enough to kidnap." Needless to say, this is inappropriate, as are the jokes among coworkers using seemingly innocuous terms like "teabag," the meaning of which was made horribly clear to me when I Googled it this morning.

• You have occasionally worn flip-flops, despite the fact that company dress code forbids men from wearing open-toed shoes, and have also been seen slipping them off to walk around in your bare feet. This is a violation of corporate policy, as is your habit of rubbing your feet vigorously against the carpet to "grunge out the sweat," as you've been heard to say.

• You go out of your way to work the word "balls" into conversations with management, which, though humorous in an after-hours or weekend setting, is discouraged at the office.

• You used a pica pole to scratch your chode during the most recent office-wide meeting.

• Finally, instead of coping with our parking difficulties as we have done by allowing the garage attendants to double-park your car and retain your keys, you have simply begun hurling cinderblocks through the windows of cars in reserved spaces. This will not stand.

Needless to say, we still heartily value your skills and the contributions you bring to a team that has been functioning stronger than ever in recent months. But these behavioral lapses are just plain unacceptable. I understand that this time of year is stressful on all of us, especially employees like yourself who have not yet worked their way up the ladder of opportunity to a survivable wage. Feel free to swing by my office next week, when we can discuss these matters in greater detail.

Sincerely,

M——
Director of Human Resources

From lyrics like "She was a really cool kisser and she wasn't all that strict of a Christian" (which is awesome), to the Sprinsteenian grandeur and Sal Paradise references, The Hold Steady are doing their own bit to save rock and roll. For better or worse, this is the bar band all grown up, and it's damn catchy:

"Stuck Between Stations," by The Hold Steady.

Speaking of Springsteen-level pop-rock: Another great modern band looking to craft Gen Y's version of "Born to Run," and they come pretty close. I don't know if the Boss every played around with a hurdy gurdy, but this song manages to capture the whole screen-doors-in-the-infinite-summer-dusk thing anyway. Great song:

"Keep the Car Running," by Arcade Fire.

Because I'm a sucker, OK? Because sometimes I'm driving home from work at night, bouncing between KROQ and Indie, and the song comes on and gets in my head. OK? That's all:

"Hey There Delilah," by Plain White T's.

As reported by pretty much everyone on the interwebs, as well as the good folks at PosterWire (who I assume will look kindly on my borrowing their images for educational purposes and duly crediting them), Emma Watson has been given a digital breast job in the Imax ads for this summer's Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix. Take a look:

There are other minor differences between the images, including the way Watson's hair is blowing in the creepy wind, but the focus has understandably been on the fact that the art has slightly inflated her breasts. This is genuinely disturbing, and not merely because Watson is only 17. It's happened several times before.

It's time once again for a little blog love here at Slowly Going Bald, where those lucky few upon whom my powerful gaze rests shall be treated to a free plug, which will turn into a subsequent boost in blog traffic, increased virility, the ability to perform complex math without the aid of scratch paper, and other superpowers. The regular rules and warnings apply: If I don't mention you, it doesn't meant I don't love you, just that I forgot to mention you. That's all. Try not to read any further into it than that, because then you're gonna wanna talk about it, and have a full-on DTR, and really I don't have the time. Okay then:

• Moot Point

Not "moo point," which everyone knows is a cow's opinion, which is why it doesn't matter. Moot Point is run by Brenda, who aside from being Canadian and thus being allowed to use words like "monarchy" in a political context, seems to have her head on pretty straight. She knows a lot about movies and books, both of which make me respect her a lot. Plus, again with the "Buffy" and "Veronica" love. Why don't these women live near me? Anyway, check her out. Smart kid.

• That Little Round-Headed Boy

Guy knows his movies. His blog has been through quite a few aesthetic changes recently, and while I preferred the older model(s), I still check in daily to see what the Shamus has going on. Great stuff.

• Edward Copeland on Film

Okay, first of all (that one's for you, and you know who you are), Copeland is doing weekly posts about the second season of "Twin Peaks," recently released on DVD, as if they're actually airing. How great is that? This guy has a fantastic film/TV blog, full of good writing and interesting links. He's also got a Star Wars blogathon coming up, and though I've never participated in one of those, my inner 9-year-old just might persuade me to chime in. Granted, he links to Anne Thompson, but nobody's perfect.

• Kendall-Ball

It's fantastic to read the smart, probing rants from a man who clearly loves God but hates the cornball corporation that a lot of religion has become back where I come from. Plus his name is hyphenated, for reasons I will never attempt to fathom.

• Blahg

He is the voice of one crying in the wilderness; he is Luke Reeves. And he has returned.

That's it for this round. Thanks for tuning in.

oh hai / i left you a present / guess whut / it's humin flesh

i'm in ur house / smellin ur undrthingz

it r time / time for whut? / time 2 put my ev-il inside u

This week's "Veronica Mars" had a nice re-enactment (of sorts) of part of Brett's execution scene from Pulp Fiction. I just thought it was fun, is all. Ride the space elevator and enjoy the clips:

When Tobey Magurie started wearing eyeliner and trying to look like Robert Smith — that's when I knew something was very, very wrong:

Clickety-click.

Sure, everybody and their brother went to the desert last weekend for Coachella, with the heat and the gridlock and the weed and the booze and the girls you will never hook up with. And yeah, it was probably fun to see Rage Against the Machine reunite, if only for the 10th-grade flashbacks it inspired, and the opportunity it gave you to shout "Testify!" all weekend. But for my money, this is the weekend to be in Indio: May 5-6 is the Stagecoach Festival, billed as "California's country music festival," and there are some fantastic acts scheduled to play. Forget the mainstream crap like Kenny Chesney, Alan Jackson, and Sara Evans. Let the fools have them. Some of the acts coming to Stagecoach include such alt-country, bluegrass, and Americana performers as:

Old 97's
Emmylou Harris
Ricky Skaggs
Marty Stuart
Raul Malo
Alejandro Escovedo
Earl Scruggs
Neko Case
Nickel Creek
Yonder Mountain String Band
Robert Earl Keen
The Del McCoury Band
Willie Nelson
Lucinda Williams

Good grief, what a beautiful collection of artists. Anyone who wants to take me is more than welcome. In the meantime, enjoy some tunes by a few of the above bands and singers:

"Behind the House," by Neko Case:

"Are You Alright?" by Lucinda Williams:

"When You Come Back Down," by Nickel Creek:

"Roll in my Sweet Baby's Arms," with Earl Scruggs and Ricky Skaggs:

• I can begin nowhere else but by once again reflecting upon how much my life is tied to this show, for reasons passing human understanding and perhaps discernible only to God. There's some throwaway dialogue between Wallace and Piz at the beginning of one scene, and Piz is telling Wallace about a certain theatrical experience, telling him it'll "change your life" while describing how people throw plastic spoons at the screen. Piz was talking about The Room. The very same cult movie I saw for the first time just the other night, and that I wrote about on Monday. What are the odds? I haven't felt this connected to "Veronica Mars" since Max the "Battlestar" fanboy fell in love with a hooker and bought her freedom. Not that I've ever done that, but I think it could be fun. Seriously, though: Rob Thomas is watching me.

• It's moments like that one, as well as the relationship-fueled drama, that I'll take away from last night's episode, "Un-American Graffiti," since the mystery of the week was pathetically uninteresting. It's not that this show (or TV series in general) should refrain from making some kind of political point, though the heated rhetoric about freedom and what it means to be an American felt a little out of place for the gritty Neptune I've come to know and love. The problem is that by transitioning, albeit hopefully only temporarily, from its traditional format of multi-episode story arcs to stand-alone installments here at the end of the third season whose only through-line will be the characters' ongoing relationships (in short, the same stuff that happens on every other drama). But that's bad.

• The show's season-long arcs weren't just distractions from the personal dramas in the individual characters' lives, but a direct influence on them. The first year, Veronica sought to find out who killed Lilly Kane, and each successive mystery of the week was often tied to the Kane case, which in turn pushed Veronica, Duncan, et al. down the grueling but rewarding paths they would walk as they changed, grew, fell in and out of love, and coped with the unmitigated hell that is growing up. The second season's main arc, dealing with the school bus crash, managed to top the first year for scope, which was no easy feat. What's more, the second season amplified the symbiotic nature of the mysteries and the characters: The investigation defined Veronica even as she sought to solve it. One of the many fine examples of this was last year's episode "I Am God," which saw Veronica almost lose herself in the story of the crash. The mysteries sharpened the characters because they were so closely related to their lives.

• Which is why stand-alone episodes just won't work within the larger framework of "Veronica Mars." This week's story dealt (pretty heavy-handedly) with a local Arab family being tormented by a bigoted little patriot, but the connection to Veronica was tenuous at best: The daughter in the family had apparently been a classmate of Veronica's, which is a pretty lazy way for a show that prides itself on internal references to establish a character connection. But the story had nothing to do with Veronica. Nothing. It wasn't even tenuously related to her through the kind of cheap metaphor a lesser show would use (e.g., the Arab man's tolerance of the bigot's actions would parallel Veronica's growing acceptance of Logan's new relationship with Parker, or whatever). The mysteries only matter when they involve the main characters and give them a chance to change, react, grow, etc. The first two seasons were dazzling in how the central characters' relationships were never really stable, never cemented, much like actual high school (and college, and young adulthood, and, one assumes, the rest of your life). But without a chance to let the characters' relationships change because of the mystery, well, the mystery just kind of hangs there.

• That said, though, the relational angst was still pretty stout this week; the MOW wrapped around 45 minutes in just to let the final act play out at Parker's party. The show finally came through on the hint that Piz would go after Veronica instead of just gazing at her and pining and playing with his bangs, and it was good to see him do it. Sure, Logan and Parker just seem to be together because they're killing time, but Veronica/"Veronica" doesn't do happiness nearly as well as pain, which means Veronica and Logan won't be getting back together soon, or easily.

• The rest of the party scene was pretty strong, too, from the space elevator reference to last season's alterna-prom to Max's worried inquiry of Mac, "Seriously, did my friends hire you?" But the best was how, once again, the heartbreak played out in front of the elevator, as Logan found Veronica and Piz doing what had been inevitable since they met. But it's a sign of the show's wobblier third season that the moment didn't hold a candle to the morning-after scene in last year's "Look Who's Stalking." As the elevator doors closed on Veronica, I thought: That was good, but haven't I been here before?

A few brief notes about the latest Guide at Pajiba, this one a salute to action flicks:

1. Like all collaborative lists, this one ain't perfect. Sure, there are some good action films on the list, but I'd gladly trade Mr. & Mrs. Smith for Mission: Impossible. But I think I was the only one who didn't have Mr. & Mrs. Smith on his/her ballot, so it made the cut. Democracy in action, folks: First that f**ktard Bush, and now this. Ah well. Anyway, we only had room for 15 movies, so my advice to you if any of your favorites is to mention it in the comment thread.

2. I know it's kinda tautological, but an action movie is an action movie, OK? Close your eyes and think of action movies. That thing that came immediately to mind, with the explosions and the guns and bad guys getting blowed up — that's mostly what we were going for. Sure, we broadened it a little, because at Pajiba we're all about screwing with the rules, which is why we included Raiders of the Lost Ark, which is more of a classic adventure pic despite having some of the all-time great action sequences. But there aren't any Westerns on there because, well, it's a list of action movies, not Westerns. Get it? Same goes with gangster flicks, or vampire flicks. I look forward to reading the comments we get (well, not all of them, since some of you scare the tar out of me), but seriously, take a moment to think if the movie you're talking about is actually an action movie or if you just feel like bitching.

Thanks for your time.

And now: Pajiba's Guide to the Best Action Films of All Time.