Slowly Going Bald

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.

So, in response to the surprising number of responses I got to my open question about whether women prefer men bearded or clean-shaven (and I have to believe most of the traffic were people who'd come here from Whedonesque the day before and wanted to stick around to see how dumb/weird I got, in which case, here you go), I've decided to post a series of photos to more accurately allow you all to vote on whether I should beard it up or keep it smooth. This is something of a historic day, since I don't often post photos of myself online; every photo of me on Facebook was placed there by someone else. Just thought you should know that.

Anyway, here are the photos. There are more shots of me with a beard because I coincidentally happened to be around digital cameras more often in recent months and years when I was sporting the beard; the number of photos per category isn't meant to sway you either way. The gallery:

The slightly thicker beard, and my sister's eye:

The solid, somehow studious beard:

The thinner, more trimmed, half-drunk beard:

The thinner, oddly happy beard:

No beard, making a stupid face and regretting my bulbous nose:

No beard, happy, being ominously touched on the shoulder:

No beard, wearing a pink shirt and okay with it:

I'm of two minds about the whole thing, since I've recently been told I "pull off the beard better than most men," but also that sporting just the goat makes me "more approachable" and also displays my dimples, which are my face's "best feature" (given the aforementioned bulbous nose and inability to see beyond 3 inches without the aid of corrective lenses, this seems pretty obvious). So, that's pretty much it. Any and all feedback is welcome. Keep in mind that your opinions could very well change my life and shape my future, unless I decide to completely ignore them. Also, "clean shaven" for me means going down to just the half-goatee seen in the last few photos; that's as hairless as I will allow my face to get, since otherwise I look 11 years old and stupid. And just so you know, I'm currently sporting the full goatee (mustache + chin), and it doesn't look half bad.

Now: Vote.

"Battlestar Galactica" has always provided some of the best action on TV, not least because even though it's a sci-fi show, the guns still fire bullets and people still die in horrible ways. Similarly, the special effects are carefully constructed to tell the story but never override it; the beauty of the dogfights is partly that they're not just pretty explosions happening for no reason. The effects are remarkably detailed, too, right down to the "No Step" warning on the Viper cockpits. But the remaining humans have managed to stay mostly out of the way of the Cylons since escaping New Caprica, which would have made it understandable and even acceptable if the two-part finale of the show's third season had been a sprawling war arc that stretched from space to planet. But how did the show wrap up the season? Buckle up, kids:

Courtroom drama.

Of course, even when "Battlestar Galactica" isn't dealing with actual battles, it doesn't exactly slow down, merely trades the kinetic excitement of war for the deeper stories that explore the lives and motivations of the main characters. "A Day in the Life" was fantastic at this, reveling in the details of Admiral Adama's ongoing grief over his wife and the cracks spreading slowly between Chief Tyrol and Cally (but if she's willing to stay with him after he broke her jaw during a hallucinatory daydream, they can probably get through squabbles about who has to feed the baby). After setting up the show's mythology as the season's endgame — Tyrol's connection with the temple, Starbuck's connection with the, um, temple — the show made an abrupt left turn by doing two pretty huge things right in a row: Starbuck died, and Baltar got his trial.

The two-part finale, ominously titled "Crossroads" just to make sure we get that some pretty important crap is about to hit the fan, was nothing less than a 90-minute treatise on ethics and morality and how we define those very concepts that form the bedrock of our society. That's not to say it didn't do other things that TV dramas usually do (and do them pretty damn well). The strength of "Battlestar Galactica" is that it can do both: function as a tautly designed, structurally sound, emotionally resonant drama, and also reach for the bigger issues above the treetops.

It's a loose rule — very loose — that TV dramas thrive on change in a stable environment, while TV comedies thrive on stasis in stable environment. For one of many instances, the creators of "Friends" had to keep coming up with ways to keep Ross and Rachel in order to preserve the stasis of the group. (Chandler and Monica were allowed to hook up and stay together because of the corollary that allows secondary relationships to work out while the show's primary relationship continuously fails and succeeds in fits. This is why Tyrol and Cally are married, but Apollo and Starbuck will always have to find their way back to each other.) "Cheers" was 10 years in a bar, "Seinfeld" almost 10 years in a coffee shop, and both series thrived on the inherent unchangeability of their characters: Jerry is pretty much always going to be a germophobic prick, while George will always manage to repel women. The characters in a comedy stay, fundamentally, at the same emotional level throughout the series; Jim and Pam can try all they want, but it ain't gonna happen. However, characters in good dramas progress through an emotional arc over the sourse of the series, so that while their surroundings stay the same, they become different people as a result of their jobs, relationships, etc. The soapy on-again/off-again nature of TV relationships has a lot more gravity on dramas because they characters aren't simply marking time until the finale, when the leads can finally be together; these characters are actually experiencing all this pain, this heartbreak, and as a result they slowly become different people. Off the top of my head, "Buffy the Vampire Slayer" probably did as good a job as any show ever did of showing marked change in its characters from pilot to finale: The lessons learned in one season were applied to the next, which raised the stakes, and so on.

However, the trick is pulling those characters through arcs of change without violating the story's natural feel. Perhaps the most egregious example (again, off the top of my head and glancing intermittently at my DVD shelf) is the horrible way that Aaron Sorkin kept Dana and Casey apart on the second season of "Sports Night" by concocting Dana's Dumbass Dating Plan, which forced Casey to feel ashamed for loving Dana and encouraged him to pursue other women, which of course he did. The characters weren't kept apart as a result of any growth or change they went through or any kind of relationship problems; they were just kept apart.

All of which is a long way to say that "Battlestar Galactica" showed once again how smart it is at making its characters grow while also putting them through the relational ringer. Admiral Adama and President Roslin have been growing closer since the evacuation from New Caprica, which has been kind of cute: They're old, and slow, and Adama will look at Roslin and growl, and Roslin will look back at Adama like a playful librarian, and maybe they'll hold hands, and etc. But in order to keep them from getting together (ew) just yet, the show needed a way to keep them apart, and it did so the best way possible: It established their conflicting ideologies over the fate of Gaius Baltar.

The trial itself was masterful in that it forced Lee to test himself like he never has before. Sure, he's rebelled several times in the past, and was barely on speaking terms with his father when the series began. But his acts of independence have always been in line with a belief that the military he serves can and should be the best force of good for the struggling society that's slowly making its way to the promised land of Earth. He went with Roslin to Kobol because he believed her, not because he stopped believing in the cause. But he turned in his wings and quit the service because he didn't like where Admiral Adama was taking things, especially when Adama expressed his belief that Gaius Baltar didn't deserve a fair trial. Lee hated Baltar as much as everyone else, but he wasn't willing to let his distaste for the man color his loyalty to the ideal of a free society. Lee's impassioned speech on the stand was fantastic: He spoke of salvation, and atonement, and the hypocrisy of letting everyone be covered by Roslin's amnesty except for Baltar, who had been made to suffer. He doesn't attempt to excuse Baltar's crimes, nor does his speech quite falter and slip into the murky areas of relativism, i.e., we all made mistakes, so Baltar can make them, too. No, he's arguing the opposite: We've all been forgiven, and Baltar deserves the same pardon.

Lee's speech won over Admiral Adama, demonstrating the old man's ability to grow and change, to mature. And Adama's vote to acquit Baltar in turn pushed Adama and Roslin farther away in a heartbreakingly natural way. While they will probably work back toward a close friendship in the future — hey, they got through the civil war of the show's second season — it won't be easy. "Battlestar Galactica" doesn't cheat like that; reconciliations here are hard-earned.

All of which makes it so much harded to accept that, for now, the show is gone for a while. Instead of beginning its fourth season this fall, the series isn't returning until January 2008, which is just an ungodly amount of downtime for one of the best dramas on TV. The series deals with politics and religion and what it means to live in a free society and what kind of laws we give ourselves, and it does it better than anybody else in the game. The finale relied on "All Along the Watchtower" as a plot device and as the soundtrack to the impending Cylon attack that filled the episode's final seconds, and the use of the song was an effective way to emotionally tie the fictional world to ours. It's not exactly a new trick — Stephen King also used "Hey Jude" to eerie effect in The Gunslinger — but it still managed to lend the sequence a weight, a sense of foreboding, that drove home the revelation of the identities of four of the remaining Cylon models (about which I'm sure I will write at length over this long, hot, empty summer). It's enough to make me want to dive back into the show on DVD. I'm really going to miss it.

"Well I'm pulling into Cleveland
In a seven-seater tour van.
There's eight of us, so I'm sleeping on the floor.
The guy that plays the banjo
Keeps on handing me the Old Crow,
Which multiplies my sorrow, I can't take it anymore."
— "Doreen," Old 97's

What else to say? Old Crow Medicine Show is a great band, and if you don't know much about them, you should really check them out. Dig the Gillian Welch cameo, too:

"Wagon Wheel," by Old Crow Medicine Show.

Coworker: I actually still have a Millenium Falcon toy that's only half-assembled. It's still in the box.
Me: Wow.
Coworker: It's probably worth some money.
Me: It's probably fun to play with.
Coworker: [Gives me look of confusion, incredulity, and a little shame.]
Me: [Makes engine noise.]

The most recent episode of "Lost," the compelling "The Man From Tallahassee," is probably the best episode of Season 3. While it's clearly better than most of Season 2, which played out like a turgid melodrama stripped of any real consequence, it's also not quite up to the level of Season 1, which barreled along like a runaway train while successfully using a character's individual backstory to deepen the main island plot. Granted, it's not exactly rocket science to psychologically link a given character's past with whatever they're going through on the island — Charlie leaned on drugs and now can't emotionally support himself, or something — but when it cooks, it cooks.

What made the episode so great was Jack's willingness to morally compromise in order to get things done and pursue what he perceived to be the greatest good for the islanders, namely, growing somewhat friendly with the Others and even offering medical care for Ben in order to secure passage off the island on the mythical submarine and possibly get help back in the real world and return later to rescue his friends. Jack has been the (often overly) moral leader of the group since the first year, playing the part of the great physician and watching over the flock of castaways to keep them safe and even journeying into dangerous parts of the island to rescue the one who'd gone astray or been kidnapped. He was an occasionally flat but ultimately noble representative version of all things good and true, which was the center of his beef with Locke: Locke was willing to redefine his worldview after landing on the island, and in fact deemed it necessary to mining the island for all its potential rewards, but Jack held even stronger to the ethical code that had guided him back home.

But Jack, after three seasons of getting jerked around, is finally starting to see the light by going dark. When Kate, Locke, and Sayid attempted to rescue Jack and wound up getting predictably captured in the process, Jack wasn't tossed into lock-up with them but actually given the opportunity to visit Kate and interrogate her. The scene was a fabulous inversion of the trials Jack had gone through while held captive by the Others, and the way he casually dragged up a chair and asked Kate just what she was up to spoke volumes about Jack's enlightened way of looking at things. Kate asked him, "So, you're with them now?" And Jack looked back at her with a mixture of annoyance, defiance, and even mild confusion, saying, "I'm not with anyone, Kate." Jack wasn't simply using the Others until he could escape back to his camp, or even get off the island. He was merely taking advantage of something that would first serve his interests and later, possibly, those of his friends. Locke has always been doing his own thing because of what he felt he owed the island after it magically healed him, which is why his decision to scuttle the sub and keep everyone trapped there, though lamentable, wasn't really surprising. No, the show turned a corner not by digging deeper into Locke's personal demons — though the episode was typical Locke-centric greatness, since Terry O'Quinn is hands-down the best actor on the series — but by finally setting Jack free to see where he goes. By eliminating the hero's strict moral code and having him venture into the surprisingly accepting waters of ethical unaccountability, "Lost" may be poised to have its characters do something I've been wanting them to do for a long time: Grow.

Blah blah Adam Sandler blah blah widower blah blah Cheadle blah blah manipulative tragedy blah blah I will never be able to take seriously in a dramatic context the guy who did "The Beating of a High School Spanish Teacher."

Clickety blah blah terrorism: Clickety-click.

UPDATE: I stand by my analysis that having the two married characters in the film begin to drift apart for no reason is lazy writing. There's always a reason. Always. You wish things were different, or you resent someone and start screwing with their head, or you get tired, or you begin telling yourself that you deserve some kind of better whatever, etc. There's always a reason. Saying there isn't is delusional. Additionally, in Reign Over Me, it's hinted that Alan had some troubles with staying true to his wife in the past after dallying with a patient, but that never pans out. So it's not just lazy writing, it's doubly offensive to actually get within spitting distance of giving this guy some depth, some moral complexity, and then backing off.

Why the title? Because the girl plays mind games. And I don't mean the garden-variety head-screwing most women tend to favor. No, this one's all about role-playing, and costumes, and all sorts of stuff. It's pretty awesome, actually, but it takes a while to get used to it.

We were supposed to go out on Saturday night, but that doesn't mean what you think it means. We never actually go out on a typical date, where I would pick her up and take her to dinner and then maybe a movie or a late drink or just right to drinks, followed by a car ride home and the inevitable sweet embrace of the closed door. No, when Alicia and I go out, we always meet up somewhere. At first I thought this was both weird and juvenile: Why can't we drive together like adults? And what, is she embarrassed of me? That's no way to behave. But it's all part of the act, or what Alicia calls "the play," which means not just a show we're putting on together but the lay of the land, the shots, the score. You know, never open your mouth until you know the play, that sort of thing. And the play for Alicia always involves meeting up at a bar or restaurant and pretending we don't know each other.

She'd picked a place in Westwood, which was an interesting choice, since the streets were sweaty with drunken college students wearing flashing green necklaces and wolfing down ice cream sandwiches from Diddy Riese. I found her, though, but this time she'd drawn two other men into her role-playing, as well as a sizable crowd of onlookers. Even in L.A., she gets noticed. And man, she looked great in this skirt-and-sweater thing, with the wrinkly nose and the spastic hand gestures. She's cute, what can I do.

So I watched her go through her little scene: She submitted to the men, acted subservient, but eventually wound up dominating them. Then, at the height of her control, they turned on her, and she left in tears. It was a moving, complex, and even humorous play, the way things turned out. I couldn't help but applaud, and neither could the spectators.

I couldn't find her afterward, which was a little disappointing, but I chalked it up as another one of her flights of fancy, where we go on a date but don't actually talk to each other or look at each other then entire time. It sounds nuts, but that's what I love about her, you know? Not that we're in love or anything; man, that's a DTR we're definitely not ready to do. But yeah, she's something special. So I swallowed my regret and knew that, though I'd be going home alone, I'd see Alicia again soon. I hope she still has my number. I think she does.

Men with beards: Yes or no?

It's, um, research I'm doing. For a book. I swear.

This review goes out to all you loyal readers, especially the friend with whom I used to sit and ponder: "Ladies of Deja Vu, what must I do to get with you? I got a roll of 20s burning my pants, so here's one little question that I'd like to ask...."

Clickety-click.

Anyway, I also wanna say so long to The Show with Zefrank. I'm sorry I've only been in on it for a few weeks, but I'm glad I found it. For those of you in the ORG, my username is dan c; give me a shout. And now, the final episode:

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I remember what it was like to come out to my friends. I had to do it several times, since it's not like you can just gather everyone in your life in one room and tell them what's going on, so I had to keep bringing it up. I never even talked about it with my parents, though I assume they'll read this. Anyway, I would look at my friends and say, "So, I've got something I need to tell you. Something I've been doing recently." They would look at me and say, not without concern, "Well, what is it?" And then I would clear my throat, look at them, and say:

"I've been watching 'Buffy the Vampire Slayer.' And I love it."

I first came into contact with "Buffy" in the spring of 2003, when I saw the Season 2 DVDs sitting out at a friend's apartment. "Whose are those?" I asked her. "Mine," she said. "Yeah, right," I joked, thinking her far too smart to be involved with what I had prejudicially written off as a juvenile, campy soap opera. But luckily she was walking around the apartment and I didn't say it too loudly and I guess wasn't being too sarcastic (which is something), since my comment didn't really register with her. (Ah, the sweet joy of making a joke and having a woman ignore it.) A few months later, in the middle of that long hot summer, I came across a rerun of "Buffy" on FX one afternoon and decided to stop and see what was going on, since, after all, the girl who'd owned the DVDs really did have good taste. So I settled in and would up watching the Season 5 episode "The Body," and was blown away. I was thrust headlong into a universe that had been expanding for years and forced to play catch-up mighty fast, but that episode was enough to let me know I'd found something good. The show was smart without being smug, funny without sacrificing respectability, and blended action, comedy, drama, loads of pain, and all the other emotions that make for the best TV.

It took me a while to accurately assemble the show's chronology in my head, since I was flat broke and couldn't afford the DVDs, but also didn't want to stop watching the show. So I watched the reruns of Seasons 5 and 6, which is a fascinating way to enter the series: Willow was gay, there was the epic "Once More, With Feeling," and I had to put up with Dawn. Since Joss Whedon's series had ended only a few months earlier, the seventh year hadn't entered syndication yet, so FX returned to Season 1 after the sixth season episodes ended, and I soon caught up on everything. I was living alone in a college town that had been deserted for the summer, and watching "Buffy" was probably one of the two or three only good things that happened during that dry, blistering hell of a season. I felt as if I'd found this world that had been waiting for me, full of humor and pain, where it was okay to be a little cornball in the service of the greater story. The show ran for seven seasons, and each one has its glories¹: The show's core dynamic is flawless in Season 1-3, the high school years; Season 4 is a daring and wonderful transition to college and the real world; Season 5 has some fantastic moments dealing with love, sacrifice, and growing up; Season 6 is a vastly underrated look at the aimlessness of your early 20s and the damage we do to each other; and Season 7, despite the speechifying, manages to be a solid return to form as the show once again finds itself dealing with apocalypse at high school.

I could never pick a favorite season, or episode, or character. I've loved a lot of TV shows in my time, and still do, but "Buffy" is one of the few (along with "Sports Night" and a very few others) that transcends the level of beloved show and becomes an almost tangible presence in my cultural life; basically, the show helps me get over. I can't imagine anyone being able to turn to "Lost" or "Heroes" and find the same kind of emotional comfort and character-derived moments of genuine power like the ones Whedon turned out with stunning regularity. This show has heart, damn it, and that counts for something.

I can't believe how many moments are flooding back to me just banging out this half-assed salute to the show. There's Giles walking into a tree at the end of "Earshot"; that umbrella sequence in "The Prom" that gets me every time; the final shot of "Hush"; the music in "The Gift"; seeing Riley come back married in "As You Were"; Andrew turning off the camera in "Storyteller"; the sheer fun of "Halloween"; the surprising gender reversal in "I Only Have Eyes For You"; the jarring transition from Anya singing to being pinned to the wall, a sword through her chest, in "Selfless"; really, any moment from the gallons of angst the flowed through Season 2. There are so many, and I'm sure I'll get into more of them in this space in the future.

I guess I just felt like getting all that out there because the 10th anniversary of the show's debut recently passed, and a new line of comics written (initially) by Whedon just began, and are serving as a "Season 8" to continue where the TV series left off. And I know now that I'll read every issue, even though Whedon's only writing a few of them. There's just something about these characters I find compelling, an emotional strength of storytelling that outweighs the show's occasional weaknesses. I'll probably cobble together some kind of review of the comics after a while, but that's for later. For now, I just wanted to share my love for a show that got me through the black, that always entertained me, and that influenced the way I watch TV and the stories that affect me. That's all.

^{1. Man, that was an awful pun (for those who caught it). And I swear it was unintentional.}

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This song was written by Gram Parsons and Chris Hillman. Hillman was a founding member of the Byrds, and Parsons joined the band for the classic Sweetheart of the Rodeo. Not long after, Parsons and Hillman were playing together in the Flying Burrito Brothers, and this track appeared on that group's first album, The Gilded Palace of Sin. Parsons is one of my favorite artists; I could listen to G.P./Grievous Angel all day. The song's been covered several times, most notably by Uncle Tupelo, but this is a pretty amazing version:

"Sin City," by Steve Earle, Gillian Welch, and David Rawlings.

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The main problem with youth groups is one of ontology: Namely, the youth group isn't really the youth group unless it's assembled, and that almost never happens in an official capacity unless there's a trip involved. Sure, many or most of the members might come together on a particular Sunday morning or Wednesday evening, but that's a matter of routine. And, yes, it's common for the members to hang out together as a group in a distinctly secular capacity, like the time my youth group got together to go see American Pie, after which a couple guys who were sitting near our group latched onto us outside and picked up two of our single female members, making the entire evening a pretty good example of things the youth minister doesn't want you to do at all, especially if his name's attached to it, hence our hanging out as friends and not some kind of bizarre group of emmissaries for the church. Of course, the American Pie night wound up being a bust long-term for the girls in question: One of the guys turned out to be a local pot dealer with no small amount of paranoia, and the fact that he coincidentally dealt to one of the male members of the youth group is just one of those freakish twists that makes you think P.T. Anderson really knows what he's talking about. Anyway, once the girl found out he was holding, they broke up.

But back to the thing about trips: Youth groups go to all kinds of conventions, camps, and what have you throughout the year, and the process usually entails loading everyone up in a trusty van — again, completely absent of any mouth-to-body hanky-panky — and driving to a nearby major city and crashing in a hotel for a night or two and in general throwing every last ounce of decent behavior right out the baptistry window in pursuit of the kind of low-grade trouble that fuels young men's very being. Some examples of said screwing around:

• When I was 12, there was an event in downtown San Antonio, which the youth minister must've viewed as a plus, since we wouldn't have to lodge anywhere, just drive downtown every day and spout off randomly memorized verses before collecting some cheap ribbon we would throw away later and heading for home. Of course, being in 7th grade and hanging out with other boys my age, we were flabbergasted at the relative amount of freedom we had to roam the Riverwalk in the free time we were able to carve out, not to mention the fact that there were girls everywhere. At 12, your body is producing so much testosterone you can't see straight, and you don't even want to. Girls drive every word, thought, action. Basically, it's the same as your 20s, only without cars.

Which is probably why we, being 12 years old and thinking we were pretty much as good as it gets, went to Hooters for lunch one day. Just walking in was some ultimate combination of defiance of our moral leaders and acceptance of the carnal desires we were howling to let loose: They were like fire shut up in our bones; we were weary of holding them in; indeed we could not. I remember loving it there, even though the waitresses were probably either annoyed or slightly creeped out by our little band of horndogs. And in retrospect, they probably weren't even objectively hot or anything; this was, after all, downtown San Antonio.

• There was an event in Austin when I was in high school, either a junior or a senior. It was toward the end. I remember roaming the streets of downtown with a few other guys, wandering through the UT campus, and eventually coming across a Scientology center, at which point the leader of our group suggested we go in and take the test these people were offering us. And being very, very bored — and broke — we did. I left before I found out my results, though, since we were around 24th and Guadalupe and I had to be at 6th and Congress in a very short time, so I jogged my fat ass back through town, which isn't exactly easy in flip-flops. I almost didn't want to make it back on time for whatever lame event I was supposed to "compete" in (they said it was a competition, but everyone still got a plaque or ribbon or some retarded certificate saying they'd done their due diligence), and had I been older, I would've just blown it off. But I made it back, and performed, and didn't really care what happened. I didn't even care about hanging out with this blonde I'd been minorly obsessing over, which was probably just as well, since the sight of me showing up sweat-drenched and heatstrokey probably wouldn't have sent her libido into overdrive. I just went in and did what the adults wanted me to do, and hated myself every moment.

I wonder if the adults ever know how little we cared about those trips, or the church-as-corporation aspect of them. I guess not.

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"Because hubris always wins in the end. The Greeks taught us that."

Clickety-click.

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Many good things happening over at Pajiba:

The daily trade round-up.

There's also: Jeremy's look at Kieslowski's Trois Couleurs trilogy. I'd give you an excerpt, except I don't want to give you just some acontextual nugget of brilliance. Just go read it and see for yourself.

There's also : Dustin's real-time review of Open Water 2. A taste:

27:00: Wouldn’t it be awesome if the infant crawled out of the cabin and let down the ladder and the movie ended? I could really go for some wings right now.

Yeah, I figured you'd like that.

And: The latest edition of What Pajiba's Reading. We like books. You should, too.

Plus: The TV Whore keeps watching awful shows so you don't have to.

Last but not least, a little something to see you through to the weekend. This is probably the best Carl's Jr. commercial I've ever seen, even though it took me at least a dozen times seeing it to remember what it was they were actually advertising. Hell, I barely remembered it was for Carl's Jr. at the beginning. Anyway, enjoy:

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Continuing, I guess, with the broad but definite theme of female country singers that make me all wibbly, here's another great song from a great album:

"Virginia, No One Can Warn You," by Tift Merritt.

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As I've already indicated, growing up in a South Texas youth group adds considerable confusion to the normal adolescent yearnings. It was probably in the spirit of answering those yearnings that, when I was in high school, our youth minister — an unnervingly energetic man in his early 30s with a wife and kids — arranged for our youth group to go on a weekend retreat wherein we would follow curriculum provided by the folks at True Love Waits. For those who didn't grow up in either the South or Colorado Springs, True Love Waits is an organization dedicated to keeping Christian teens from screwing their brains out like their hormones are telling them to. (For what it's worth, I have no idea if the program actually works; the teens I knew who actually left high school with their virginities intact did so out of circumstance, not a higher moral calling. Teens think about sex, food, and sex.) So anyway, we all piled in a van — this time careful not to touch each other — and headed to a dirt-blasted waste of a campground in the middle of nowhere.

One evening, the youth minister and his wife held a kind of panel session, where we, the sexually inexperienced, could submit anonymous questions to them, the sexually knowledgable. Many of the questions were pretty predictable: One guy (it had to be a guy) asked about the moral/spiritual implications of, um, onanistic pursuits, to which the youth minister, not wanting to start a mutiny, gave his grudging and qualified approval. But eventually things got downright weird.

I don't remember how the subject came up; it was 10 years ago, and to be honest, I've done a fair amount of work to bury specific moments like this one. But at one point the youth minister began to wax poetic about the kind of unforced errors that can plague recently married couples who, either from having grown up in somewhat conservative households or just out of a reluctance to do a little research beforehand, find themselves in a bit of a wedding-night pickle. On the topic of lube — and it was here that my fragile teen mind began to crumble under the unfortunate weight of the mental image of my youth minister and his wife in coital repose — my youth minister cautioned us not to use too much, or else things might "become like a Slip N Slide." I believe he even extended his arms briefly when making this joke, much like the guy in the photo above, though that detail could just be my subconscious screwing with me. It's happened before. Anyway, what little information I'd managed to retain from the disastrous Q&A went pretty much straight to hell because all I could see was my youth minister and his wife in what had to have been a small kiddie pool's worth of KY.

The rest of the night was pretty much a wash, too. The girls in the group gravitated toward my youth minister's wife and began sharing their own horror stories from the private hell that must be the female puberty experience (not that the male side of things is a cakewalk, but still, everyone knows we got off way light). The girls invaded the cabin that had been assigned to the boys and began to sit around and have a lengthy confessional in which they each talked about their individual tales of getting their periods in the school cafeteria, etc., as if finding the horrible remnants of their burgeoning womanhood smeared into a tacky paste on their seats was like any other story worthy of cocktail-party reminiscence. The other guys and I stood outside for what felt like hours, throwing the football in the crisp evening and wondering when the hell they would tire of their mutual shame circle and let us go to bed.

He and his wife left a few years later.

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It's the show with zefrank, and it's really worth checking out. How did I kill time at work before this?

Anyway, here are some sample clips to get you started. If the videos get all wonky and won't load, just refresh the page:

Now go play.

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Harry:... That girl tonight, man, I'm tellin' you, she had this ... quality, like ... like the girl in high school, you know the one you could never have? The one that still haunts you?

Gay Perry: I had that. (Beat.) Bobby Mills.

Harry: (Beat.) You should, um, track him down. I got five bucks says you could still get him.

Gay Perry: That's funny. I got a ten says, "Pass the pepper." And a couple quarters that do harmony on "Moonlight in Vermont."

Harry: Huh?

Gay Perry: Talking money.

Harry: Talking monkey?

Gay Perry: Yes, a talking monkey. Ugly sucker. Traveled here from the future, only says "ficus."

— From Kiss Kiss Bang Bang, which you should really all see, if you haven't already.

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Holy smackerel. Alice Eve, where have you been? Our birthdays are only a few months apart, I'm a good listener, and I just got a raise. Anything else you wanna know, just email me.

Anyway: Clickety-click.

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As loyal readers — all seven of you — may have noticed, I have deleted a post from earlier in the week wherein, in a whimsical and honestly pretty entertaining tone, I recounted a legendary story from my youth group days as a bewildered teen in South Texas and how two of my peers had engaged in some low-level sexual hijinks in the back of a van on the way to church camp. I have since received mountainstwo emails advising me of the factual errors in my story and requesting either a correction or full retraction of same, and since the missives themselves were from the once-horny parties at the center of the story — she righteously pissed off, he merely bemused — I felt obliged to comply with their wishes and delete the post. I was a little surprised to find that my (I thought) harmless ramblings had stirred up all kinds of crazy ranging from coast to coast, though I take that more as a sign of the power of gossip as opposed to any indication of my global popularity. (Although, if the map on the left side of this page is to be trusted, I'm currently blowing up across the continent.)

Anyway, sexual hijinks were indeed part of the story, but in a different manner than I previously implied. But that tale grew with the telling, and was something of a minor legend among my compatriots in those depressingly formative years, and for what it's worth, I almost prefer the myth to the history. Nevertheless, I wanted you all to know that I got it wrong, and I won't actually be filling you in on what actually happened between the couple, but instead let you fill in the images for yourself. It wasn't even that big a deal, but you'd almost never know it to be on the receiving end of all this.

Finally: I've got more harrowing tales of church-based pubescent angst coming up in the future — including a kind of Q&A panel session with the youth minister and his wife that scarred me for years — but that's for another day. For now, simply know that I was incorrect in my previous story, and will endeavor in the future to hew more closely to the facts, whatever they may be.

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Just wanted to say thanks.

Sincerely,

Dan

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I'm not even sure how often I'll do this, but it seems like as good a time as any to start slowly sharing the gospel accoring to alt-country with the rest of the world. I don't even know where to begin, so I picked this one at random. Great song, great performer:

"Back to Me," by Kathleen Edwards.

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"You know what would really make them the greatest generation? If they would hurry up and die and give me a refund on my Social Security payments."

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Today's installment: The necessity of quotes.

To borrow my own definition: "A nerd is someone whose intellect has at one point proven a barrier to social interaction; a geek is someone with an unhealthy focus on or obsession over any given band/TV show/created work. The two groups often overlap, but are, indeed, separate groups." You wanna be a geek? You need to know the quotes.

True geek devotion to a particular area is proven by demonstrating a knowledge of that area's arcana. It doesn't matter whether it's knowing the name of Uncle Tupelo's drummer¹ or what "TIE" stands for in TIE fighter²; you have to know the little details, and often, that means quotes.

Quotes are the key to bonding with strangers. Trotting out your ability to instantly recognize a movie or TV show from the most random or obscure bit of dialogue is like displaying your geek badge: "I know this. I am this much of a geek. Maybe even a loser. I know this."

I'm not just a geek, but a nerd-geek, meaning that in addition to being a film geek and book geek and music geek, a lot of my obsessions happen to be those related to, well, nerds. (There are other geeks, too, like sports geeks. But since I don't need to know the name of Ferguson Jenkins unless we're talking about the career crossovers of Janel Moloney and Aaron Sorkin, I'm happy to leave the sports alone.) This means that I swing a pretty big stick when it comes to nerd-geek quotes. There are at least a dozen Star Wars quotes I say on a regular basis³; I can recite the opening narration to "Quantum Leap"⁴; I have known since age 8 that you can't enter warp inside a solar system, though they did it once just for dramatic effect. I'm a geek. Those of you not laughing or crying out of pity should know that I've pretty much come to grips with it, though.

So, what can you do about it? Well, if you want to be a geek, you need to know facts and quotes, the more obscure the better. You won't impress anybody with the hackneyed quotes from Seasons 3-8 of "The Simpsons," which are now practically imprinted on a newborn's subconscious. ("You know those guitars that are, like, double guitars?") It's not enough to know the characters or places or objects; you need to know if, say, she'll make the Kessel Run in less than 12 parsecs. You can't just know the name of the main character; you have to know which of the Twelve Colonies he hails from, and the names of his dead son, ex-wife, and father⁵. You smell that? That smell of pointless knowledge and musty apartment air and free weekends and burned Hot Pockets? Congrats; you're one step closer to becoming a geek.

I'm a leaf on the wind; watch how I soar.

I'll leave you with this. It seems appropriate (dialogue NSFW):

^{1. Mike Heidorn.}

2. Twin ion engine. Duh.

3. Favorites: "Didn't we just leave this party?", when arriving at the office; "Just like Beggar's Canyon back home," when gliding onto the 101 northbound at Cahuenga; "She'll hold together. ... Hear me, baby? Hold together," when encouraging the car to make it home in one piece.

4. Call me up and I'll prove it. Anytime.

5. Caprica; Zak; Carolanne; Joseph.

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10. No one talks very much.

9. What little conversation takes place is limited to meaningless small talk.

8. Neither party is as interested in the small talk as they pretend to be.

7. The women are vaguely foreign, and older than they appear from a distance.

6. You're paying a woman to touch you in a way that is at once both highly personal and ultimately impersonal.

5. It's best to keep your hands at your sides unless otherwise ordered.

4. Bald spots are generally ignored.

3. Tips are never mentioned but always expected.

2. There's a constant stream of background music meant to put you at ease.

1. No matter how much you might want to, it's never a good idea to blow it in your pants.

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• "A lifetime of naturally unathletic abilities has contributed to your skin's natural alabaster sheen, which I find intoxicating."

• "Tell me again about how you played 'Metal Gear Solid' on an endless loop when you were a freshman in college."

• "Wow, you bought bootleg DVDs of the original Star Wars trilogy that were ported over from the remastered laserdiscs. Take me hard."

• "Let's order Chinese. I'll pay."

• "The fact that you pitted out that old shirt merely means you can achieve a high level of focus during stressful situations, and is in no way gross or weird."

• "I read somewhere that the name Daniel is Hebrew for 'legendary cocksman.'"

• "The fact that you read The Hobbit in elementary school makes me extremely hot. Let's do it and put it on YouTube."

• "I made you some cornbread. Just because."

• "Who needs ambition when you can grow a nice goatee? Let's go to the movies."

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Friday, Feb. 23:

I can barely bring myself to come up with another list of Oscar predictions. I did this last year, but this year my heart just isn't in it. It's not that I suddenly realized that the correlation between cinematic quality and awards recognition is tenuous at best, and usually outright incompatible; I've felt that way for a while now. No, there are several reasons, mainly this: The awards aren't so much won as bought. Sure, every now and then a dark horse comes along and dominates, as The Silence of the Lambs did in 1991. But for the most part, Oscar recognition is the result of a long and arduous PR campaign meant to sell the Oscar voters (and the public at large) on the worthiness of the film in question. Miramax didn't just luck out when it came to distributing Oscar winners in the 1990s; the Weinsteins shamelessly sold their films as Oscar winners, and then sat back and watched the self-fulfilling prophecy fall into place. That's what was so shocking about Crash's victory last year over Brokeback Mountain; Paul Haggis' film wasn't just the lesser of the two, but Ang Lee's film had been so flawlessly marketed — with playdates platforming out a week at a time leading up to the Oscars, not to mention its branding as part of a national movement — that it was literally supposed to win.

I'm making two predictions this year, a main one and a "dark horse" selection that's meant to hedge my bets or just let me be a little hopeful for upsets. Last year I hit 18 of 24 only making one prediction per category, and I'm bound to do at least that well (I hope) by spreading out the guesses. I'm also playing two ballots in the office Oscar pool instead of one, in hopes of taking home some cash. Then again, I live and work in L.A. with some horribly well-informed coworkers competing against me in the pool; if this were Texas, I would clean up, but as it is, I'll probably have to settle again for a four-way tie for fourth.

Sunday, Feb. 25:

Well, it seems I'm getting my ass kicked in all new ways. Pride goeth before a great loss in the office pool.

This year I went for 19 of 24 categories, only one better than I did last year. I'm a little surprised that I managed a 79% accuracy rate this year even by making two guesses per category, but then again, this is far from an exact science. Sometimes I was happy to proven wrong: I liked seeing Melissa Etheridge win for original song for An Inconvenient Truth over the bloated, melismatic crapfest that is Dreamgirls. And I was happy to see Thelma Schoonmaker win for editing The Departed; she's worked with Scorsese for years, and his films aren't the same thing without her skill informing their relationship as director and editor. But I was disappointed with several other outcomes, most notably Alan Arkin's win for Little Miss Sunshine instead of Mark Wahlberg's work in The Departed. Sure, Arkin's performance as the lecherous grandpa (He's horny! He's profound! He's dead!) was entertaining, and the cast still managed to successfully pull off the prefab quirk of the comedy, and Arkin deserves some of that credit. But whereas Little Miss Sunshine was the ready-made indie-that-could — funny, sad, sweet, but still ready-made — Scorsese's fierce, sweeping crime drama contained the year's best everything: Story, performances, even the atmosphere. (Who could forget that gorgeous shot of the mobile of mirrors as Leonardo DiCaprio pursued Matt Damon over the wet streets and down that alley?) Wahlberg's ferocious but loyal cop was an integral part of Scorsese's film, which is fantastically, beautifully, wonderfully beyond its inspiration, the Hong Kong flick Infernal Affairs. It was fitting that Scorsese was presented his award by Francis Ford Coppola, Steven Spielberg, and George Lucas, the fellow kings of his era, the first kids to blast out of film school and change the face of American cinema. But Coppola has been phoning it in since Jack, and Lucas is a brilliant set designer and conceptual artist who long ago lost whatever connection he had to human emotion and his ability to write from the heart. Spielberg continues to grow as an artist, yet while he tackles the daddy and Holocaust issues that have colored his work from the beginning, Scorsese has become the most truly American filmmaker of the bunch. The Departed isn't just an adaptation of another film, or even a crime story, but a film that's relentlessly American, pulsing with the homegrown hate and love and despair and fratricide of the spacious boroughs and blood-stained waves of grain. A few of my coworkers have alternately referred to Departed as a "guy movie" or "popcorn actioner" (thus casting eternal doubt on their ability to actually discern good films from bad), but they're missing the point. From Jack Nicholson's coke-fueled Caligula to DiCaprio's lonely yearning to find a father in Martin Sheen, The Departed really was the best film of the year.

Anyway, on to my predictions and the winners:

Best Picture

Prediction: The Departed.

Dark Horse: Little Miss Sunshine.

Winner: The Departed.

Best Actor

Prediction: Forest Whitaker, The Last King of Scotland.

Dark Horse: Leonardo DiCaprio, Blood Diamond.

Winner: Forest Whitaker, The Last King of Scotland.

Best Actress

Prediction: Helen Mirren, The Queen.

Dark Horse: Meryl Streep, The Devil Wears Prada.

Winner: Helen Mirren, The Queen.

Best Supporting Actor

Prediction: Eddie Murphy, Dreamgirls.

Dark Horse: Mark Wahlberg, The Departed.

Winner: Alan Arkin, Little Miss Sunshine.

Best Supporting Actress

Prediction: Jennifer Hudson, Dreamgirls.

Dark Horse: Abigail Breslin, Little Miss Sunshine.

Winner: Jennifer Hudson, Dreamgirls.

Best Director

Prediction: Martin Scorsese, The Departed.

Dark Horse: Clint Eastwood, Letters From Iwo Jima.

Winner: Martin Scorsese, The Departed.

Best Original Screenplay

Prediction: Michael Arndt, Little Miss Sunshine.

Dark Horse: Paul Haggis, Iris Yamashita, Letters From Iwo Jima.

Winner: Michael Arndt, Little Miss Sunshine.

Best Adapted Screenplay

Prediction: William Monahan, The Departed.

Dark Horse: Sacha Baron Cohen et al.,Borat.

Winner: William Monahan, The Departed.

Best Cinematography

Prediction: Emmanuel Lubezki, Children of Men.

Dark Horse: Guillermo Navarro, Pan's Labyrinth.

Winner: Guillermo Navarro, Pan's Labyrinth.

Best Film Editing

Prediction: Clare Douglas, Christopher Rouse, Richard Pearson, United 93.

Dark Horse: Stephen Mirrione, Douglas Crise, Babel.

Winner: Thelma Schoonmaker, The Departed.

Best Art Direction

Prediction: Eugenio Caballero, Pilar Revuelta, Pan's Labyrinth.

Dark Horse: John Myhre, Nancy Haigh, Dreamgirls.

Winner: Eugenio Caballero, Pilar Revuelta, Pan's Labyrinth.

Best Costume Design

Prediction: Sharen Davis, Dreamgirls.

Dark Horse: Consolata Boyle, The Queen.

Winner: Milena Canonero, Marie Antoinette.

Best Original Score

Prediction: Alexandre Desplat, The Queen.

Dark Horse: Gustavo Santaolalla, Babel.

Winner: Gustavo Santaolalla, Babel.

Best Original Song

Prediction: Henry Krieger, Scott Cutler, Anne Preven, "Listen," Dreamgirls.

Dark Horse: Henry Krieger, Siedah Garrett, "Love You I Do," Dreamgirls.

Winner: Melissa Etheridge, "I Need to Wake Up," An Inconvenient Truth.

Best Makeup

Prediction: David Marti, Montse Ribe, Pan's Labyrinth.

Dark Horse: Aldo Signoretti, Vittorio Sodano, Apocalypto.

Winner: David Marti, Montse Ribe, Pan's Labyrinth.

Best Sound Mixing

Prediction: Dreamgirls.

Dark Horse: Pirates of the Caribbean: Dead Man's Chest.

Winner: Dreamgirls.

Best Sound Editing

Prediction: Letters From Iwo Jima.

Dark Horse: Pirates of the Caribbean: Dead Man's Chest.

Winner: Letters From Iwo Jima.

Best Visual Effects

Prediction: Superman Returns.

Dark Horse: Pirates of the Caribbean: Dead Man's Chest.

Winner: Pirates of the Caribbean: Dead Man's Chest.

Best Animated Feature

Prediction: Cars.

Dark Horse: Happy Feet.

Winner: Happy Feet.

Best Foreign-Language Film

Prediction: Pan's Labyrinth (Mexico).

Dark Horse: The Lives of Others (Germany).

Winner: The Lives of Others (Germany).

Best Documentary (Feature)

Prediction: An Inconvenient Truth.

Dark Horse: Deliver Us From Evil.

Winner: An Inconvenient Truth.

Best Documentary (Short Subject)

Prediction: Two Hands.

Dark Horse: The Blood of Yingzhou District.

Winner: The Blood of Yingzhou District.

Best Short Film (Animated)

Prediction: The Little Matchgirl.

Dark Horse: Lifted.

Winner: The Danish Poet.

Best Short Film (Live Action)

Prediction: West Bank Story.

Dark Horse: Binta and the Great Idea.

Winner: West Bank Story.

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1. The title's punctuation takes some getting used to. To be honest, it's kinda distracting.

2. One of my favorite lines: "This city has hot Latin flavor up to its nuts."

Anyway: Clickety-click.

In completely unrelated news, this is highly entertaining.

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This one is dedicated to my friend and traveling companion from my youth through today. He and I grew up together on the names of unknown actors, and that's what this list is meant to celebrate. (We also saw Croupier on the big screen, meaning we loved Clive Owen way back in the day. So there.) This one's for you, little brother Collins, and everyone who loves movies. So here it is:

The Man Who Wasn't There: A Salute to Character Actors.

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www.neomyz.com/poll

Create your own web poll in less than 3 minutes,

and gain valuable feedback from your site visitors.

Your browser does not seem to support JavaScript,

the poll will not be displayed.

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"Studio 60 on the Sunset Strip" has by now established itself as perhaps Aaron Sorkin's weakest work (well, except for Malice). But it's certainly the weakest of his TV series, falling well behind "Sports Night" and "The West Wing" in terms of character development, creativity, storylines, and everything else. Sorkin is even up to his old tricks when it comes to dropping storylines whenever they begin to bore him; wasn't the "Studio 60" set supposed to be redesigned, like, months ago?

But the biggest change is perhaps in Sorkin's newfound cynicism for his characters that believe in God. Of course, Sorkin's distaste for zealots is hardly new; the pilot episode of "The West Wing" revolved around Josh almost getting fired for pissing off the religious right, and when the smug representatives of that movement came to the White House, the president smacked them down by quoting the Ten Commandments. This set two important precedents for the show: First, the religious right was going to be a pretty standard whipping boy for Sorkin's idealistic Bartlet administration. Second, Bartlet would be a man of well-reasoned, compassionate faith.

Sorkin's diatribes against narrow-minded religious extremists first appeared on "Sports Night," as in (for one of many instances) Casey McCall's on-air insults aimed at Jerry Falwell. Attacking the right-wing nutbars that are destroying the public faith of a lot of Americans is fine and dandy, it really is. However, the important thing on "The West Wing" wasn't just Bartlet's strong stance against the religious right, but his balancing that with his own yearning, personal faith. In the show's mythology, Bartlet minored in theology at Notre Dame, and his struggle to reconcile his faith in God with the horrible choices he faces as president added tremendous depth to the first few seasons of "The West Wing." The first season's "Take This Sabbath Day" shows Bartlet's spiritual vulnerability as he debates the commutation of a convict's death sentence, decides to let the sentence stand, and ultimately talks to his boyhood priest and asks forgiveness for his acts. Bartlet's spiritual vulnerability came to a head in Season 2's "Two Cathedrals," in which Bartlet curses and shouts at God as he reels from the death of Mrs. Landingham. Bartlet's soliloquy in Latin is heartrending, but he's not abandoning his faith: He's reasoning with it. There's never a sense that Bartlet is turning his back on his beliefs.

Which is what makes Sorkin's newfound bitterness toward Christianity in general so perplexing. He's got a track record of respecting characters of honest faith, yet Matt Albie is becoming an increasingly bitter spokesman for what one can only assume is Sorkin's developing animosity for people who believe in God. Entire episodes have revolved around the fact that Matt doesn't respect Harriet for having faith. The pilot episode revolved around a sketch called "Crazy Christians." And yes, both the sketch and Matt's mockery of Harriet are related to the religious right. But there is no Bartlet on "Studio 60," no man or woman who seems to represent the non-insane swath of believers out there. Sorkin keeps mounting attacks, but there's no one to respond with apologetics. I'd thought Sorkin respected people more than that, but I'm starting to think I was wrong.

So I leave you with this:

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Over at The Stream, there's apparently going to be a new installment of Friday Fangirl Fantasm, which, word has it, is worth your time and attention. They'll be talking about when good TV shows go bad.

So at the risk of turning this site into deadline-driven place that relies on timeliness — as opposed to the history-making, timeless kind of vibe it currently puts out — you should all head over to The Stream on Sunday, Feb. 18, at 5 p.m. PST. (Which would be 8 p.m. Eastern, 7 Central, and 6 for anyone who lives in the Mountain time zone and has access to an internet in their woodsy little shack.)

That's all.

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"This movie's retarded." I thought that at least a dozen times. I couldn't even form a more complex thought under the assault of The Being That Is Cage. "This movie's retarded."

Anyway: Clickety-click.

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Two quick points, and the lesson is yours:

The Pajiba trade round-up.

and

What Pajiba's reading.

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For those of you on Facebook who are so inclined:

Join the Pajiba group.

It might not solve all your problems. Or even most of them. In fact, it probably won't solve any of them.

But you should still do it.

P.S. A bright shiny penny and a pat on the asshead to whoever can name the inspiration behind this post's headline.

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revenge

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[A special dedication and salutation up front to the citizens of Curious People for a Curious America. This has been a long time coming.]

O "Lost."

Things have been going pretty poorly for the castaways for a long time now, and though the show isn't out of the woods (or jungle) yet, it just might be headed for a turnaround. Might.

• The biggest problem facing the show is that very, very little happens in each episode. Since half of each weekly installment is devoted to a flashback (the merits of which are also up for debate), only 20ish minutes per eipsode are used for actual plot progression. It's like watching one season of "24" stretched over three years, and it's more than little trying. The narrative boredom is compounded by the fact that this season, instead of sprinkling in repeats with the new episodes, the show took a 13-week break between its fall and spring segments. "Not in Portland," the most recent episode, feels so far removed from last fall's events I can't remember anything but the last few minutes of the fall "finale." (To be addressed shortly.) As for what's happening with the rest of the islanders: Who the hell knows.

• Juliet's ex-husband is Edmund Burke, apparently named afer this guy. This is not in any way deep or significant or a sign of writerly skill. The Wachowski brothers weren't brilliant for naming their hero the prefix for "new" and the anagram for "one," either. "Lost" already has Locke, Rousseau, and Hume. Adding Edmund Burke to their roster is neither original nor meaningful.

• Edmund is played by Zeljko Ivanek. You should all learn his name.

• Juliet is also one of the few hot grownups on TV. (Most women are in their 20s playing 18 or in their 30s playing 26.) I don't really know where to go with that. I'm just saying, if she made a movie with Diane Lane ... boy howdy.

• This is probably one of the better episodes of this season. The six episodes last fall had sporadic moments of greatness — the opening of the season premiere that revealed the second island was right up there — but on the whole, the best part of those half-dozen installments was the final moments of the previous episode, "I Do," which was a Kate-centric episode showing how she kept on breaking hearts and running from her problems back in her old life (this is easily the billionth time that's been pointed out to us). But it ended with a spectacularly taut sequence that recalled the show's heady early days: The stakes were high, the choices were clear, the consequences were unknown, and something big and bad was about to rain down.

• Jack's decision to use Ben's life as leverage to free Kate and Sawyer was a strong one, and Juliet's complicity in planning the murder finally gave her character some depth beyond the ice cold schoolmarm vibe she was putting out. "Not in Portland" picks up in that heated moment of balance, with Jack screaming at Kate over the walkie to run and escape with Sawyer.

• Juliet's backstory, though it follows the same pattern as everyone else's — get involved in something bad in the real world, look for similar situations on the island, attempt to right past wrongs, repeat — is rewarding because it actually has a bearing on the overall story and the reasons the island(s) exist in the first place. But for every sly hint the show makes at the details, it also beats the viewer over the head with meaning.

• For example: Juliet tells Shady Hispanic Doctor (Nestor Carbonell) that she can't go work for his creepy-ass experimental hospital without her husband's okay, and that will never happen, so unless he gets hit by a bus, she's stuck in Miami. SHD laughs it off, but sure enough, not too much later, Edmund is steamrolled like that kid in Final Destination. It's pretty clear that SHD arranged the vehicular manslaughter, which is driven home by the fact that he shows up atthe morgue to pass on his condolences, and he just so happens to have Ethan in tow. The shock of recognition as Juliet puts the puzzle together is wonderful, but it's completely undone by the fact that she keeps telling SHD about how she'd mentioned the bus thing before, and then SHD has to deny this, and blah blah go on already. The scene would have been stronger if she'd figured things out and then internalized it and gone right to "Why are you here?" The series wants to be a smart mystery, and that won't happen until it respects its viewers enough to expect them to keep up with the emotional changes of the characters and not spell out every little thing.

• What the hell happened to Walt and MercutioMichael? Oh, that's right, they sailed off into the sunset and were promptly forgotten by everyone. I haven't seen a series so spectacularly blunder characters since "The West Wing" phased out Ainsley.

• I strongly identified with Jack's mix of what could be called bemused indignation when Juliet informed him that yes, he would have to go back to his cell until his fate could be decided. That look is the look I usually have when watching "Lost" now: I just can't quite believe this all still happening.

• I've written before that "Lost" feels like two shows trying to co-exist in the same space, with one show following the medical conspiracy of Dharma and the other connecting the castaways through unbelievable interpersonal contrivances¹. The series is straining under the weight of its breadth, which is why "Not in Portland" could herald good things to come in that it represents a small but marked attempt to streamline the two warring shows-within-a-show. The relevance of Juliet's backstory provides welcome hints at the kind of genetic hijinks the Dharma folks have been up to, as well as explain why she's on the island and how she relates to its inhabitants. Granted, "Lost" still has a long way to go if it ever wants to come close to recapturing the fiery brilliance of its first season, which blended mystery and action in a kind of pop art/comic book mix that is poorly imitated to this day, most notably by "Lost" itself. But the show seems like it might finally have gotten the crap out of its system, and could be once more returning to its roots. I'm hopeful.

^{1. I stole that phrase from JMW's latest review. Just so you know.}

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In response to just overwhelming demand, we at Pajiba have decided to compile something special just for you:

The Best of Pajiba.

Just take a gander:

• It's got all the Guides, which have been scientifically proven to improve the reader's quality of life.

• It's got a collection of each author's greatest hits, like Babel, Brokeback Mountain, Norbit, United 93, and "Freaks and Geeks".

• It's got ads. Hey, we have bills to pay.

Anyway: The Best of Pajiba.

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[The first in what could very well be a multipart series in which I, in my sadly infinite wisdom on such matters, provide you, the socially well-adjusted public, with the insights necessary to understand those geeks around you and the tools to better speak their language.]

The Lord of the Rings is not a trilogy.

Douglas A. Anderson writes in his opening note on the text of the 1987 revised American edition: "J.R.R. Tolkien's The Lord of the Rings is often erroneously called a trilogy, when is in fact a single novel, consisting of six books plus appendices, sometimes published in three volumes."

The book's acceptance among wider audiences, due to the overwhelming popularity of the hacky and derivative film series adapted from the book by director Peter Jackson, has furthered the spread of the incorrect terminology. Jackson's films could more correctly be called a triptych, as opposed to more classically recognized film trilogies as the original Star Wars triology, or the Godfather cycle, or even the Scream films.

But the novel? One story. One book. It was originally published in three volumes because of post-war paper shortages in the U.K. and to help keep costs down, and it's still often packaged and sold that way out of convenience. It's easier to carry one of the individual thirds than to lug around the entire epic. But it is one continuous story, and it's impossible — and foolish — to attempt to simply read one of the volumes, or to refer to one as "better" than the other two, as if the stories are part of a series and not one cohesive whole.

It's one book. Not a trilogy.

Thanks for your time.

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I almost titled this review, "More Like Hannibal Sucking." That ought to tell you everything.

Clickety-click.

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The new and improved, smaller and stronger, easier to digest version of:

The Pajiba trade round-up.

Because it's always worth your time.

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Another great entry in Pajiba's Guide to What's Good For You (and when have we ever steered you wrong?):

The Tearjerkiest Moments of the Last 20 Years.

I would throw in the moment where Casey McCall bonds with his young son, but that's about it. It's a solid list. Go read it right now.

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Placentia

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Did John Hughes ever sink so low/soar so high as he did with Weird Science? Of the four films¹ he wrote and directed between 1984-1986 — Sixteen Candles, The Breakfast Club, Weird Science, Ferris Bueller's Day Off — he was never more relentlessly cornball, more sexually outgoing, or more ferociously devoted to overly romantic young-male fantasies than he was in Weird Science, his 1985 ode to cars, boys, and falling in love with emotionally empty women. Think about that for a minute: He gave us Jake Ryan on the dinner table, a softhearted Judd Nelson, and Alan Ruck's unbearable little monologue about standing up to Dad, and Weird Science is cheesier than all those combined. Just let that sink in.

As Gary and Wyatt, Anthony Michael Hall and Ilan Mitchell-Smith are two amazingly horny losers whose sad, lonely high school existence revolves around fantasizing about the hot girlfriends of their school's popular jerks and consoling themselves in their mutual troubles; in other words, they're pretty average teenagers. But they go the extra step by using their computer — which can do anything, this being the 1980s — to create an actual woman to serve as their sex slave. (Needless to say, this premise could have gone way, way darker.)

But Hughes, like his randy heroes, is squarely in PG-13 territory here, meaning (a) sex will be minimal, (b) it will be usurped by true love, and (c) things are going to work out so well that the fantasy of the willing sex robot will seem normal by comparison. What's more, the guys won't just turn their lives around in the relatively minor ways of the characters in Hughes' other films, but will have their fantasy lives actually handed to them by digital/virtual Lisa (Kelly LeBrock).

Despite their references to Lisa as a "sexpot," Gary and Wyatt never come close to engaging in any onscreen antics with her: They wear pants in the group shower, they don't do much touching, and they barely even kiss her. Lisa and Wyatt share a pretty awkward scene where she teaches him to kiss², but the scene isn't established as foreplay. Hughes injects a tone of such rampant sexuality into the rest of the film that it's almost hard to believe there's almost no real sex, but there isn't. This is just as well, because Gary and Wyatt are about 45 minutes away from turning into really sappy poetic types to be engaging in mindless lovin' with their dream girl.

Gary and Wyatt have true love in their futures, or at least the kind of one-dimensional relationships dreamt of by the very young and very foolish. Lisa's goal, ostensibly, is to help these guys realize just how much they've really got going for them, give them a shot in the arm and a boost of confidence, and in general make them comfortable talking to women. These are all noble goals, and really, any 16-year-old guy would welcome such a teacher. And the film still makes me laugh, too; I'm nostalgic like that. But things don't just "turn around" for Gary and Wyatt, or start to look up; they become so freakishly wonderful that the film goes from being a somewhat sweet sex comedy to a saccharine take on fictional love as only exists in the hearts of the simple.

After throwing a giant party and standing up to a marauding biker gang, Gary and Wyatt spend a little alone time with, respectively, Deb (Suzanne Snyder) and Hilly (Judie Aronson³). These are the two girls that Gary and Wyatt have been pining for since their party started, but it's not clear if they've had any earlier contact with them. Sure, they saw them around the mall, but it's not like Hughes gave Gary or Wyatt even a moment's exposition to say, "Wow, Deb's looking good today," or, "I'm pretty sure Hilly is my soulmate. Now if only I could talk to her." But they're cute, and they're around, so they'll do. And then Hughes has the girls do the unthinkable: They ask for the boys to love them. Hilly even comes right out with it, staring right at Wyatt and asking, "Would you kiss me?" This is the ultimate juvenile male fantasy: Not just the attainment of a woman, but not having to do any work to get her. It's pornographic in the most cinematic sense of the word; she throws herself at him with literally no provocation.

Gary and Deb have a similarly ridiculous hook-up, when Gary tells her that he created Lisa to have everything he wanted in a woman before he knew what that was, and that if he could do it all again, he'd make her just like Deb. This is a pretty ballsy statement, especially considering this is the first real conversation Gary and Deb have ever had, and he doesn't even know what kind of music she likes, much less what she's actually like as a human being. So of course they sleep together, and even when Wyatt's brother Chet (a typically crappy Bill Paxton) threatens them with a shotgun, Deb stays snuggled up against Gary's chest because, well, why not.

The thing about Weird Science that appeals to young men isn't just the idea of fashioning a sex slave with a computer, or seeing Kelly LeBrock make out with what could be a parallel-universe of themselves. But the real kicker, where Hughes goes just screaming over the abyss and rejects the pseudo-realistic touches of his other films in favor of outright fantasy, is that Gary and Wyatt finally "move on" from Lisa into an even more imaginary version of real life. They didn't meet women; they met warm bodies that begged to sleep with them and offered to serve as a willing continuation of the sexual self-delusions that led them to create Lisa in the first place. Of course, most of Hughes' stories end in harmony and bliss; like it or not, Duckie should have gone home alone, not hooked up with Kristy Swanson. But in Weird Science, Hughes doesn't just present a fantasy as reality; he holds up two fantasies and claims that one might actually be feasible.

^{1. Howard Deutch directed the Hughes-penned Pretty in Pink (1986) and its gender-reversed duplicate, Some Kind of Wonderful (1987). And while I recognize that the director is not the sole crafter of a film and that Hughes is a more recognizable screenwriting presence than most, I'm gonna stick with auteurism for the sake of this little piece. So, deal.}

2. Just typing that creeped me out.

3. It's another awesome moment to realize that Wyatt steals Hilly from Ian, played by Robert Downey Jr., and that Aronson had a bit part in Kiss Kiss Bang Bang, also with Downey, two decades later. Did she audition? Did they just need a random actress, so Downey called her up and threw her some work? Do they still hang out? I could think about this all day.

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[Permanent disclosure, again, for those who need the help: Spoilers follow.]

• I almost didn't think it was possible, but Tuesday's episode of "Veronica Mars," titled "Poughkeepsie, Tramps & Thieves,"¹ explored even new realms of disillusionment, angst, and general all-out pain for the show. It was also the confluence of several of the show's developing storylines and in-jokes, as well as a continuation of things written here very recently, so much so that for one brief moment the universe unlocked and I was at its center.

• Specifically, only a few days after I wrote about the subject, the series dealt with its own brand of love going to the highest bidder. The episode revolved around Max (Adam Rose), who enlists Veronica to track down a girl he met at Comic-Con. He says they fell in love talking about "Battlestar Galactica" and Chuck Klosterman, and aside from being just one giant screaming wish-fulfillment of a plot setup, it also introduces a guaranteed pain into the episode. As I wrote before — and as this episode bears out — it never, ever works out to fall in love with a girl who makes a living selling herself. Never. Ever. Max is going to learn this the hard way, and his heartbreak is so predestined that you know he'll be broken by the time the credits roll. It's a given.

• Speaking of the "Battlestar" thing: It's a weird running in-joke on "Veronica Mars," going all the way back to Veronica's R.A.-turned-rapist, who liked a little "BSG" with his abduction. Soon enough, Veronica was saying "Frak," and now there's an entire episode built around the fact that these two characters met while talking about "Battlestar" at that holiest of geek meccas, Comic-Con. This isn't the first geek crossover for "Veronica," either: Joss Whedon, Alyson Hannigan and Charisma Carpenter² have all been on the show, ranging from guest spots to major story arcs. So what is it about the show that makes it so appealing for geek references? I don't know. All I know is that there are people out there way more devoted³ to the crossovers than you'd think.

• Anyway: Veronica eventually tracks down the girl, who turns out to be a hooker hired by Max's dickish buddies to help him lose his virginity. But when Max finds out she's a hooker, he refuses to believe his time with her was an act. He's textbook romantic martyr: He believes that yeah, she's pretended to enjoy being with men before, but she meant it with him. What's more, he even arranges with her madam to buy her out of prostitution. It's pretty much exactly the plot of the "Battlestar" episode where Lee falls in love with Shevon.⁴

• And oh, the pain comes on big time when Max finally gets the girl. At first it appears rosy and sun-flecked and full of all the happy things a relationship with a former call girl should never be, but then the crap inevitably gets funnelled through the fan and splattered all over Max's mopey existence. His roommates try and hire his new girlfriend to strip at a bachelor party; Max can't get past what she used to do for a living; etc.; etc. He finally confronts her about the night they met, when she claimed to have a left a card with all her info on it back at the hotel, which was subsequently removed by housekeeping. Max asks her if it's true, and the look on her face as she slowly shakes her head is just devastating. "Veronica Mars" is no stranger to pain, but this is one of the most uncomfortable scenes simply because the destruction was so inevitable. Not inevitable in the typical way of most TV narratives, e.g., let's break up the leads again and keep stringing out the main story. No, this was inevitable because it was bound to fail from the start; there was, literally, no other option. And that's a whole other kind of pain than watching Veronica and Logan go round after round (which is good, though somehow always disconcerting considering how much she pined for Duncan the first year or so), because that relationship has something Max and Random Whore will never have: hope.

• So she leaves him, and winds up slowly paying him back in installments for buying her out in the first place. The first payment is a sweaty wad of singles she earned stripping. Ah, fate.

• Seriously, though, the "Battlestar" and Klosterman references are enough to make me very, very uneasy. Someone else might be flattered or pleased that their favorite show managed to reference their other favorite show and one of their favorite authors; I prefer to sink into a morass of self-doubt. It's like the show knows way too well who it's aiming for. That might not be bad, but it's definitely eerie.

^{1. Come on, you laughed. A little.}

2. If I have to explain those names, you might be at the wrong blog.

3. I still watched it half a dozen times.

4. Only Max doesn't shoot anyone in the gut, though that would've been an interesting wrinkle.

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[Some clips very NSFW. You've been warned.]

This never gets old:

A thrilling scene, and a fantastic beatdown:

I dream of saying this and then quitting some job:

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Queen Amidala, dejected by her planet's involvement in a murky galactic civil war, becomes a smokin' hot stripper in a pink wig. (Good grief, would this have helped the movie.)

Qui-Gon Jinn attempts to steal the seven-league boots from a local dealer on Tatooine, but eventually becomes so moved by the plight of the oppressed there that he assembles a list of people he plans to save. He becomes obsessed with the list and at one point just bawls like a baby.

Chancellor Valorum gets fed up with Palpatine's meddling and throws him off a balcony overlooking the Valley in the middle of a swanky party. He then briefly dates Lesley Ann Warren before founding Mindhead, a mental health facility to the stars.

Obi-Wan Kenobi, still reeling from the death of his mentor, starts booting heroin between his toes.

Anakin Skywalker gets shot in the face.

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"Hey bro! BRO!!"

Pretend I don't hear him. Reverse a little.

"Bro!"

He keeps on yelling. Reverse a little more, let the guy in front of me pull his ass out of the middle of the intersection.

"BRO!!"

Roll down the passenger window, turn down the music.

"You don't have to be so rude, bro. We're in California."

"Okay."

"Seriously, bro, this is California. Calm down, bro."

Is this guy for real? "Okay."

"Seriously, just smoke some good weed and take it easy man."

Wow, this guy's totally for real. "Okay. I didn't know you wanted over, man." A pretty blatant lie. He didn't want to change lanes to turn, he just wanted over because somebody five cars in front of him was turning right, and he didn't want to wait four seconds. Which means I felt like scooting forward. Besides, we weren't going to make the light anyway. For a pothead, he's got a lead foot.

"No worries, man. Just gotta calm down, smoke some weed, take her easy. Two blocks that way."

Mental note to find out what's two blocks east of Sunset and Cahuenga. "Okay, man."

"Medicinal marijuana man, it's good for you."

I wish this guy lived in my building. "Yeah, okay."

"Seriously, it'll get you a girlfriend. It'll get you seven. That's what God says."

So God talks to Ted Haggard, Jerry Falwell, and this guy. Brilliant. "Good to know, bud."

"Just don't tell any of the women about the other ones. It helps with your vision, too."

Is that a dig? "Okay."

At the green light, he's off again, surfboard strapped to the roof of a black VW wagon lightened by dirt.

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• Not as if you didn't already know this, but January is generally a crappy time to go to the movies: You've got porny werewolves, unnecessary and unfunny spoofs, and braindead action-comedies. Enjoy.

• My deodorant doesn't really know who I am. But my friends do.

• In addition to all these calculations, it's highly unlikely that your flight attendant will be attractive. Accept this and move on.

• Veronica keeps on screwin' up, and that's why we love her. Also, Logan apparently hits the "intelligent asshole" persona right on the head, which is, I've been told, a good thing.

• Please be sure to check out all the goings-on at C. Dowdy's blog, aka They Call The Wind Jehiah. He will teach you words like "aporia," and you will be thankful.

• While we're on the whole pop music theme, there's also She's My Best Friend's Girl. Not that she used to be mine or anything; that's Ric Ocasek's thing. I'm just going with the deal that she's my best friend's girl. That's all.

• Everybody knows Jesus. I'm sure this is somehow important, but I'm floored at the amount of time this took someone.

• On that vaguely biblical note: Kosher porn? Yes, kosher porn.

• Rounding out the religious trifecta: There are still plenty of crazies out there. This is disheartening.

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Alicia Keys, if you live in L.A., and you want to hang out or something, let me know. Just, you know, wanted to put that out there.

Okay:

Clickety-click.

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If ever I needed proof of Veronica Mars' enduring humanity — i.e., her proclivity for stupid decisions — I had it Tuesday night as she fell for the thousandth time into Logan's arms as the music swelled.

Far from being a superhero with an overdeveloped sense of justice and the nature of right and wrong, Veronica at times has an almost fetishtic way of singlemindedly pursuing a goal. Granted, she's matured as the series has grown; when she was hired to discover the identity of the campus rapist in the first major story arc of Season 3, she didn't set out to crucify the frats like the rape victims wanted her to, but instead tried to find the truth of the situation. But she also has the habit of relentlessly pursuing a chosen goal and letting that lead her, however ungracefully, to the truth. For instance, in Tuesday's episode, she suspected a campus anti-fur crusader group in the recent vandalization of a research lab and the freeing of the lab's experimental monkey and 20 or so rats. So Veronica went to one of the group's meetings and started broadcasting in huge, violent, incandescent letters that she would be willing to go all the way with the group's "more active" protests. It was a pretty stupid way to blend in when she was on a case, but more importantly, it underscored her tendency to simply attack the first line of reasoning until it plays out, instead of more carefully weighing the alternatives. She still solved the case, of course, and did it with compassion, but that's not the point. That stuff came later; in the beginning was the wrath.

So I'm not completely surprised that Veronica went in essence crawling back to Logan, who'd ended their relationship in the previous episode. It's likely that the showrunners decided that they'd been apart long enough; after all, the story's chronology was roughly made to match its recent broadcast hiatus (the previous episode aired Nov. 28, 2006, and I've been waiting for the show's return like no other). But this was only briefly established when Keith referred to the death of Dean O'Dell "six weeks ago." As far as the viewers are concerned, it's only been one episode, a lousy 45 minutes, since Veronica and Logan called it quits (again), and to have them recouple so soon is an oversight in narrative structure. There's a difference between taking a break for repeats and actually extending the show's timeline; sure, it may feel like a long time since "Veronica Mars" has aired new episodes, but that doesn't mean that the writers should behave as if the residents of Neptune, Calif., have actually been up to their old tricks for six invisible weeks while the viewers waited. No major story arcs happened during that time; nothing did. This will become even clearer when the show is eventually released on DVD, effectively eliminating the emotional break caused by the hiatus and leaving only the erratic story that has Veronica and Logan bouncing from off again to on again in a matter of minutes.

But even worse, it's a betrayal of the kind of strength Veronica is purported to possess. Her character is one giant ball of trust issues and emotional unavailabilty, and creator Rob Thomas has gone to great lengths to show that while Veronica is capable of love and devotion, she doesn't come by such sentiments easily. She's been burned by a mom that left and then returned only to wreak more havoc, not to mention a string of complicated relationships that tend to end, well, badly. Veronica's loyalty has had to be earned by the other major characters, but she's got a blind spot for Logan. And while that sucks, I also think it's a good thing, in it's way. Her weakness in that area is a reminder of her fundamentally flawed nature. Everyone has that blind spot, too; for some its gambling, or alcohol, or whatever, and for Veronica it's intelligent assholes with a little too much hair product. I was surprised, and more than a little annoyed, when Veronica went running back to Logan so soon (or "soon"), but I also know that it's one more thing that gives the character dimension and reality, and a reminder of just how good this show can be.

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Salvador Dali!

The Golden Lasso of Truth!

And I even get in a Wash reference.

Really, it's worth your time:

The Pajiba trade round-up.

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Odds that a beautiful woman will be on your flight = (amount of money you spent on ticket) x (destination) - (luck)

Odds that she will be sitting next to you = (previous sum) / 999

Odds that there will be a hot single bridesmaid that wants to hook up with you = (Just don't even try)

Odds that your bridesmaid friend will hook up with the groomsman that's been cruising her all night = (his high tolerance for alcohol) x (his even higher tolerance for repeated rejection) / (her moral fortitude) / (the fact that this dick's girlfriend is actually with him at the reception) + (your willingness to make a kamikaze run at this guy) + (again, her fortitude) ... x (no way)

Odds of dying in the God-forsaken blasted tundra of Colorado = (susceptibility to pain) x (lack of all the layers apparently needed to survive on the icy plains) + (it's cold and I want to lie down now)

Odds that you will see a black person in Colorado = N/A

Odds that you will actually dance at the reception = (amount of alcohol consumed before the cash bar kicks in) + (willingness to look like an ass in front of way too many strangers) + (somebody found some extra Shiners) x (hey, it's vacation)

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Maybe You Should Carefully Consider That Risk

No One Ever Lived A Happy Life By Taking All These Chances

There's No Need To Go All In. Maybe Halfway

You'd Better Pray That Women Like Well-Read Men

Ooh, You Listen To Indie 103. You Poser

Seriously, Risks Are Overrated. Vastly

Get Up and Go Outside Already

You Sure Do Sweat A Lot. It's Still Winter, For Cryin' Out Loud

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Dull and thick and sad without a purpose:

Clickety-click.

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Of all the random little motifs floating through film and TV, none guarantees a specific kind of heartbreak quite like the story of a man who, against the warnings of friends and pretty much all common sense, gets involved with a woman who makes a living by selling herself to some degree. (At first I thought all these stories were just coincidences, but it seems to be a legit little sub-subgenre of dramatic storytelling. I mean, it's not like I sat on the floor in front of my DVD shelves, listening to The Heart of Saturday Night and waiting for a pattern to appear. I was watching "Sports Night" and the whole thing just kind of fell into place.) The characters and specific situations may vary, but things always wind up turning sour, and eventually lead to pain, loss, and/or bloodshed. Given those built-in dramatic elements, it's easy to see why writers keep re-using the same tale in different permutations. And it works for a variety of reasons. Using the male character as a combination of coldness and vulnerability — he's willing to pay for sex, but also dumb enough to romanticize it — wouldn't work if it was a female character; for starters, she wouldn't be fool enough to make anything more out of it, and she wouldn't likely even go after it in the first place. What's more, the story is a reversal of the stereotypical roles usually found in film/TV: Instead of the callow man breaking the woman's heart, this is a vulnerable man getting gutted by an often equally vulnerable woman. It's unexpected, and it breaks with the messiah/martyr complex bred into every man that inevitably makes its way into fictional male characters. (TV being littered with men who go to great lengths doing stupid things for women they deem need saving; off the top of my head, Jack Bristow blowing Stephen Haladki's head off springs to mind.)

But what seals the deal is that the viewer knew things would never work out. From the first frame, no matter how great or different or unique this version of the man-loves-whore story seemed to be, it was bound to fail. Some might argue that romantic pap like Pretty Woman would contradict me, since everything ends well for that particular man and his prostitute. But that's because that story's a lie (if for no other reason that most women in L.A. don't look like Julia Roberts, least of all the streetwalkers). That movie won over audiences because it turned what should have been a tragedy — man hires hooker for a week, she gets raped by George Costanza, fade out — into a cheesy film that dilutes the legitimate power of romance in other works. Pain, as the man once said, is where the best stories hang their hat; that unavoidable moment of the relationship's dissolution that always hurts but somehow never kills, but instead makes things oddly okay. That's what I'm talking about, and that's what these scenes have.

"Sports Night" — "Draft Day, Part II: The Fall of Ryan O'Brian"

In the second season of "Sports Night," Jeremy (Joshua Malina) and Natalie (Sabrina Lloyd), the resident cute couple, have broken up, and Jeremy meets a girl named Jenny (Paula Marshall) when he's out drinking away his blues. Jenny turns out to be a porn star, and Jeremy being the decent guy he is, and Jenny being apparently one of the idealistic adult film actresses, they start seeing each other socially. It's awkward from the start, and barely gets off the ground before Jeremy begins to unwittingly sabotage things by condescending to Jenny because of her profession or else outright mocking her. Jenny visits Jeremy at the office, after he's already lied to his coworkers about what Jenny does for a living; he says she's a choreoanimator, some nonsense profession. Jenny meets Natalie and gives a sad, sad, sad little monologue about why she wound up in her chosen profession. Sad. Jeremy and Jenny exchange a few more words, but really, this one's been over for weeks. As is always the case with these stories, he couldn't get past her day job.

"Battlestar Galactica" — "Black Market"

The second season of "Battlestar Galactica" put all its characters through major emotional changes, particularly Lee "Apollo" Adama (Jamie Bamber), who gets his heart broken by Starbuck and decides to briefly shack up with a prostitute named Shevon (Claudette Mink). (Bonus martyr points: Shevon has a kid.) The episode ostensibly revolves around Apollo's investigation of the black market thriving within the fleet, headed up by awesome character actor Bill Duke, but it's really about his sad, doomed relationship with the hooker. The cold open throws the viewer into the middle of the action, and at first you're wondering if Apollo hasn't just moved on and found some nice healthy relationship. It's morning in Shevon's quarters, and Apollo gives her daughter a teddy bear. Things get a little weird when Lee says, "Look, I'm not sure when I'll be able to make it back." But then Shevon delivers the killer: "I know. Oh. Um … I'm gonna have to ask for an extra hundred since you spent the night." And all the desperation and guilt and self-loathing and horrible mix of emotions that led Apollo to Shevon's rented bed shoots across Apollo's face, and it's heartbreaking. The kid gets pretty predictably kidnapped, and when Apollo finally rescues her and attempts to barter Shevon's freedom from Duke, Shevon does what you can tell for Apollo is the unexpected: She tells him to get out. Apparently she isn't okay with Apollo projecting his past relationship failures onto Shevon — which way to be a holier-than-thou working girl — and makes him leave. But as bad as this is, it's just the merciful closure that's been coming since Lee had to fork over extra cash for actually sleeping with Shevon. Never a good idea to fall in love with a public commodity.

"The West Wing" — "The State Dinner"

Aaron Sorkin loses a few marks for originality by recycling most of his man-loves-hooker story arc from "Sports Night," but he did that with pretty much every major character. In the first season of "The West Wing," Sam (Rob Lowe) liked Laurie (Lisa Edelstein) enough to sleep with her, after which he found out she was a high-priced call girl; being a pretty prominent political figure, Sam decided that the best career move would be to continue seeing her surreptitiously, since D.C. is full of tolerant people who are happy to let White House advisers get away with that kind of thing. He gets all puppyish and insists that she do her best to get through law school and quit her night job, and she agrees that she needs the change. But it all comes skidding to a messy halt when she shows up at a state dinner on the arm of a rich Democratic fund-raiser, who introduces "Britney" to Sam and his coworkers. Sam's face falls in a wrenching and predictable way, and it only gets worse (of course) when he talks to Laurie later. She tells him: "You know, I'm sorry, Sam. But this isn't exactly your business. I'm not here because of you. I'm just here because I'm here. I would be here even if you were here or not. You're just some guy who happens to know me." Man. Twist the blade a little, too. Sam then offers her $10,000 not go home with her date, at which point she walks away offended (way to be picky about who pays your tab, lady). Sam and Laurie aren't done with each other yet — Sam, like any good Sorkinian male character, is a huge glutton for emotional punishment — but the state dinner catastrof**k is the first nail in the coffin.

Moulin Rouge

Even in Baz Luhrmann's world, love can't overcome the world's obstacles: Money, class, tuberculosis. In Moulin Rouge, Christian (Ewan McGregor) enters a relationship with Satine (Nicole Kidman), knowing full well she's a pricey hooker, because he's romantic enough to think that it's worth the risk of 19th-century venerial diseases to sleep with a girl in a sparkly hat. They have an inevitably tortured relationship, made even harder when Satine promises to love Christian forever even as she's leaving to go sleep with the Duke (Richard Roxburgh) to secure financial backing for a play. The best number of the entire musical is the darkest one, "El Tango de Roxanne," a reworking of the Police song into a mournful, screaming elegy for Christian and Satine's polluted and dying relationship. The rousing finale doesn't hold a candle to the haunting tango at the center of the film, in part because it's only prolonging Satine's unavoidable and messy death by consumption. But the finale is all smiles, and only regains its credibility when the curtain closes and the doom that was promised in "Roxanne" finally comes calling.

Paris, Texas

Wim Wenders' 1984 masterpiece Paris, Texas follows Travis (Harry Dean Stanton) as he tries to reconnect with the young son, Hunter (Hunter Carson), he left several years earlier. Travis, an amnesiac, is taken in by his brother, Walt (Dean Stockwell), who's been caring for Hunter since Travis' abrupt departure. Travis and Hunter set out together to find Jane (Nastassja Kinski), Travis wife, and Travis eventually finds her working at a weird little sex parlor. The film is deliberately paced, and has been building to this reunion the whole time: Jane in a small room, with Travis watching her through a two-way mirror, talking to her on the phone. She doesn't know it's Travis talking to her. They have a long conversation there in the peep-show room, and another one the next day. Their exchanges are heartbreaking because it becomes clear just how much they loved each other, and how much pain they managed to inflict for no real reason. Travis' old jealousy flares up briefly — he badgers Jane, asking if she goes home with any of her clients — but eventually dies out as he finally starts to bury the past. When I was putting this piece together, this scene, this example, seemed to fit in with the rest. But I realize now that this is the one that transcends the others, and almost redeems them. Jane didn't start to sell herself until Travis left, and it's with his return that things start to maybe change. It's not clear where things will go, but it doesn't need to be. This is the one where they just might able to save each other after all.

Over at the Chicago Reader's movie blog, Jonathan Rosenbaum recently mounted a defense of spoilers. He doesn't see why people get all riled up about being informed of plot twists before seeing a movie, and he addresses the matter with intelligence and thought. But he's still wrong.

1. He first mentions that spoilers have been appearing in literature, even/especially in the titles or chapters of certain works, for hundreds of years. He cites Death of a Salesman and The Taming of the Shrew as only two examples of this, saying that if people don't complain about these spoiler titles, then they shouldn't complain about plot spoilers. I'm surprised he finds the two worth comparing. Obviously, any action contained in the title isn't a spoiler, but a framework for the story's tone. It doesn't detract from the film to call it The Man Who Shot Liberty Valance, but rather enhances the experience by focusing the action in on a specific subject, namely, the death of Liberty Valance. By giving away such prominent information in the title, the author isn't "spoiling" the story, but establishing it.

2. He then makes an interesting point by correctly stating that "spoilers invariably [privilege] plot over style and form." This part of his argument is well-founded, but ultimately tries to be a little too broad. Of course spoilers value story over style; that's their entire definition. To say that Children of Men finds its emotional climax in a continuous take lasting 7-8 minutes in the third act merely provides information about the film's technical aspects; to describe in detail the events of that take and the characters involved would be, well, to spoil the story. There are even stylistic parts of a film that can be considered spoilers when they directly relate to the plot, and Rosenbaum names one: The switch from black-and-white to color in The Wizard of Oz. Aesthetic decisions that directly affect the plot are obviously spoilers, e.g., "Man, that slow-mo computer-aided shot when Edward Norton shoots himself in the mouth in Fight Club is great." But ultimately, what sense does it make for Rosenbaum to complain that spoilers value story over style? I thought that was self-evident.

3. It's completely possible to be a functioning film critic and describe the film (or book, or TV series) without actually spoiling the relevant action; more than that, it's expected. What's so impossible about laying out the ground rules for a movie without revealing the twists that happen in the second or third acts?

4. I don't like spoilers because, yes, I do want to "experience everything as if it were absolutely fresh" when it comes to film/TV/whatever, but I don't think that means I'm trying to regain some kind of "infancy." Rosenbaum again goes way, way broad by thinking that resisting spoilers must lead naturally to refusing any foreknowledge of a film, including stars, director, you name it. The nonsensical leap ignores that the joy of seeing a story for the first time is that you don't know where it's going. Yes, it's also pleasing to re-watch (or re-read) something when you know what will happen, because you can pull back just a little and really appreciate the structure and build and flow of the story. But that initial viewing should be as devoid of spoilers as possible to preserve the story's power, to maintain that gut punch you get when the hero is suddenly shot or the villain suddenly appears. Is Rosenbaum saying it really doesn't matter if, before you ever see the film, you know that Vader is Luke's father? Or that Keyser Soze has been under our noses the whole time? Is Rosenbaum really saying that having that knowledge beforehand wouldn't damage the film's impact? Because to suggest that would be foolish. Nothing beats the emotional thrill, whether it's joy or heartbreak, of seeing a film with unspoiled eyes.

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january 2007 playboy¹

wes anderson font²

ben affleck bald

does briana banks still act?³

balding men+girlfriend⁴

gilmore girls

friends quote- first a layer of lady fingers then a layer of jam then beef sautéed

praise the lord and pass the ammunition country song

archie ball & the drells⁵

stars going bald

how do I know if I’m going bald?⁶

castle Being There Hannibal Richie Rich⁷

slowly going bald

going bald

going bald in my teens

really weird stick man movies

am I going bald

mcn Bambi sunlight⁸

battlestar galactica making of space channel

bald piven

sufjan stevens balding

don’t burn the day away

^{1. I don't know what to say, except that Googling the latest Playmate and getting me must be a profound disappointment. This search occurred more than once.}

2. This also occurred more than once.

3. Did she ever? And what's with the porn searches leading people here?

4. Holy depressing. This search also occurred multiple times, which is extremely sad. You don't need hair, fellas, just money and the ability to ignore her. Then you're golden.

5. Misspelled, but it still brought them here.

6. Ask people. Or, you know, look in a mirror.

7. I don't know what this means, but it's pretty creepy.

8. This one also seems to be pursuing teh boobies. Seriously, what does it say that these searches wind up at this site? Is Google's search algorithm that screwy? Or is something happening here that I don't know about?

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Beauty:

I've posted parts of this one before, but here's the whole thing:

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Because you're still pissed that Titanic won Best Picture of 1997:

The Pajiba trade round-up.

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Be sure to keep up with the new links in the sidebars. Recent additions include:

Kendall-Ball

Geoff Klock

Bells On

A Special Way of Being Afraid

Down in Texas

One More Curious Mile

Jennifer, Who's From Weatherford, And Now Lives In Virginia

Chris Dowdy

Bad Movie Club

Girish

As well as:

Movie City Indie

Austin Movie Blog

The Screengrab

GreenCine Daily

FirstShowing

Fimoculous

Go forth and read.

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I first saw Tony's barbershop when doing laundry at a dirty laundromat on Magnolia. The actual name of his shop was Lookin' Good, but I always just referred to it as Tony's.

Tony's was a long narrow room with a small lobby area near the door and a short hallway leading back to the one barber chair in the place. The hallway was marked off by a movable partition that didn't reach the ceiling; I peeked over it one day and glimpsed a cot and a weight bench, which makes me think Tony might have lived there.

The lobby area consisted of a battered old couch and matching recliners, centered around a coffee table featuring scattered remnants of recent newspapers and back-issues of Playboy and Cigar Aficionado. Tony's aspired to be a manly place: Cardboard cutout of Bogey, a couple of Rat Pack posters as well as the inexplicable presence of an original theatrical one-sheet for Superman, and, of course, soft porn. There was always something a little disconcerting that at least a dozen issues of Playboy were circulating through the lobby and bookstand area. The strangest moment came when the man ahead of me finished his haircut and, instead of leaving, picked up a Playboy and plopped down on the couch. I don't know what kind of attention this guy wasn't getting at home, but something was clearly wrong.

The sole barber's chair sat in front of a low table, on which sat a TV/VCR combo and — again — a Playboy. I started to wonder if Tony was trying to tell me something about himself, or if he just wanted to provide healthy testosterone injections into what is usually a pretty dull experience. But it's not like I was about to pick up the magazine and thumb through it while he cut my hair. What would I do? Would I avoid the pictorials and adhere to the articles about how to shop for a roadster or what to do if your teacher starts hitting on you? Or what if I picked it up and he said, "Hey, check her out," or something along those lines. I don't think I could handle that. And Tony was in his 60s, so I don't think his heart would have taken the stress well, either.

But despite all that, Tony's was a great place. He always had the little TV on and would hand me the remote when I sat down. I went there for so long that he needed only the briefest reminder of what kind of haircut to give me, and it was good every time. After a while, I couldn't remember how much the haircut cost, only that the $20 I gave him more than covered it, with a tip. The place was almost never busy, and most days I was the only one there.

Tony's is gone now, why or to where, I don't know. My phone call to make an appointment — even with his small trickle of business, Tony preferred call-aheads to walk-ins — was met with an endless ringing. Not a disconnect or a warning that the number had changed; just the ringing. I drove by and saw that the inside of the tiny storefront had been gutted. Pipes lay everywhere amid chunks of plaster and a few spare paint buckets. The place was emptied, and only half the signs were gone from the outside. The faded decal of a barber's pole was still affixed in the window, but Tony wasn't around.

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My sister told Entertainment Weekly about how "Battlestar Galactica" was unfairly snubbed by the Hollywood Foreign Press Association when it comes to Golden Globe nominations. She even threw in a dig at "Heroes."

I don't know what to say. I'm just proud, is all.

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Because we at Pajiba care about you and want you to be a better person, or at least a more educated one, we humbly present the following:

The Best Films of 2006.

And The Best Documentaries of 2006.

And while you're there, be sure to check out the year's worst and the year's biggest hype-busting films. And stay tuned later in the week for the annual TV round-up.

Anyway, you should go read it. You'll probably learn something, and as David Robinson taught me when I was a kid, reading is fundamental.

[discussing plot twists to famous movies]

Friend 1: Bruce Willis is really dead!

Friend 2: And Kevin Spacey is Keyser Soze!

Me: And Rosebud is really the name of that girl he raped!

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Does This Look Infected to You?

Stabbing Homeless People for Cash and Prizes

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Over at PopMatters, we're rounding up the year's best TV shows, and I threw in my two cents. You should read it. It will, in all likelihood, make you a slightly better person:

PopMatters' Best TV of 2006.

[The extremely bored might also like to know that clicking on the TV folder on the left of this page now yields additional subcategories for certain shows; just scroll down on the TV page and see for yourself. I know, I know; it's just what you wanted for Christmas.]

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Looking back over 365 days of posts, it's amazing how few of them really deserve to be remembered. But what with it being the end of the year, and with best-of lists proliferating everywhere, I figured I could do worse than to compile a bunch of links to the very few highlights this place managed to churn out over the past 12 months. Enjoy:

• My perilous adventures in the sales world.

• My evening with the drunk girl with sideburns.

• My live account of Oscar-night letdowns.

• My other encounter with an awkward drunk stranger.

• My trip to the sun-blasted wastes of the Big Country.

• My numerous problems with Lorelai Gilmore. (I'm still rooting for Eigeman to return.)

• My gift to the Grand Canyon.

• My concerns about the gifted Bryan Singer and the uber-hack Brett Ratner.

• My favorite story about Chris Hawaii. (Or one of them, anyway.)

• My favorite TV characters. (The list of which is always changing and growing. I can't believe I omitted Oz.)

• My doubts about flying reptiles.

• My disappointment with Spurlock's TV show.

• My freshman year.

• My advice to foolish young men.

• My very own horror story.

• My music week: Parts one, two, three, and four.

• My foolish awesome educational trip to Sin City.

• My thoughts about Rushmore, my favorite Texas films, my interview with a bona fide director, and the best movies you've never seen.

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As good as I was expecting it to be:

Clickety-click.

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Is it wrong that I found myself enjoying the scenes where the German woman was coming onto Matt Damon when he used the alias "Mr. Carlson"? I'm just saying, I dug the accent. Anyway:

Clickety-click.

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I have nothing worthwhile to say. So, enjoy these videos:

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[As always, discussions of TV shows currently airing are likely to contain, you know, spoilers. If you're not quite smart enough to figure that out, this is your warning. If this warning doesn't work, please have your home health care provider turn off your computer and take you out for ice cream.]

I've been writing about the wonder that is "Battlestar Galactica" for a while now, and this season I've become more convinced than ever that it's one of the greatest shows on TV. And it's not just the show's willingness to explore the dark side of humanity that keeps me riveted, but how the stories manage to marry that darkness with a sense of honor, and hope, and unrelenting struggle against impossible odds.

In only the first 11 episodes of its third season, "Battlestar Galactica" has gone through more upheaval and turmoil than other shows would dare pack into an entire year. The seires could have spent the entire season focused on the New Caprica settlement established at the end of Season 2, which was accomplished with a one-year jump forward in the show's chronology. But no; after four episodes, the settlers had been rescued from the Cylon invasion, Baltar had cast his lot with the Cylons, the men all changed their facial hair and then changed it back, and Tigh lost an eye before assassinating his own wife for betraying the cause.

So, things have been eventful.

Yet I find myself moved again to praise the show, despite the fact that my repeated mentions of the show probably bore some people¹, because it continues to bravely explore such relevant issues as the role of military in the government and the place of religion in public society, and it does it with flair and grace and downright beautiful storytelling. After the fleet was restored and had fled New Caprica, the show dealt with the treacherous nature of insurgency fighters and vigilante justice by having a cabal of crew members dispense private retribution for war crimes. And then there was Starbuck and Tigh's personal quest to sow discord among the ranks just for the hell of it. And who could forget Apollo's argument in favor of genocide?

But it was the ninth episode, "Unfinished Business," that again raised the series' bar for pure sweep. Tying together most of the major characters' stories in an episode that relied purely on backstory and relational history to drive the plot, it ostensibly revolved around a boxing match for the officers. The structure of the episode is moving, as repeated images and scenes become expanded until the full plot is revealed. The episode takes place during the year of action the viewer never saw, between the discovery of New Caprica and the later retreat from the planet. It built on the festering Apollo-Starbuck relationship and showed in greater detail just why he hated her so much, and letting them beat each other up in the ring was a sadness only matched by Apollo's look of heartbreak when he discovered Starbuck had literally abandoned him at dawn.

And while "Unfinished Business" featured the show at the peak of its character-driven melodramatic power, the latest episode, "The Eye of Jupiter," was another great marriage of the show's tangled relationships with its increasingly complex mythology. Having the humans and Cylons clash over the latest signpost on the way to Earth is inevitable, but the series keeps the conflict fresh by making it a political standoff and an observation of the power of religion. It's infinitely more unsettling when, instead of simply engaging in a firefight with the enemy or running away, the Galactica hosts Cylon representatives for an uneasy discussion of a possible temporary truce. Seeing the opposing sides come to an impasse over the newly discovered holy temple has an odd grounding effect on the conflict, and instead of casting one group as inherently good while the other is irredeemably evil, the humans and Cylons are simply portrayed as having two different approaches to survival. It's a nice move to make the "bad guys" so fascinating and relatable, and it's one of the many things that helps the show transcend its narrow genre and become a beautiful, compelling drama.

^{1. Deal.}

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Age of Thomas Wolfe upon publication of Look Homeward, Angel: 29

Age of Bruce Springsteen upon release of Born to Run: 25

Age of Bob Dylan upon release of Highway 61 Revisited: 24

Age of David Foster Wallace upon publication of The Broom of the System: 25

Age of Norman Mailer upon publication of The Naked and the Dead: 25

Age of Elvis Costello upon release of My Aim Is True: 22

Age of Wes Anderson upon release of Bottle Rocket: 27

Age of Noah Baumbach upon release of Kicking and Screaming: 26

Age of Ryan Adams upon release of Heartbreaker: 26

Ages of Jeff Tweedy, Jay Farrar, Mike Heidorn upon release of Uncle Tupelo's No Depression: 23, 24, 23

... I am really, really wasting my 20s. Really.

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1. The Faol Saga, Part 3: The Harrowing

2. The Peacekeepers' Trilogy, Book 1: Chyron's Ruling

3. Tales of the Otori, Book 4: The Harsh Cry of the Otori — The Last Tale of the Otori

4. Dragonriders' Tales, Part 4: Blood of the Innocent

5. The Obsidian Trilogy, Book 3: When Darkness Falls

6. The Belgariad, Vol. 2, Books 4-5: Castle of Wizardry; Enchanters' End Game

7. The Sword of Truth, Book 3: Blood of the Fold

8. The Switchfire Cycle, Book 5: The Reckoning

9. The Zion's Blade Series, Book 2: Bloodless Land

10. Star of the Morning: A Novel of the Nine Kingdoms

11. The Castleguard Trilogy, Book 3: The Mage's Return

12. The Oberon Cycle, Book 1: Wolf's Rule

13. The Darkwar Saga, Book 1: Flight of the Nighthawks

14. The Dark Wizard Cycle, Book 3: Sophie's Choice

15. The Earthsea Cycle, Book 3: The Farthest Shore

16. Strfuh, Dragonspeaker of Killdremen: Being the First Part of the Winged Vengeance Cycle — The Horn of Krah

17. The Black Magician Trilogy, Book 1: The Magicians' Guild

18. Hrothfar Battles the Dark Triune: Part the First — A Gathering Alliance

19. The Serpentwar Saga, Book 4: Shards of a Broken Crown

20. Tales of the Garolds, Book 2: Shepherd's Keep

Real: 3, 5, 6, 7, 10, 13, 15, 17, 19.

Fake: 1, 2, 4, 8, 9, 11, 12, 14, 16 (come on), 18, 20.

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• The highways cutting east through the San Gabriel Valley become congested even earlier in the day than normal on a Friday afternoon, as if the commuters who work in L.A. but lay their heads in the 'burbs can't wait to get out of Dodge. A sense of exodus permeates even the most casual drive in this direction at this time of day on this day of the week, but it's compounded something like nineteenfold when the destination is that dirtiest of holy grails, that most joyfully desecrated of all America's cities, that dull black rock in the center of Lady Liberty's battered crown: Las Vegas.

• Vegas, it should be pointed out, is America's own personal whore.

• It seems like everyone just calls it Vegas, and that it's been that way forever. The casualness of the address belies the dangerous intimacies on tap in Sin City herself, which works (as everything always does) in the house's favor.

• People usually use "tragic flaw" to mean "unfortunate personality trait," as in "Randy's a raging cokehead. Drag." Or "It's a total bummer that Jennifer has to make small cuts on her thigh to achieve physical pleasure." This quaint, aw-shucks dismissal of anything that could be amiss with someone as nothing more than a minor setback is at best shortsighted, and at worst a horrible, horrible mistake. Because a genuine tragic flaw is that darkest, purest, most ruinous desire that not only ensures the hero's undoing but also defines who he/she is. Las Vegas birthed itself from the desert based on the concept that the hero is nothing without the flaw that will lead to his/her eventual destruction, and the city is determined to offer anything and everything a man or woman could want, not merely as recreational activities, but as a brutal means to a quick, messy end.

• Seriously, avoid blackjack.

• About that whole "America's personal whore" thing: There's a reason Vegas thrives in the desert. The city wouldn't be able to exist in a place that received a lot of natural traffic or attention. Its being out in the desert (a) furthers the sense of otherworldliness, of isolation from any and all responsibilities that will come screaming back into your life at 8 a.m. Monday, (b) tests the resolve of those who travel there, making you crawl through boring stretches of desert along the 15 just to see those bright and deadly lights, and (c) creates an extreme geographical and emotional distance from the rest of the world allows us to do whatever we want there and to basically leave the money on the not-always-metaphorical nightstand. And Vegas accepts this, her wide grin displaying a row of stained, cracked teeth, as she takes our money. We don't go there to bury our sins, or wash them away in some mystic river; we go there to celebrate them, to breathe the dusty air of the desert into their bones and awaken them to all kinds of potential reckless adventures.

• You can yell anything you want on Fremont Street — and I mean anything — and no one will care.

• Drunk cowboys who've been gambling and losing all day are pretty pissy dudes, but their not-incidental level of danger is balanced by the unintentional humor they create. An angry fortysomething guy with a buzz cut and blue polo, topped off by sharply creased Wranglers, is an endlessly entertaining poker companion.

• You need to accept the fact that you will not "be up five hundy by midnight." And cocktail waitresses there do not look at all like Deena Martin. Again, the sooner you accept this, the happier you will be.

• If early evening is the best time to make that drive — the dying sun and looming darkness a reminder of the eternal Friday night you're heading for — then dawn is the best time to make that languorous trip back home. The moonlit fields of Primm actually qualify as moonlit, no poetic license needed, and the pale sun on the bleached sand manages to put the guilt and everything in perspective. Most of that drive doesn't feel like California or Nevada; it doesn't feel like anywhere.

• It's about doing stupid things precisely because they are stupid. And about accepting that.

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If the guys from "Twentyfourseven" were trapped in a burning building, I would shut the door and walk away and let them burn. And L.A. would be free of seven of the countless poser hipster morons that clog the place.

I think people would throw a parade in my honor.

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It's a little unsettling to see Tobey Maguire go from the wussy mumblings of Peter Parker to having angry, bound-to-be-projecting-his-own-emotional-insecurities sex with Cate Blanchett.

Anyway:

Clickety-click.

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It's time once again for the Pajiba trade round-up.

And while you're there, check out Jeremy's great review of Inland Empire (I'm a rebel, so no all-caps for me). Weird or not, impenetrable or not, I've watched the trailer way too many times now, and will probably be seeing this soon.

Also, don't forget the latest Guide entry. This one's from John, the newest addition to the staff, who also has his own blog. He deserves your respect, if only because he keeps up with AP headlines (he does more than that, I'm just saying, that's not a bad place to jump in).

So go.

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I wrote a little while ago about the artificiality of "Heroes," and I still maintain that it's an awkward, forced attempt at selling to geekdom, instead of just being naturally somewhat geeky and casual about its genre.

Here's a similar take from Awakeland:

ok, i've had it. i am honestly shocked that heroes is as popular as it is. ... do people really not see how bad this show is? i'm sorry, i really thought i was done blogging rants about anything artistically negative, but this whole heroes craze has just got me perplexed beyond recognition.

why is it bad? honestly, i think the concept is a great one, albeit unoriginal but who cares because it's a comic book story. but the way it is written is so forced and one-dimensional, i cannot understand how it is so popular. not just popular, this show is LOVED by people. what the--?

and please please please, don't read this as an egotistical rant from sethius mcfilmsnob. this is seth worley. firefly advocate and lost addict, registered trekkie and loveslave to spiderman 2. this isn't just another pious blowing off of genre material. this is a huge nerd watching a show about superheroes and being flabbergasted in wake of its worldwide following.

I knew it wasn't just me.

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TV Land, the network haven of shows that couldn't quite make the cut for Nick at Nite, recently compiled a list of the 100 greatest quotes and catchphrases in TV history. The entire list, organized alphabetically, can be found here. There are many, many things wrong with this endeavor.

• The list includes not just TV catchphrases, but things that were simply said on TV. John F. Kennedy's "Ask not what your country can do for you..." isn't a TV catchphrase. It's a great moment from a classic speech that was televised. Likewise, Neil Armstrong's "One small step for man" line is news, not programming. There's a difference, TV Land.

• The list is a fawning rip-off of AFI's annual pointless lists, and just like the film organization's countdowns, the TV Land list tosses in a few more modern entries in hopes of appearing hip and relevant. But is Denny Crane's "Denny Crane" really worth praising? And the inclusion of "Nip/Tuck" and the insipid Paris Hilton is just embarrassing.

• Just thinking about the list has completely robbed me of all energy. I'm done now.

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discharge

moist

slippage

eustachian

squelch

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The dialogue's NSFW, but it's still a classic:

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Despite your direst hopes to the contrary, girls that use True.com do not look in any way like the models used to advertise the site. There's a slutty cowgirl in one of the ads that looks too hot for me to even fantasize about.

The mentally challenged like a good sandwich as much as the next guy.

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If I had kids, and I didn't hate them completely, I would probably take them to see this. And then I would tell them that if they misbehave I will take them to the airport and leave them there to live on their own or die. And then I would tell them I only drink because they keep crying, and that when Daddy hits Mommy it's because she didn't do her due diligence and burned my damn pot pie.

I should never procreate.

Clickety-click.

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• The weekend reviews are pretty much what you'd expect:

Mel Gibson is still crazy; romantic comedies are still dead; Edward Zwick is still a little bit racist; and British kids are still smarter than anticipated.

• "I will vehemently argue with anyone that Monday Night Football ratings would have never dipped if ABC had simply kept re-signing Richard Dean Anderson to new contracts for 'MacGyver.'" It makes sense, if you think about it.

• Speaking of "The Real World," what's up with the white gay Christian (and just wait for that s**tstorm to break out) going Kramer and dropping the N-bomb when he gets drunk? That was probably one of the greatest episodes ever, if only because it gave us half an hour of people with extreme intellectual handicaps trying to parse their feelings and mumble through apologies and statements of feeling that somehow all use the word "actualization." I love stupid people on TV.

• Over at Pajiba, we like books. Deal.

• Apparently, the final few episodes of "Veronica Mars" this season will be stand-alone episodes, instead of an abbreviated multi-episode arc as originally stated. I don't know yet how that will affect the show, but come on: Were people really complaining about the bus-crash arc of Season 2? I loved that season. Loved it. (Also, all apologies for linking to the site for E!, which reads like it was written and designed by one of those mentally challenged Real Worlders.)

• Much props for those who know Elite Hotel, but it's a Gram Parsons song, from Grievous Angel. And man, Gram knew what he was talking about.

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Ooh, Las Vegas

Ain't no place for a poor boy like me

Ooh, Las Vegas

Ain't no place for a poor boy like me

Every time I hit your crystal city

You know you're gonna make a wreck out of me

Well, the first time I lose I drink whiskey

Second time I lose I drink gin

Third time I lose I drink anything

'cause I think I'm gonna win

Ooh, Las Vegas

Ain't no place for a poor boy like me

Ooh, Las Vegas

Ain't no place for a poor boy like me

Every time I hit your crystal city

You know you're gonna make a wreck out of me

Well, the queen of spades is a friend of mine

The queen of hearts is a bitch

Someday when I clean up my mind

I'll find out which is which

Ooh, Las Vegas

Ain't no place for a poor boy like me

Ooh, Las Vegas

Ain't no place for a poor boy like me

Every time I hit your crystal city

You know you're gonna make a wreck out of me

Well, I spend all night with the dealer

Tryin' to get ahead

Spend all day at the Holiday Inn

Trying to get out of bed

Ooh, Las Vegas

Ain't no place for a poor boy like me

Ooh, Las Vegas

Ain't no place for a poor boy like me

Every time I hit your crystal city

You know you're gonna make a wreck out of me

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It's what we do on Thursdays:

The Pajiba trade round-up.

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You want a video?

You got it.

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A great column about politics, the Pit, and the oddness of George Clinton. (I touched on some of this a little while ago, but this is a lot more in-depth.) I also wholeheartedly agree with the premise that there's more that unites us than divides us when it comes to politics.

Anyway: A look at PCU.

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A new column:

What Pajiba's Reading.

And man, the nutbag commenters wasted no time tearing into this one. Dustin thought it would be a worthy idea to make a list of what the staff had read in the past month, for no other reason than that we all like to read and it seemed like a good idea to share our most recent bookshelf picks with the readers. Maybe they would respond in kind, I thought, suggesting books they'd recently read and loved, or sharing stories of old classics or personal favorites that have always seen them through. It would be a nice chance for everyone to geek out a little and talk about what they were reading.

As always, I think I expected too much.

The kind of people who would see a list of potential reading material and note the books for a later trip to the bookstore or Amazon — people like me — aren't usually the kind of people to leave comments on random sites. The online community affords its loudest members a dangerous bravado, so when the Pajiba staff decided to do a one-off column intended just to tell people what we've been reading lately, some people immediately took us to task for our "pedestrian" tastes. Crazy people, listen up: We're not Bookgasm, or Bookslut (is there a book site that isn't somehow sexualized?). We just wanted to share the latest books we've read. That's it. That's all. If you've really got a problem with it, well, go soak your heads or something.

Although at least no one has attacked me for Y: The Last Man. Because to do so would be stupid.

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• Teach the other housemates fake vocabulary, like "frambly" and "turnwillish." Enjoy newfound power.

• Attempt to explain to the housemates that having sex anywhere in Denver would automatically put you in the Mile-High Club. Eventually give up.

• Make the producers immediately regret installing giant clear glass doors in the shower.

• Pretend to be mildly retarded to earn sympathy from the housemates. Walk around naked. Hump the leg of the trashy-looking girl. (I realize that's all of them, but go with me.) Eventually admit that it was all an act. Make up further story about abuse to justify my behavior. Become hero of the house.

• Speak only in dialogue from Diner.

• Ask the two black residents of the house if they know my friend Ray Ray, who's in the joint on some b.s. B&E charge. Just to see what happens.

• Soil myself during the confessional interviews.

• Kill everyone in the house.

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• The latest reviews:

"But while that film was a cautionary tale of a young girl throwing her life away, The Nativity Story at times plays like an odd reverse: A coldly celebratory tale of a holy woman who’s utterly unmoved by her role in the fate of mankind. The joy here is spread too thin, and the resulting film never quite lives up its potential."

"Van Wilder 2 is a bad film, which is obvious enough in the fact that not even Tara Reid makes a return appearance, choosing instead to do an incredibly low-budget bowling film featuring Robert Carradine. ... I mean, seriously — how hard would it be to satisfy its core audience, made up of largely drunk college kid(s) who have to coordinate brain cells to make it to the theater on time?"

"I’m at a loss for the faux-genre’s newfound popularity, as the subject’s sick conceit usually relegates it to obscurity. Regardless, the provocation that torture-porn intends doesn’t make much of a difference when the direction and writing are as inept as they are in Turistas."

"In many ways the film is more like Almodóvar’s great works of the mid-to-late ’80s than his recent films, which have been less irreverently wicked and therefore considered more mature by many critics. But there can be no doubt that this is the work of a mature artist at the top of his game."

• Okay, in addition to being all romcom-ish and predictable-looking, the trailer for The Holiday adds a whole other level of dangerous wish-fulfillment by making you think that a guy that looks like Jack Black can land a girl that looks like Kate Winslet. And that's just mean and misleading. Stupid Hollywood.

• "He and his writers are building a world to live in, not a theory to unravel. It's a world that does more than transcend his show's silly title. It actually redeems it."

• "The relevance of Third Reich Germany to today's America is not that Bush equals Hitler or that the United States government is a death machine. It's that it provides a rather spectacular example of the insidious process by which decent people come to regard the unthinkable as not only thinkable but doable, justifiable. Of the way freethinkers and speakers become compliant and self-censoring. Of the mechanism by which moral or humanistic categories are converted into bureaucratic ones. And finally, of the willingness with which we hand control over to the state and convince ourselves that we are the masters of our destiny."

• Because if you're gonna be tortured, you might as well distract yourself by having sex with the blonde robot that lives in your brain:

• Nothing this cool will ever be on TV again. Ever:

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Oddly depressing, or at least not totally uplifting:

Clickety-click.

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I had the pleasure of seeing Shut Up & Sing recently, a documentary about the Dixie Chicks' latest album and the controversy that erupted when, at a London concert in March 2003, just days before the Iraq war began, lead singer Natalie Maines made an off-the-cuff joke about how she was embarrassed that President Bush was from Texas. I remember the incident well, because I was living in Los Angeles at the time, but was soon to return to Texas, where more than a few people I knew were furious at what Maines had said. I've been trying to make sense of the furor surrounding the group ever since, and I've come to only a few conclusions.

• They weren't attacked for political speech, but for liberal political speech. Many of the criticisms the band received focused on the fact that, as a band, they're being paid to sing, not offer political commentary. But Toby Keith released the single "Courtesy of the Red, White, & Blue (The Angry American)" in 2002; among its lyrics was the warning that "We'll put a boot in your ass / It's the American way." Rather than tell Keith to tone down his rhetoric, country music fans supported the song. Maines wasn't even performing political songs, and it's clear from the footage of the London show that her joke is spontaneous. Yet country music fans still turned on the group for expressing a political belief. To embrace Keith for his politics but tell Maines to not express her beliefs is hypocritical.

• The vitriol with which the Dixie Chicks were attacked extended to their gender, which is just frightening. They were labeled the "Dixie Sluts" by some extremist critics, something that never would have happened to a male singer who voiced an unpopular opinion. Cash, Haggard, Kristofferson and Willie himself were labeled outlaws and given respect, but for women to speak out is apparently too much for country fans to handle.

• Yes, people who stopped listening to the Dixie Chicks after the Bush jab were completely within their rights. Freedom of expression extends to what albums you do or don't buy, and the former fans who professed their newfound hatred for the Chicks had every right to do so. But that doesn't mean it wasn't a boneheaded, myopic thing to do.

I had several friends who liked the Chicks but stopped supporting them after spring 2003, and it wasn't because their tastes changed. No, it was pretty much because of Maines' joke. Why should that stop you from listening to their music if you already liked it? Does her political belief mean she can't sing as well, or play the guitar with the same skill? Does the group's tight harmony become sour when you realize that Maines doesn't support the president? If Rhett Miller came out in fervent support of President Bush, I'd strongly disagree with him, but I wouldn't get rid of my Old 97's albums. I love those albums. I love the songs, the lyrics, the blend of music and emotion and Texas references and heartbreak and pop swagger and just about everything on them. It wouldn't make sense to stop listening to a fantastic musician because I don't like his voting record.

• My personal experience with the controversy was a weird one, mired as it was in a dangerous mix of conservative politics, fundamentalist Christianity, and West Texas heat waves. I thought my friends who abandoned the Chicks because of Maines' outburst were pitiable and sad, but mainly because I could never figure out where they drew the line. Refusing to listen to a band because its members aren't practicing Christians would be foolish, but at least it would have been in line with these people's refusal to listen to the Dixie Chicks. So what was it about politics that got these people so motivated that God didn't have? Why were these people willing to hate a band out of their love for Bush but not their belief in God?

• I've liked the Dixie Chicks for a while now; they're talented musicians, and Maines has a voice like a cannon. I still think Home is a fantastic album. And what do you know, when I listen to it, I don't think about politics, or fanatics, or the way our culture devours itself out of boredom. I think about the music, and how this band won't just shut up and sing, and how great that is. And on that note:

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My 26 Desert Island Albums:

1. Old 97's — Too Far to Care

2. The Refreshments — Fizzy Fuzzy Big & Buzzy

3. The Jayhawks — Rainy Day Music

4. Wilco — A.M.

5. Whiskeytown — Strangers Almanac

6. Son Volt — Trace

7. Dave Matthews Band — Before These Crowded Streets

8. Denison Witmer — Safe Away

9. Fountains of Wayne — Welcome Interstate Managers

10. Ryan Adams — Heartbreaker

11. Ryan Adams — Jacksonville City Nights

12. Counting Crows — August and Everything After

13. Sufjan Stevens — Illinois

14. Roger Clyne and the Peacemakers — Honky Tonk Union

15. Bob Dylan — Blood on the Tracks

16. Wilco — Being There

17. Bright Eyes — I'm Wide Awake, It's Morning

18. Tom Waits — Closing Time

19. Johnny Cash — Live at San Quentin

20. Mike Doughty — Haughty Melodic

21. Bob Schneider — I'm Good Now

22. Dixie Chicks — Home

23. Tift Merritt — Bramble Rose

24. Kasey Chambers — The Captain

25. Steve Earle and the Del McCoury Band — The Mountain

26. Gram Parsons — GP/Grievous Angel

My Top 10 Female Acts:

1. Lucinda Williams

2. Dixie Chicks

3. Emmylou Harris

4. Tift Merritt

5. Kathleen Edwards

6. Kasey Chambers

7. Jenny Lewis

8. Alison Krauss

9. Tres Chicas

10. Caitlin Cary

My Top 3 Songs for the Shower:

1. "Long Black Veil," Johnny Cash

2. "Still Feeling Blue," Gram Parsons

3. "Green and Dumb," Roger Clyne and the Peacemakers

Five Great TV-Music Moments That Get Me Every Time

1. "Blue," Angie Hart — "Conversations With Dead People" ("Buffy the Vampire Slayer")

2. "Sloop John B," Beach Boys — "The Sword of Orion" ("Sports Night")

3. "A Place Called Home," Kim Richey — "Shells" ("Angel")

4. "I Don't Like Mondays," Tori Amos — "20 Hours in America, Pt. 2" ("The West Wing")

5. "I Hear the Bells," Mike Doughty —"Look Who's Stalking" ("Veronica Mars")

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I came of age listening to the Refreshments, which was pretty challenging, since they only put out two albums before breaking up and no one else had heard of them. Lead singer-songwriter Roger Clyne has since moved on to a new band, but those first two albums stand out for so many reasons. Taken individually, they're solid pop-rock albums, but combined they form a larger emotional whole that Clyne has never quite been able to recapture: They're about a relationship, specifically the first rush of happiness and then, later, the sad dissolution of something that was supposed to last.

The Refreshments' first album, Fizzy Fuzzy Big & Buzzy, is a potent mix of post-grunge pop-rock that mixes humor and heartache in equal measure while charting new territory in a genre that could be called Southwestern Rock. The single "Banditos" found some purchase on college radio, but anyone judging the band solely on the merits of that upbeat tale of robbery south of the border is missing out on the bigger issues tackled by lead singer-songwriter Roger Clyne. Album opener "Blue Collar Suicide" was a tongue-in-cheek look at the trappings of a dull relationship, but the second song hinted at the yearning that would become a hallmark of Clyne's writing: "European Swallow" roils around with a sensual spoken-word pair of verses before bursting into the chorus with "I'd do anything for you / Anything that you want me to do / It's just gonna take a little more money." By the time the album eases into "Down Together," Clyne has calmed down enough to sing about the defiant attitude of young love. "Whoever said there's nothing new under the sun / Never thought much about individuals / But he's dead anyway." This sentiment is the quiet thread pulsing at the heart of the album. As Clyne moves through the obstinate loneliness of "Mekong" and the desert desolation of "Don't Wanna Know," it becomes clear that the songs spring from a place of youthful arrogance, an almost palpable belief in the endless possibilities life can offer. Even if he's gonna be sitting in the same bar a year from now, he doesn't want to hear about it; things are bound to change.

The punk-tinged rockabilly of "Girly" is a distant cousin of country-rock, with Clyne's swaggering heartbreak belying the optimism that swims underneath: "Beat me till I'm black and blue," he tells her, then says they can do it all over again. The album is the beginning of a relationship, full of hope and positively carefree when it comes to dealing with what will be guaranteed heartbreak.

The band would only record one more album before disbanding and leaving Mercury Records, and their sophomore effort, The Bottle & Fresh Horses, was a marked step forward for Clyne's style and writing. Everything about the album feels louder, older, as if Clyne's done too much living since the first album and come out the worse for wear. This is where that guaranteed heartbreak comes into play. Right off the bat, Clyne sets a darker tone with "Tributary Otis," singing "Well I've traveled / And I've seen the things I build working / Workin' to bring me down." The punky swagger of "Preacher's Daughter" gives way to the outlaw longing of "Wanted," but on "Sin Nombre," Clyne offers up his saddest, loneliest protagonist yet:

Cracked throat, my canteen's dry

Rain won't fall from an empty sky, so I whisper Hail Marys ‘til the sun comes up ...

Well I did before what I'll do again

So forgive me father if I have sinned, but the old wood cracks before it bends

Now don't tell me that part of the story when the cowboy falls in love

When he traded in his pistol and his saddle and the stars above

When the candle’s burning down, when midnight comes around

Know the best that we could hope for is to be laughing when we finally hit the ground

Everything's different here for Clyne, and the battered maturity aids his songs. "Dolly" juxtaposes an upbeat veneer with a bitter warning for his ex to stay away. But with the back-to-back "Good Year" and "Fonder and Blonder," Clyne fully opens up and pours on the genuine heartbreak with deceptive simplicity. They're both about bitter endings, but by repeating lyrics from the earlier album's "Down Together" in the jaded "Fonder and Blonder," Clyne both concretizes the world of his songs and drives home his point that all good things come to an assured end:

Well who said absence makes the heart grow fonder

In all the pictures that you send me now

Your hair seems to get just a little bit blonder

Cars break down and people break down and other things break down, too

I felt somethin' slip when you left on your trip

And now I think I'm breaking down on you

The hell of it is that Clyne isn't singing about being done wrong or even cheating. Things just ended. Versions of the same character dot the rest of the album, from the drunken cuckold of "Horses" to the just-friends loner of "Broken Record" and, finally, the troubadour stuck in a bar who can't seem to drink her off his mind.

By the end of the album, Clyne has completely moved away not just from the overeager sound of his earlier work but also from its naïve worldview. The world is still full of life, and even love, but it's a dark, deadly place to live.

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So I crashed the car

And I turn up loud my old guitar and sing

Some Ramones or Hendrix thing...

Welcome to Music Week here at Slowly Going Bald.

The staff has been working round the clock to create a week's worth of themed content, which is sure to please, educate, uplift, entertain, and in general make you a better person. They haven't even eaten in days. That's the kind of commitment being shown here. Hey, what can I say, sometimes I take it up a notch.

I don't know exactly why I felt like doing a theme week. But I guess it's because (a) music's another important part of my life, (b) the variety seemed fun, and (c) the inherent nerdiness of planning a theme week appealed to me.

With all that in mind, what better way to kick off Music Week with a little public humiliation?

And now, in no real particular order (after the first five or so, anyway), I present:

The Top 15 Albums of My High School Years:

1. Dave Matthews Band, Before These Crowded Streets

2. Counting Crows, August and Everything After

3. The Refreshments, Fizzy Fuzzy Big & Buzzy

4. Matchbox 20, Yourself or Someone Like You

5. The Wallflowers, Bringing Down the Horse

6. Eve 6, Eve 6

7. Fastball, All the Pain Money Can Buy

8. Dave Matthews Band, Live at Red Rocks 8.15.95

9. The Black Crowes, By Your Side

10. The Goo Goo Dolls, Dizzy Up the Girl

11. Hootie & the Blowfish, Cracked Rear View

12. Eric Clapton, Unplugged

13. Chalk Farm, Notwithstanding

14. Nickel Creek, Nickel Creek

15. Green Day, Dookie

As I was putting the list together, several things jumped out at me.

• First is the list's stunning ordinariness; it's a remarkably mainstream collection of albums from the era, and there aren't any surprises in the bunch. Most of the artists are standard late-'90s pop-rock aimed at teens, and I ate it right up. Seriously, what white middle-class teen could resist the angsty allure of Billie Joe Armstrong warbling "Seventeen and coming clean for the first time ... / I found out what it takes to be a man / Mom and Dad will never understand what's happening to me"? Guy was preaching. I guess it makes some kind of cosmic sense that I shoplifted that album.

• Also, what's up with the total lack of female voices? Man. I guess that's pretty standard for a teenage guy, though, so it's not that surprising. But I'm glad I grew out of it.

• However, I make no apologies for any of the albums — well, maybe the Hootie (which you should know it took a supreme act of will just to list that one). But hell, I was 15. You do a lot of stupid things at that age. But I still own all of these albums, even though Fizzy Fuzzy and August and Everything After are the only ones still in rotation. Putting these albums on takes me back to a completely different time, whether it's the opening strings of "Pantala Naga Pampa" or the thundering drum kickoff to "Go Faster" or the mournful violins of "It's Up to You." Like it or not, these albums were around during the formative years, and they're in me for the long haul.

• But the biggest difference between now and then is that the albums on the list are relatively upbeat, or anyway they're not as dark as the stuff I'd get into later. Sure, some of the albums listed have their darker moments — the unrequited "Layla," some Chalk Farm cuts — but most of them are somewhat positive. Dave Matthews has written some beautiful songs about longing, but that's not the same as sadness; it wasn't until "Grace Is Gone" on the Lillywhite sessions and subsequent Busted Stuff (and later "Stay or Leave") that he wrote a great sad song. Counting Crows have the darkest entries on the list, and to this day, the one-two punch of "Anna Begins"/"Time and Time Again" still knocks me out. But the albums listed are generally reflective of worldview that was necessarily neutral to postive because of youth. Since then, my tastes have grown up, and out, and sideways, and have come to encompass a wider variety of singers and songwriters associated with the alt- and classic-country set. Matthews is a good writer, but he's never written anything that touches the bottomless pain of "I'm stuck in Folsom Prison and time keeps draggin' on / But that train keeps a-rollin' on down to San Antone." Clapton's white blues are no match for "Damn Sam (I Love a Woman That Rains)." And what can match the gorgeous melancholy of "Casimir Pulaski Day"? Like the man said, pain is where I hang my hat.

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"I think my syphilis is clearing up."

"And they say romance is dead."

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"We need to boil those and put them through the ricer."

"I don't think I have a ricer."

"You don't have a ricer? What do you mean? How could someone not have a ricer?"

"Well, do you have one at home?"

"I don't know. What's a ricer?"

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"It is a sham. But it's a sham with yams. It's a yam sham."

--------------------

"Cheater, cheater, compulsive eater!"

--------------------

"You're the hermaphrodite cheerleader from Long Island?"

--------------------

"I'm sorry, when you were in high school you made out with a 50-year-old woman?"

"Hey! She didn't look 50!"

"Did she look 16?"

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"And Dad? You know that mailman that you got fired? He didn’t steal your Playboys! Ross did!"

"Yeah, well, Hurricane Gloria didn’t break the porch swing, Monica did!"

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"First there’s a layer of ladyfingers, then a layer of jam, then custard, which I made from scratch, then raspberries, more ladyfingers, then beef sauteed with peas and onions, then a little more custard, and then bananas, and then I just put some whipped cream on top!"

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Um...

Yeah.

Clickety-click.

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About a month ago, I asked an open question: What makes "Grey's Anatomy" so appealing? Most straight women I know have a special place in their heart for the show, and the comments I got backed that up. But the supporters of the show showed that support in a peculiar way: By couching it in a defense of the show's declining quality. Most of the people who praised the show did so with several qualifications.

Teresa listed her top five reasons for liking the show, but also said: "...but it's gotten a little more Melrose Place-ish and less slapstick. It was a bit funnier in the ep when Ellen Pompeo was on painkillers running her mouth."

Mike said: "It is (relatively) smartly written and it is humorous (in a ha ha hmm, but not a HA HA HA sort of way). ... I really liked last season untill the last couple of episodes, when the show became a lot more soapish, a trend which has continued into this season. Now everyone is sleeping with everyone else and it's getting a little tired."

Katie said that "it beats watching 'Deal or No Deal.'" This is true, but also a bit misleading, since getting groped by Zed and the Gimp beats watching "Deal or No Deal." Seriously, it's a game of no skill where people scream at briefcases for an hour. But that's a mystery for another time.

Caitlin compared the show to Clooney-era "ER," stating that "'Grey's' has three doctors who hit Clooney-ish levels of attractiveness (at least for my friends and I) in Patrick Dempsey, Isaiah Washington, and Eric Dane's characters." But she went on to offer a well-reasoned defense of the show:

"As others have noted above, the characters are flawed enough to be relatable, and the episode-to-episode writing and plot arcs are strong enough to make watching our McDoctors something more than a guilty pleasure. And while we all wish Ellen Pompeo would eat some food, already, Sara Ramirez has a relatable figure and gets to sleep with hot doctors. Even though the female character we wind up annoyed by the most is Ellen Pompeo's, others (including Sandra Oh's and Chandra Wilson's) are strong enough to keep us from dwelling on Meredith Grey's flaws. In short, not a perfect TV show (I am a Veronica Mars fan, so I've experienced perfection), but for my girls and I, the pluses by far outweigh the negatives, and that level of quality is definitely enough to keep us in love with it. I can see how some guys might not reap the same level of enjoyment from that formula (and I know some girls who don't), but overall it is one of my favorites these days."

I appreciate that. (And not least because, by praising "Veronica Mars," Caitlin became my new best friend.)

But that was about the best response I got. Christina compared the show's fandom to a sorority, saying that:

"You can easily relate to whichever girl reminds you of you (the smart one, the damaged one, the pretty one, the slutty one) and you can lust after the guy that is most to your liking (the hot one, the other hot one, the other hot one, or the cute/nebbish one) and pick your favorite line to repeat over and over and make your headline on myspace."

"Hot guys" seemed to be theme that occured most often in the comment thread.

Probably my favorite response was Brenda's, who assumed that my use of "girls" was meant to be condescending. Brenda, I can assure you, it wasn't meant to be a slight. I also sometimes use "guys" instead of "men." Sometimes I call my sister "kid." That's right; I won't even use a gender-specific noun. That's how mean I can get. It happens. But anyway, Brenda said something that caught on my brain:

"The tone of total mystification at its success -- 'I just don't understand what all those womenfolk see in those sexy doctors scored to non-threatening indie music' -- is a little disingenuous and a lot superior. The appeal of Grey's Anatomy is much less confusing than Jackass's, or the WWE's."

Really? The success of "Jackass" isn't confusing at all, at least to anyone who's even seen a group of 12-year-old boys running around a park or basketball court trying to kill each other. But by comparing the two, are you somehow implying that "Grey's Anatomy" appeals to the simplistic, juvenile part in women that corresponds to whatever male neurons get all wonky over "Jackass"?

Anyone can feel free to answer that question, and these:

1. Most of the comments I got last time seemed to say that the show used to be better but has since devolved into an extreme soap opera. Is there any truth to that?

2. Again, most of the comments last time carried an air of "Okay, it's not great, but it's good." Is the show just a guilty pleasure? If so, is there anything wrong with admitting that? I've got plenty of guilty pleasures. Do you really need this show to be Good, or is it okay if it's just good fun?

3. Is the show now worse than it used to be? If so, what could make it better? And if it is getting worse, what keeps you watching?

Like I said, the questions are open for anybody to answer. Don't forget to sign your name if you're posting anonymously. Also, any personal attacks lobbed in my direction should also try to include some legitimate discussion of the show in question. Gotta stay on topic, people. Thanks.

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I haven't been able to stop humming "Travelin' Soldier" all weekend.

And I'm completely okay with that.

Clickety-click.

UPDATE: The comment thread is growing, and promises to be a doozy. I encourage you to post a comment, particularly if you are a moron who jumps at the chance to spread your idiocy via the interwebs, as those tend to make for the most entertaining comments. Thanks.

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• Review time:

"Casino Royale is more than a breath of fresh air into a 40-year-old film franchise; it’s a slick, intense, action-filled, compelling look at the amazing places that franchise might be headed."

"But those who head to For Your Consideration are advised to do so in the same spirit that they trudge to the couch for a favorite long-running sitcom well on its way to stale — with a much greater sense of loyalty than of hope."

"It’s not your run-of-the-mill CGI film, either: It’s got a message that’s not tied up into some “Full House” brand of morality, but in cultural, societal, and ecological themes. In fact, there are times when Happy Feet is downright gloomy and even a bit psychedelic."

"Overall, Let’s Go to Prison can’t decide what it wants to be — black comedy, tame comedy, or cheeky exposé. What it is successful at is staggering blandness."

"While they manage both to convey many important facts and to engage in some enthusiastic calls-to-action, the feature film treatment of Fast Food Nation is often a confusing, frustrating array of ambitions nearly, but not quite, fulfilled."

• "Heroes" still feels weird. Not as authentically nerdy as this.

• I'd give real money to see the Stars Hollow bloodbath.

• Maybe the funniest thing you will read all day.

• This one's for The Sis:

• Another Parsons classic:

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*decides not to describe his actions in asterisks*

*realizes he's created a paradox*

*implodes*

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Look, man, back off, let me get a gun or something first, okay? Hey, back off, man, I was born in a room with no gun. Don't be cheap, man. Don't cheap me. Just let me get a gun. Hey wait don't shoot me dude — ...

I hate the Caverns anway. I'm more of a Temple man.

Anyway:

Clickety-click.

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Thursday means but one thing:

The Pajiba trade round-up.

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EXT. STARS HOLLOW — NIGHT

LUKE stands before LORELAI and CHRISTOPHER.

LUKE pulls out a GUN from inside his jacket.

LUKE FIRES two rounds into CHRISTOPHER'S CHEST.

LUKE FIRES a third round into CHRISTOPHER'S FACE, killing him. LUKE then turns the gun on LORELAI.

LORELAI is openly WEEPING now.

LUKE SHOOTS himself in the head, crumbling to the ground as the gun falls from his hand.

LORELAI runs to him and cradles the BLOODY REMAINS of LUKE'S HEAD in her trembling arms.

FADE TO BLACK. CREDITS.

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Just about the most beautiful thing you could hope to hear on a Wednesday afternoon.

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Am I the only one who noticed the typeface similarites between the new trailer for For Your Consideration and the works of Wes Anderson?

It's like some subliminal trick to make me like the Christopher Guest movie, when I already like Guest, no tricks needed. What gives, Warners?

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For those of you who would rather be doing anything else besides working. Enjoy.

(Or here's the direct link.)

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I started out this season with reasonably high hopes for "Heroes." Granted, I tend to expect good things from most TV shows or movies, which is on the whole a better way to live; hoping for the best beats expecting the worst every time out. That moment when the lights do down and the curtains part and the trumpets blare: That's a good moment, maybe the best one there is, full of the possibility of a story so good it may not even exist.

I had hopes for "Heroes" because I'm both a geek and a nerd. (A nerd is someone whose intellect has at one point proven a barrier to social interaction; a geek is someone with an unhealthy focus on or obsession over any given band/TV show/created work. The two groups often overlap, but are, indeed, separate groups.) Pop culture in recent years has given rise to a kind of Everygeek, which only means that producers have figured out that there are ungodly amounts of cash to be made from geeks: The X-Men, Spider-Man, and The Lord of the Rings franchises have too many execs looking at the legions of pasty-faces kids you ignored in high school and seeing big, sweaty dollar signs. And the premise of "Heroes" is aimed squarely at the Everygeek's eager little heart: Normal people wake up one day and realize they have superpowers. It seems like a surefire winner.

But, for a variety of reasons, it's not. The dialogue oscillates between horrible exposition and overly ominous warnings about power, bad guys, etc., and it's often painful to hear. There are also the voice-overs, apparently meant to bring an air of gravitas to the series, but the aimless speechifying only makes the show dumber. The same thing happened with "Desperate Housewives," and "Sex and the City" before that: A lead character offering sporadic narration meant to tie together the larger themes explored by the show. It doesn't matter that the voice-overs are senseless, or that they gleefully defy logical flow in favor of such pseudo-meaningful statements as "The world is large" that meander through a few more pointless sentences before petering out.

But the biggest problem is the fact that it's a show aimed at geeks but packaged and sold by soulless TV executives who only care about stories inasmuch as they boost the bottom line. The creator of "Heroes," Tim Kring, seems to be a decent and fairly talented guy, but "Heroes" plays like a story without an emotional center that's trying to coast by on its looks. It feels too forced, as if someone tried to make an overly comic-book show without actually caring about the heart of the tale. The show even has an online graphic novel on NBC.com, which both makes perfect sense and is completely stupid. It makes sense because Kring so clearly wants the show to be a comic book, right down to the chapter titles and stylized captions and endless "To be continued..." title cards. But it's dumb because it's pandering to its own supposed origins instead of trying to live up to them, or even surpass them. "Heroes" has all the right moves, but it still feels fake.

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RS: Your show has thrived during the Bush administration. Will you miss it?

STEWART: I remember people used to say, "What are you gonna do when Clinton leaves?" And I'd say, "I'm really OK not having to make another intern blowjob joke in my life." And it'll be the same with these guys. I'd much prefer these guys to leave than to have to continue to make Lord Vader jokes about Cheney. I have great faith in institutional absurdity.

RS: But wouldn't, say, a President Obama be harder to make fun of than these guys?

STEWART: Are you kidding?

COLBERT and STEWART in unison: His dad was a goat-herder!

STEWART: I'd rather make fun of somebody who is wearing their humble beginnings on their sleeve than somebody who has created a situation where casualties are involved. So the idea that somehow it's easier now — it's not. Because right now it is a comic box lined with sadness.

Read the rest of the interview here, though you'll have to pick up a hard copy to get the whole thing. And you should. It's worth the $5.

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The Cloak of Reluctant Virginity

The Bow of Solitary Weekends (can be paired with the Arrows of Day-Old Take-Out for extra damage)

The Gloves of Masturbatory Furor

The Staff of Going Nowhere Fast With Your 20s

The Helmet of Crap I Wish This Was Real

The Hatchet of Stagnant Career Moves

The Breastplate of Staying Inside A Lot

The Chain-Mail of People Look At Me Funny When I Say "Teh"

The Boots of Dying Alone

The Satchel of Frightening Obsessions

The Wrist-Guards of Chronic Carpal Tunnel (can be counteracted by Gloves)

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I always suspected that my friends who chose more business- and finance-oriented professions had a secret desire to perform. And now I know it's true. Somehow this clip speaks for all of them:

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• The latest reviews:

"It’s smart, without being intellectual. It’s funny, though not hilarious. Droll, but not too self-aware. And it’s a beautiful film. It’s bittersweet and achy and exhilarating and romantic and absorbing and hopeful and optimistic and, truly, it makes me happy to be a critic with so little to criticize."

"Yet, like more than a few anxious suitors, once it relaxes and stops hitting you over the head with its supposed charms, you may find that it’s not such a bad way to kill an evening."

"There’s nothing to recommend in Harsh Times, but oddly, almost nothing original to condemn. The half-cocked redemption angle, the emotional trauma, the sorry ending: It’s all been done before, and better. It’s like Bale himself has said: This confession has meant nothing."

"It’s a thriller without any thrills; a suspenser with nothing suspenseful. It’s one of the most boring films I’ve come across all year and completely fails at the supernatural mystery it intends to be, yet it isn’t really a bad movie, just a thunderingly dull one."

• I'm a master of awkward conversations.

• Making lists is the only thing distracting me from the baby-killing homo-Nazis who've taken power.

• Does anyone else remember Timmy from the Challenge? The last time he did it he had to be on the south side of 30. But get this: Beth is almost 40. Holy crap.

• Hmm:

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Just so you all know:

Be sure to check out the rails on the left- and right-hand sides of the page. The list of CDs currently in rotation has been updated again. Click; browse; expand your hroizons; silently validate me. Also, if you can handle it, be sure to check out the new list of L.A.-centric sites I've got linked on the left, under the map that shows my expanding world domination and the books and such.

That is all. And I promise after this I'll go back to not addressing you directly, and instead just act like I'm writing all this in a void.

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I see Christian Bale, and I don't just see Batman; I see a dopey guy shadow-boxing and singing about moving to New Mexico. I can't help it.

Anyway:

Clickety-click.

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Sis: mmm, cold pizza

me: nice

my roommate thinks i'm an animal for eating cold pizza

Sis: haha

it's good

wolfman and i are eating it

me: awesome

i also will eat brisket right out of the fridge and call it "beef candy"

if my roommate sees me eat cold leftovers, he hangs his head in shame

Sis: haha

that's like dad

he loves beef candy

me: i know

i remember loooooving beef candy when i was teething my wisdom teeth

i would toss a hunk of meat back there and grind away

it felt so good

... and THAT could be the gayest thing i've ever written

and i've written columns about Buffy

Sis: hahahahahahaha

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As always:

The Pajiba trade round-up.

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Now that those God-hating homos from the Wrong Coast seem to have made in-roads into the sanctum sanctorum (sorry, Rick) of the Capitol, it's only a matter of time before the nation falls apart. Word on the street here in sunny Southern California confirms our worst fears will be realized; appearing at a local Trader Joe's, an inebriated Nancy Pelosi stood atop the express lane checkout and announced some of the forthcoming Democrat-supported measures that will be instituted across the country:

• Mandatory abortions for women upon their 18th birthday just to "get them into the swing of things."

• Snack machines in elementary schools to be replaced with condom machines.

• Osama bin Laden to be appointed Secretary of Raping White Women.

• Full apologies to and amnesty for Saddam Hussein, who will be reinstated as ruler of Iraq and also given control of the Carolinas.

• The resurrection of Hussein's sons through the use of cloning technology and stem-cell harvesting from the mentally retarded, who probably won't put up much of a fight.

• Water fountains to be replaced with really snooty-looking coffee stands.

• Forced sodomizing of public officials and citizens who speak out against gay marriage.

• Bibles to be banned; punishment for owning one to include being punched in the balls by atheists.

• Deportation of Southerners to work in Mexican sweatshops.

• French and Farsi to be instituted as dual national languages.

That's as far as she got before gorging herself on mini peanut butter cups and passing out.

We're in for dark times indeed, friends. Dark times indeed.

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Possible Stage Names For My Burgeoning Career In Hip-Hop

Sir Sweatsalot

ComplaCent

Sandwich Killa

A Representative Of The Man Who's Been Oppressing You For Centuries

This Shirt's An XL, Yo

Possible Strip Club Theme Nights That, Upon Reflection, Would Probably Not Be As Enticing As Originally Intended

Hos and Dobros: Exotic dancing set to the mournful strains of alt-country.

We've Got the Beat: The dancers' songs are all replaced with spoken-word recordings of classic poems. Inevitably, one girl uses Ginsberg's "Howl" and collapses from exhaustion halfway through.

Let's All Talk About Our Emotional Problems: Between sets, the strippers present brief monologues that chart the heartbreaking downward spiral of their lives thus far.

Bring a Mormon and Get In Free as a Reward for Your Effort

Emotional Honesty Night: For the price of a lap dance, the dancer will let you stare into a mirror and silently judge yourself.

Horrible Candle Scents

diaper

burnt rubber

chode

wet dog

old people

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I'll admit it: I'm a sucker for "The Real World/Road Rules Challenge." There is absolutely nothing redeeming about the show, and I'm completely okay with that.

I haven't kept up with "The Real World" in a long time, and "Road Rules" was canceled a few years ago, but I'm still an easy mark when it comes to the Challenge. When I was in high school, I would watch MTV's hallmark reality shows and wonder, Is that what people are like in and after college? Once I reached college, it sunk in that the kids on MTV weren't just dumb; they were cataclysmically retarded, the kind of simpering morons who love high school and hate college and barely manage to survive in the adult world with their philosophies of interpersonal relationships cobbled together from selfish desires and a belief in moral relativism and topped off with old reruns of "The Real World": They were living parodies of themselves. That's what makes "The Real World" so pointless now. MTV has stopped trying to pretend that they're doing anything other than recruit seven attractive and deeply f**ed-up young people and forcing them to live in a swanky apartment for half a year and hold down the kind of part-time job that most teens coast through with ease but that never fails to produce headaches for the slope-browed and big-chested denizens of The House.

Perhaps sensing that "Road Rules" lacked the inherent drama of its flagship show, MTV turned the outdoorsy reality program into an elimination-based affair (I think the series peaked around the "Northern Trail" era). Later versions of the show were just shamless attempts to weed out normal people and cull a group of hypercompetitive athletes for the Challenge, which has managed to top itself this time out with "The Duel."

Honestly, the show's so crazy I barely know where to start:

• The women. The women are insane. And not your garden-variety insane, either, the kind of well-meaning crazy that you'll find in most girls (and yes, I often use "girls" and "women" interchangeably, and anyone who thinks that's biased can cram it). These women are full-tilt wackos, and it's awesome. Now that Tonya isn't on the show, having apparently decided to make something of her reality TV fame, the producers have defaulted to Beth as the villain. It's a lazy choice, but somebody's got to be the villain, and it's not like they're gonna choose Paula, the anorexic one. Although Skinny P did look right into the camera after being eliminated in The Duel and say: "This was a duel between me and myself." Right on, sister.

• The men. Oh, the men are frightening. Tall, brooding, bizarrely muscular, relentlessly stupid, and never more than one crooked stare away from starting a fight with the other males. My favorite part is watching these guys be completely honest about their intellectual shortcomings. A lot of the challenges, especially the final game, involve visual puzzles of some kind, which is always when the guys hit a wall or defer to their female partners. This happened a lot on last season's "Fresh Meat," and the best scenes were always where cast member Wes, who's bound to be wanted in a score of frat-related rapes throughout the Midwest, would turn to his partner Casey, a pretty but vapid girl who was recruited to be the fresh meat, and expect her to solve the puzzle. Confronted with horrifying riddles or, God forbid, a tangram, Wes would take a break from calling Casey a "lazy bitch" (which he did a lot) and wait for her to fix things. That kind of unselfconscious neediness, that forthcoming idiocy, is almost endearing. But it's ultimately just watchable TV.

Honestly, what's not to love about the show? Watching the weekly competitions is a chance to zone out completely and watch completely unbalanced people compete for fabulous cash and prizes. Casey used some of her prize money from last season to buy breast implants, which she bragged about in the first episode of this season. Really, how can you not cheer on someone like that?

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Him: I know this isn't the first time we've talked about this. Your methods are becoming a little unorthodox.

Me: Well, excuse me. I guess I'd mistaken you for somebody else.

Him: Pardon?

Me: Somebody who gave a damn. Somebody more like myself.

Him: Again, I don't know what you're talking about, and I find these little cryptic hints you're dropping to be really —

Me: And THEEEEEEESE foolish GAAAAAAAAAAAMES —

Him: Oh, knock it off with the Jewel.

Me: ...

Him: ...

Me: You knew what I was doing?

Him: Yeah, and I knew last time, too, with the Lisa Loeb. Hadn't heard that song in a while. What's she even up to now?

Me: Wait, wait. I'm supposed to sing, and it's supposed to be awkward, so then people will read about it and ask me later if it really happened, or maybe they'll just compliment me on my quirky uniqueness that isn't even that quirky and certainly not unique.

Him: So this is all some elaborate set-up?

Me: Yeah.

Him: Well, then, why do you do it?

Me: It's a confidence booster. I'm the eldest child. It's a long story.

Him: Well, knock it off.

Me: Your thoughtless words are breaking my heart. ... You're breaking my heart.

Him: ...

Me: ...

Him: Are you quoting now, or was that for real?

Me: I don't know. [Stares off into distance.] I just don't know.

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• The latest reviews:

"(God's) jealousy was provoked by man’s ambition, and it’s not entirely bad that González Iñárritu is attempting to reclaim that sense of drive and scope, to build a tower high enough to make sense of the world below him. If his attempt somewhat fails, perhaps it’s enough that he tried."

"The resulting faux-documentary … is a stunning success, the kind of extreme satire that aims for the gut and skewers any and all that cross its path. It’s also, I should repeat, the funniest movie you’ll see all year."

"The energy of Flushed Away doesn’t leave a lot of room for much emotive response to the characters, as with a Pixar flick, but there’s enough to make it more than mindless entertainment; think of Chicken Run amped up a lot."

"Also along for the ride are Santa’s ex-wife and her new age suburban hippie husband, played by Judge Reinhold(!). I’m pretty sure the ex-wife and her husband have some sort of back story, revealed in either one of the two previous films, but I haven’t seen either and — unless I’m looking to induce a coma — I don’t ever plan to."

• I'm completely okay with it if any of you disagree with my opinions on "Studio 60," but since (a) I run this place, and (b) there are plenty of other places you can go on the interwebs, I'm probably going to ignore comments that attempt to limit what I do or don't write about. Also, I'd hardly call any of the "Studio 60" entries long-winded. Then again, I love DFW, so my perspective could be skewed. But I doubt it.

• In honor of craptastic horror films, I've decided to work with human remains.

• The Piv: He's everywhere.

• Because you've got the time, and you need to watch these videos:

In honor of the feature debut of Borat, I once again present the greatest Borat segment ever:

A great clip from the season premiere of "Battlestar Galactica." It might be the only time the sky over New Caprica was actually blue:

And, what the hell, a classic. This year, I'm gonna ask Santa for a blonde sex robot who lives in my brain and brings me messages from God. If anyone reading this would like to go ahead and buy me one, that'd be fine, too. I would never need another present:

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(See the first three installments.)

Singles (1992)

• I'm calling the movie "weird" to fit in with this random little set of ramblings, but a better word would be "awesome."

• I'm fascinated by movies from the early '90s. It's like somehow the era gets overlooked; it's not recent enough to be culturally relevant, and it lacks the kitsch factor of the '80s. But any movie where they guys and girls both have long hair and ripped jeans is okay by me.

• Singles also is a shameless attempt by writer-director Cameron Crowe to latch onto the Seattle music scene. Pearl Jam plays Matt Dillon's band. It's also got Alice in Chains and Soundgarden. It feels like Crowe bought "Gen X for Dummies" and set about to make a movie. And it'll blow your mind.

• Jeremy Piven has a pretty fantastic cameo as a drugstore cashier, but he's easily topped by two appearances that are far more amazing: (a) Victor Garber, sporting the porniest mustache I've ever seen, and (b) Paul Giamatti playing one half of a young couple shamelessly making out in a coffeeshop. Paul Giamatti. It's worth renting just for that 10 seconds.

• Was Kyra Sedgwick really ever hot enough to play a female romantic lead? She's got a squint horseface and tiny teeth. It's hard to believe no one ever called her the Nibbler.

• The Nibbler hooks up with Campbell Scott, who is probably way too talented to even be in this movie.

• Eric Stoltz as a sarcastic mime. Enough said.

• Whatever happened to Bridget Fonda? She was all over the place 10 years ago, and now nothing.

• This movie is maybe the only time Cameron Crowe wrote a movie without whoring himself out soundtrack-wise. The music is never overdone, and works to complement the scene without overshadowing it. It's completely un-Crowe.

• The Xavier McDaniel fantasy sequence could be one of the funnier things Crowe's ever done.

• Bill Pullman plays a plastic surgeon who's supposed to be 33, though he's clearly 40. And Fonda is 28 and acting 23 and is emotionally 19. And they almost hook up.

Anyway, I'm young, and would love it if anybody else had good suggestions for other good early-'90s Gen X-ish movies, especially ones that have been forgotten. Basically anything with a flannel shirt over a Mossimo T-shirt will work.

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Amazingly funny:

Clickety-click.

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Thursday means:

The Pajiba trade round-up.

And does anyone else remember when "The Daily Show" used to do T-Hers-days on Thursdays? It was all about the ladies. Jon Stewart would dim the lights and play Barry White. It was awesome.

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Dear Sirs and Madams,

Shut up and learn to think for yourselves.

So I made a joke. So what? Are you really so stupid that you don't know what I meant? Are you going to be led like cattle by the cruel and arrogant asses running the country? Do you really believe I bear any kind of ill will toward our fighting sons and daughters, who are giving their lives nobly for an unjust cause?

I had my war. If nothing else, I have earned a right to speak on behalf of the thousands of dead soldiers and civilians who can no longer make their own voices heard. When I remarked that college kids today need to study or they'll end up in Iraq, I meant that education is the only guarantee for having viable career options. Do you really think I consider our troops to be stupid? You know better than that. And what's more, you agree with my comments: Not a one of you wishes for your child, your brother, your sister, your lover, to be sent to Iraq. Tell me you do, and I'll call you a liar.

This letter may come as a surprise to many of you, but I've decided that late really is better than never. It's time to sack up, as they say; to strap it on and get it going. My weakness two years ago stemmed from my desire to win at any cost, to impress you, to make you think I could become all things to all people. But I can't, and I won't. It's time for you to stop believing the lies and start thinking for yourselves. Learn from my mistakes, please. The stakes are higher than you know.

Thank you for your time.

I remain your faithful public servant,

Sen. John Kerry, D-Mass.

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This is your life, and it's ending one moment at a time:

Clickety-click.

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I haven't been able to stop watching Brian Atene.

I posted the video a couple days ago, but here's another link. It's easily the best video to ever hit YouTube. Screw OK Go, screw trailer mash-ups, screw Brokeback parodies.

Brian Atene rules them all.

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Sis: i'm pushing for a biz centerpiece on a business that cleans out skulls

hehe

some of the pictures are seriously just rows of human skulls

me: awesome

AWESOME

Sis: yes

they have some freaky pictures on the exhange

like gross. we don't want people throwing up on the paper

me: haha

Sis: man, what if that was your job?

the company takes human and animal skulls, strips them of tissue, sanitizes and sells them

me: i'd hire a big guy and make him wear a zippered mask like the gimp in Pulp Fiction. i'd point to him and say "percy brings in more skulls than any other employee"

and it would freak people right the crap out

Sis: hahahahaha

percy?

me: i don't know

it's a creepy name

Sis: haha

me: especially for a GIANT IN A ZIPPER MASK

Sis: i laughed out loud and then my boss walked up

love it

now i can't stop giggling

me: haha

awesome

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In honor of Halloween, when normal girls dress slutty and slutty girls wear things that blow you away; when kids run wilder than normal; and when there's nothing better to do than tossing back a cold one and watching a truly awful movie; in honor of all that and more, we present the following:

Pajiba's Favorite Craptastic Horror Films.

Eat up.

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I know, I know: Most of you think I should lay off "Studio 60." But let me reiterate that I'm not out to bash the show, which I still think is better than most other programs on the air (it certainly beats people yelling at briefcases). It's just disappointing that the show is having trouble finding its voice. Granted, it could likely find it in time; "Seinfeld" wasn't even "Seinfeld" until its third season or so, all Chinese restaurant trips aside. But TV is a horribly numbers-oriented business, and I'm afraid NBC execs aren't willing to let shows grow anymore. But anyway:

Somebody a lot smarter than I am figured out that all great dramas have three players. Whether it's two men and the woman between them, or any one of a dozen other stories, the three players can ultimately be boiled down to two opposing forces and the conflict that defines their relationship. That conflict is a vital thing, since it drives the characters to interact and influences their decisions, while also acting as its own storytelling element. Aaron Sorkin's first show about TV, "Sports Night," has this in spades, and it's another in the list of things missing from the new "Studio 60" that, if things continue unabated, will keep the latter show from reaching the heights of the former.

"Sports Night" dealt with a sports news show on a third-rate cable net that was constantly trailing Fox Sports and ESPN in the ratings. From the get go, the producers and anchors struggled to do their show while putting up with interference from their corporate owners. Sorkin set the tone in the show's second episode, "The Apology," in which Dan Rydell gets a slap on the wrist from corporate after supporting the legalization of marijuana in an interview with Esquire. Sorkin's druggy moralizing aside (and believe me, I'll get to that another time), the episode highlighted the opposition between the heartfelt aims of the creatives and the ratings-oriented world of the corporate chiefs, and the role that executive producer Isaac Jaffe played in mediating the demands of both. For his public misstep, Dan is forced to issue an on-air apology to his viewers, and in the process reveals crucial elements of his emotional backstory. In a series full of great episodes, this one's still one of the best.

The second season upped the stakes, thanks to Sorkin's willingness to let the show reflect some of the offscreen struggles he was having with ABC. The fictional world of "Sports Night" had to deal with a ratings expert, played by William H. Macy, who was hired by the show's corporate owners to shake up the program and bring in more viewers. It was a great story arc precisely because it drove home the conflict that had been brewing since the show's inception. The resulting drama worked because the consequences felt real and immediate.

But "Studio 60" exists in a world without these consequences. The pilot episode dealt with executive producer Wes Mendell's on-air breakdown, and the subsequent hiring of Matt and Danny to turn the show around. Yet after that, things seemed to settle down at the show-within-a-show. Steven Weber's appearances as network exec Jack Rudolph have been sparse at best, and his threats have been rendered toothless by the show's apparent ratings growth (though how a cold open featuring a horrible Gilbert and Sullivan rip-off is supposed to bring in viewers is beyond me). That's the problem: The fictional "Studio 60" is having too much success. There's no conflict, no battle to overcome small odds and big foe to achieve something great. That's not to say "Studio 60" can't or won't change. But with nothing to fight for or struggle against, the show will have nothing to do except revel in its own apparent glories. I'd rather see a good fight than an easy victory.

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• The reviews:

"To work as the historical-political thriller it aspires to be, The Last King of Scotland would require the nearly impossible: viewers unaware of Amin’s atrocities, so that those horrors are revealed to the audience at or near the same moment they’re revealed to Nicholas. As it is, we’re in the position of watching a slasher movie set in a glass house. We don’t have to guess if the killer is standing outside the door — we can see him plainly the whole time."

"But Ryan Murphy ('Nip/Tuck'), who adapted and directed Scissors, apparently didn’t read the same book the rest of us did. Burroughs’ memoir was funny and at times touching, but it never sought anyone’s pity. If you wept while reading it, it was because you were laughing too hard to breathe otherwise. But Murphy must have misread it, because his adaptation not only bastardizes the spirit of the memoir, it deeply disrespects it."

"I admired the performances of Luke, Robbins, and the supporting cast; the cinematography is both handsome and lively; and many elements of South African life, such as the chanting of protesters during toyi-toyi, are used with beauty and expressiveness. Yet never did I feel the full moral urgency of Chamusso’s struggle or the complex set of motives driving Vos; it all remained a bit distant for me. Perhaps this fire is one I’ve just seen burn too many times."

"Saw III manages to improve on its predecessor in both critical terms and as raw entertainment. Theatergoers moved by the spirit of Halloween to sit through a grisly and unpleasant movie will not be disappointed by the buckets of blood and inventive means of human disposal."

I'd like to add on a personal note that I wouldn't see Saw III if it was playing on Heidi Klum's back.

• I'm not outright bashing "Studio 60." I'm just saying, Sorkin's done a lot better.

• "Veronica" is still great, though some seem to dislike my "Gilmore" opinions. Deal.

• I'm really hoping to break 20 comments, or anyway I'd thought the mass hysteria for "Grey's" that's infiltrated the nation's women would at least inspire more responses. Come on, tell me what makes the show so good.

• Kids are stupid. And adults can be even stupider.

• If Colt McCook is out there, he should know that I think of him every time I see Colt McCoy. Also, if I had decided years ago that creativity and the arts were dead-end streets and that my life would be better spent chasing leather up and down a field, I totally would have become a placekicker. Good grief, what an awesome job: You still get the uniform and all the hedonistic perks (read: free hooch and esteem-deprived sorority girls), and you only have to do like 2% of the work. This is maybe the best idea anyone ever had, right after penicillin and carpool lanes.

• I went to school with people who actually liked Rush Limbaugh. They've probably already bred by now, so there's really no stopping them. Which is sad.

• I have no idea if this video is real or not. In favor of its being a fake: YouTube is a notorious breeding ground for crap like this (lest we forget the lessons of LonelyGirl); it's not that hard to shoot something now and make it look 20 years old (even these morons know that); the odds of a kid in the '80s having the foresight and developed sense of irony to make this are somewhat slim; the monologue is waaaay over the top; and why is the clip showing up now, anyway?

Then again, in favor of the video's authenticity: Theater kids can be f***ing wackos. See for yourself.

• Last, but certainly not least: The porcupine race track. Enjoy:

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Comedy Central has finally gone to the mattresses against YouTube. (BoingBoing reacts here.)

That sucks. YouTube was probably making money from the clips, but second-hand, through ads and a hugely inflated sticker price in the Google sale. And Stewart/Colbert clips were probably my favorite part of YouTube.

Screw you guys, I'm going home.

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What a weird show.

Anyway: The Pajiba trade round-up.

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I want every girl that reads this to tell me what's so appealing about "Grey's Anatomy."

Don't forget to sign your name in the comment if you're posting anonymously.

Thanks.

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Be sure to check out Seth's look at TV theme songs in Pajiba's Guide to What's Good For You.

Also, this is worth checking out. Mighty enjoyable for something so short.

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In case it's escaped the notice of even the dullest reader out there, I've got a pretty special place in the black rock I call my heart for "Veronica Mars." Now cruising gamely along in its third season, despite low ratings and a network dumb enough to pair it with "Gilmore Girls" (a show about absolutely, positively nothing at all), "Veronica Mars" is still one of the best shows on TV. But after two full years of exploring high school life, Veronica up and graduated, and is now attending Hearst College. Her matriculation mirrors not just the show's transfer from the defunct UPN to the new CW, but also the fact that the show itself is at a crossroads, namely, the elimination of its premise — high-school private eye — and a gradual change in its mission statement.

This is bound to be a polarizing time for the show's hardcore fans, and it's reminiscent of the similar struggle faced by what some have called the show's ancestor, "Buffy the Vampire Slayer." Granted, I think that comparing any two shows beyond a certain point is unwise, and most people are just linking "Buffy" and "Veronica Mars" out of a well-meaning laziness: Both shows were centered around a strong, flawed, complex female character in high school; both shows placed a premium on witty dialogue and interpersonal relationships; both shows are on low-rated pseudo-networks; etc. But the shows do have their similarites, primarily their ability to explore the hell of growing up through the archetypal lens of high school, the one experience that unites us all in common misery. After its third season, "Buffy" went through the same growing pains now working their way through "Veronica Mars," as Buffy went off to college and the show struggled to find its larger purpose even as its core dynamic was forever altered. More than just having key characters removed and assigned to a spin-off, the "Buffy" universe had to deal with its very own existential crisis: What happens when the teenage superhero starts to grow up?

The show dealt with the inevitable problems the only way it knew how: By pushing through them. The first episode of the fourth season features another pack of vampires led by one of the lamest ringleaders the show ever came up with, but the villain of the week did one thing right: She broke Buffy's umbrella, a symbol of the good work she'd done in high school. It was a crushing, visceral way for the show to proclaim that the times were changing in a big way.

The fourth season, though certainly not a favorite of some fans, nevertheless turned out some great episodes — the experimental "Hush," the crossover "Pangs," the enjoyable one-off "Superstar," the excellent "Fear, Itself" — and, much more importantly, broadened its worldview. College is a world of gray tones next to the starkly defined areas of high school, and Buffy interacted with a greater variety of people with more darkly human (as opposed to demonic) traits, including Parker, who slept with Buffy and never called her again. He wasn't supernaturally evil, just a tool. It was in important step for the show, and one that paved the way for more complex relationships in the characters' collective futures. The fourth season was radically different from the first three because it had to be.

That's the problem, and possible solution, facing "Veronica Mars." The show's first two seasons delved into the dark sides of class warfare between the haves and have-nots of the small town of Neptune, smartly recognizing that cash is the biggest dividing line between the lunch tables in the cafeteria. But university life is rarely that stratified, and the only people who cling to such dated notions of how to define themselves are the jerks who seem to think college is basically Grade 13. "Veronica Mars" is going to have to figure out how to let go of the rich-poor struggle that so often defines the stories.

Veronica used to be a high-school snoop, and but she's going to have to transform into a bigger, more nuanced character to get the show over the tough bumps coming out of two solid years of stories. The show should set about trying to define Veronica in grander terms, like what kind of person does she want to be, in order to work. The central group of characters has been altered — Duncan's gone, Beaver's dead — and the remaining ones aren't what they used to be, none more than Weevil, who's gone from ruthless gang leader to the equivalent of wacky sitcom neighbor in only a few months (seriously, making Weevil the janitor at Hearst was a low blow, especially after offering up the tantaloizing possibility that he might work with Keith). But "Veronica Mars" can and will succeed if it pushes the characters to grow, and if it becomes comfortable with somewhat redefining itself. You don't go back; you go on to the next place, whatever that is.

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I think I should point out that I don't hate "Studio 60 on the Sunset Strip," despite my previous observations of its flaws. It's still one of the better shows on TV, despite the fact that the old Sorkin spark seems to have gone missing. These periodic posts about the show aren't meant to disparage it, but to take a closer look at just where things started to go wrong, to pull it apart in the hopes of putting it back together.

"Studio 60" does have its strengths, chief among them the interplay between Matt and Danny. Sorkin writes good dialogue because he understands how friends relate to each other and is gifted at creating a quicker, wittier, more coversationally nimble way of communicating than the fumbling half-sentences and vocalized pauses that most people use. Like the post-grads of Kicking and Screaming, Sorkin captures the way we wish we talked. This is nowhere clearer than in the endless banter between the men on Sorkin's shows.

On "The West Wing," Sorkin relied heavily on the interplay between Josh, Sam, and Toby, whose rapidly paced conversations lent the show a boys' club air, as if these guys got really carried away at pretending one day and wound up running the country. (Even C.J., for all her intellect and skill, was forever the outsider, and not because she wasn't smart, but because men on their own revel in the strong clique-ish vibe they naturally produce. It's a long story.) But it was Sorkin's first show, "Sports Night," where he had the most success exploring the ups and downs of modern male friendship.

In the truest sense, Casey McCall and Dan Rydell were that show's anchors, giving the stories an emotional center and resonance. Their relationship was the driving force for the show, whether it was dealing with interference from the corporate level, counseling each other about women, or acting as the protective older brothers for everyone else at the show. I could go on about the amazing ways these guys played off each other and dealt with their own faults and strengths with love and humor — the "hip-deep in pie" exchange at the end of "Dana and the Deep Blue Sea" is never less than moving — but the best example was the story arc in Season 2 where Dan struggled with depression and a personal breakdown. Dan and Casey's strained relationship was the most powerful way to upset the balance of the show, to underscore just how high the stakes had gotten. When Dan begins his atonement by leading a seder and apologizing to Casey in "April Is the Cruelest Month," the sense of healing is palpable.

So why bring all that up? Because "Studio 60" is missing some serious man love. Matt's position as head writer and Danny's role as executive producer means they will inherently spend more time apart than any other male pairing in Sorkin's history, and that's bad news. They work at the same place, but they rarely work together. There are precious few opportunities for Matt and Danny to be around each other and riff back and forth on the palpable fun of just being themselves, and that's going to take a toll on the show's chemistry. Casey and Dan wrote together, and the Josh-Sam-Toby team were constantly in each other's offices and feeding off the energy of the group, but Matt and Danny are by their nature separated for most of each episode of "Studio 60," and that will only have negative effects for the show in the long run. Sorkin's men need to be around each other, or else it just won't work.

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• The weekend at the movies:

"Anyway, Katy, clearly unhappy with the situation, rubs some charcoal on her face, dons a cowboy hat, and pulls a 'Twelfth Night' in order to win her mustang back by riding Flicka in the wild horse competition, which leads to an unexpected result: Katy is thrown from the horse, Flicka stomps her to death, and Luke Perry runs in off the set of 8 Seconds and shoots the equine to save the day. Actually, that last part was just in my head, but it would’ve offered a far more entertaining ending than the one we’re given, which involves the reappearance of that mountain lion, a 105 degree fever, and Tim McGraw trying his damndest to convince us he’s weeping."

"Though his heart and head are in the right place, it’s hard to really connect with a film in which the empathy is divided among so many: The soldiers who fought and died, the politicians who used them, the families who found hope and encouragement in them, and the nation that mythologized them, all united by a powerfully ambivalent symbol that, as Eastwood has it, polishes over the truth of the real heroes."

"Nolan has necessarily altered several aspects of Priest’s novel, notably confining the action to a specific time period instead of stretching it into the present day. But he retains the story’s heart, particularly it’s surreal flirtations with the border between illusions and actual magic. Yes, the film is built on deceptions, and yes, it features a series of interconnected twists, but like all good movies and magic tricks, it doesn’t lose any glory in a repeated performance or viewing, only gains it."

"Coppola’s view of Marie Antoinette is historically debatable — other historians continue to take a hard line against her frivolity and lack of real understanding of the French people — but it’s a convincing portrait of a person in distress, thrown into a situation she can’t control and can never escape."

• Down is up, black is white, and dogs and cats are now living together: I like The Sports Guy, and Aaron Sorkin forgets how to bring the funny.

• I act so all the time. So.

• A good piece about a great strip.

• Am I the only one that thinks Tia Carrere got much hotter in the interim between Wayne's World and Wayne's World 2? It's like they hired a new actress altogether.

• Iceman is one murdering bastard.

• "Bend over, Abigail May!" Watch and enjoy:

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I've seen Top Gun a few too many times, but it wasn't until a recent viewing on cable that I realized a powerful truth:

Iceman killed Goose.

It was Iceman's jetwash that played hell with Maverick's plane, causing it to spin out to sea. Yes, we could debate all day about the freak nature of the accident, including the F-14's physics-defying canopy that stayed around long enough to crack Goose's neck but somehow spared Mav's life. But Iceman was the one flying selfishly enough to cut off Maverick and go for the kill shot instead of letting Maverick snag the easy victory, and it was Iceman's sudden maneuvering that led to the accident. It was his selfishness that killed Goose, and instead of owning up to it or at least just letting it go, he kept rubbing it in Maverick's face. Iceman was a douche, and he was the one who should ultimately be held responsible for Goose's tragic, untimely death.

Seriously.

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A good book, a good movie:

Clickety-click.

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Because you know you'll click it:

The Pajiba trade round-up.

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Him: See, this lede is a little too cluttered. You need to trim it, simplify it.

Me: But I thought what I felt was simple.

Him: Well, I understand that, but you need to keep an eye out for things like this. You've been here long enough.

Me: Then I thought that I don't belong.

Him: It's not that you don't belong, you just —

Me: And now that I am leaving, now I know that I did something wrong, because I missed you.

Him: ...

Me: ...

Him: What are you talking about —

Me: YEEEEEEEAAAAAAAAAHHH, I missed you.

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This was, perhaps, inevitable. I had quite a bit of emotional investment in this season's "Studio 60 on the Sunset Strip," having fallen violently in love with "Sports Night" when it aired and having been a similar fan of "The West Wing." I even stuck with "West Wing" through seasons 5-7, or what is better known as The Years That Didn't Happen. Sorkin's latest behind-the-scenes venture, this time at a late-night sketch-comedy show, was supposed to be a return to greatness, a chance for phenomenal programming to once again take to the airwaves, and another show for me to take to my heart. (This season there are only two other shows like that, so it would have been nice to have a third.)

And, well, despite the many issues with the show that I will no doubt address in the future, the show has a major problem: Sorkin can write good, humorous dialogue between characters, but he can't write a funny sketch to sace his life.

Apparently, the fact that Mark McKinney ("The Kids in the Hall") is working on the sketches isn't helping at all. Last week's episode revolved around a purportedly stolen monologue that turned out to be NBS property after all, but no one stopped to think that the speech, which included a bit about dropping Hot Pockets along with bombs, wasn't funny in the first place. Last night's episode featured a cruelly, blatantly, powerfully unfunny Nancy Grace sketch, which (a) you have to really suck to miss the natural humor of an idiot like Grace, and (b) it made the recent Nancy Grace sketch on "SNL" look funny by comparison, which is a startling accomplishment. Still, the worst offense came in the second episode of "Studio 60," when the show-within-a-show's cold open was an abysmal rip-off of Gilbert and Sullivan. More than just typical Sorkinian recycling (cf. "And It's Surely to Their Credit" for a much better use of the music), the sketch was just stupid. Hearing the fictional studio audience laugh and applaud the lame song was almost painful. I sat and watched, unmoved, realizing that Sorkin is still a talented writer-producer, but his best work may well be behind him.

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So, Freddy Fender is dead.

As a kid, I heard the songs of The Texas Tornados on the radio, only it seemed no one else had ever heard of them. I've had the lyrics "Who were you thinking of when we were making love last night? / Was it a good-looking stranger or an old friend of mine?" stuck in my head since I was around 9 years old.

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It may come as a shock to the small but mighty band of loyal readers of this blog that I'm a big fan of Bill Simmons, aka The Sports Guy. The news no doubt comes as a surprise to several guys I went to school with, who must have figured I was gay (I'm not) after I confessed to not giving a single flying crap about pretty much any televised sporting event (which I still don't). But that was more a fault of our environment than anything else — after all, at a college where gay guys in the dorms are often hazed, there's a hunt-and-kill vibe surrounding anything that doesn't match up with the university's subliminal party line that encouraged us to become CPAs, marry Kojies, and move to Plano.

Anyway: I like Bill Simmons, even if I don't follow half the references in the mailbag. I enjoy Simmons' columns for several reasons: (1) He's freakishly pop-culture literate, referencing a host of films and TV shows over the past 30 years, ranging from the obscure to the mainstream. His rundowns of various movies are constantly entertaining, displaying a sharp sense of Gen-Xish humor and a solid mastery of comedic writing. (And as anyone who saw his appearance on "The Colbert Report" knows, performance-based humor and written humor are two different animals.) I also like his opinions on movies for what they are: A kind of critical low-road that's 50% heart, 45% emotional memory, and 5% actual critical analysis. I mean, come on, there are only so many times you can name-check Screech and expect to be taken seriously. (2) He's smart enough to make smarter friends, and enhance his writing through relationships with authors like Malcolm Gladwell and Chuck Klosterman, the latter of whom can write circles around Simmons when it comes to pop culture. (3) Most of all, Simmons brings enough energy, knowledge, and skill to his writing that he's not simply producing a good sports column; he's simply writing a good column, one that happens to be about sports.

However, in recent weeks, as the football season has progressed and I, blissfully unaware, have contented myself with movies and vicarious fantasy-team victories, I've noticed a trend in Simmons' columns, specifically his weekly NFL prediction posts. Namely: I totally identify with his wife.

This is probably the last thing my friends want to hear, but I should explain. In his first predictions column of the season, Simmons related an event in which his wife, who hates football with a passion, managed to consistently pick winners in the weekly match-ups. Simmons wondered: "Can I even pick games better than someone who doesn't know ANYTHING?" (And don't be surprised if that link stops working soon; ESPN is mighty protective of their stuff.) So he added "a wrinkle" to this year's picks columns: He would give his wife a small block of space to let her write a few hundred words on any topic she desired and lay out her picks for the week. His wife, dubbed The Sports Gal in the column, proceeded to write about life in L.A., her distaste for Lindsay Lohan, and her opinions on "The Bachelor." Then she'd list her picks and her season record.

The best part is that she's winning.

As of the Week 6 picks, she's at 40-29-5 for the season, and last week went 5-6-3. Simmons, on the other hand, is 33-36-5 for the season so far, and was 4-7-3 last week. Simmons is infinitely more knowledgable about football than I would ever hope to be, and when it comes to picking winners, he's still getting schooled by his wife, who couldn't care less about the games.

This is good news for me, and a source of certain hope. Here I'd been laboring under the delusion that my friends' passion had over time gifted them with certain abilities when it comes to predicting winners or analyzing games, as evidenced by the constant flow of fantasy-roster speculation that clogs the office. But it turns out that there's no secret, no special trick to doing it. There are no special powers involved. No amount of insight can match the dumb luck you get from drawing names from a hat, or even using the Balki Bartokomous method of picking winners based which mascot would win in a fight.

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• The weekend reviewed:

"Some of these films are quite entertaining; others are utterly pointless but, after you’ve seen enough of them, it’s hard to care which is which. It’s like having a really great meatloaf recipe — no matter how good it is, it’s still freakin’ meatloaf."

"So, yeah: It’s not just a bad political thriller, it is — at times — decidedly grim. In fact, Levinson’s biggest mistake is trying to take the film too seriously by trying to turn it into a dark political statement about election fraud, which is a bit like turning 'Jimmy Kimmel Live' into a statement about feminism — it just doesn’t compute."

"Instead of the kind of stupid film that is wittily self-aware, The Marine comes off like a home-video of pranksters who enjoy dicking around with pyrotechnics. It hardly seemed possible, but any entertainment gained from watching Cena fly away from half a dozen different explosions will be purely incidental. The Marine isn’t fun; it’s just stupid."

"The director hasn’t so much made a leap forward as he has ascended to a slightly higher vantage point from which to observe the woefully complex and ever-shifting relationships that populate modern America. The film is impossible to label, and I can’t get it out of my head."

"Every period of violence and uncertainty awakens our basic human need to connect with another person, but the alienation of a post-industrial society, where so many interactions are virtual, and sex doesn’t even require a partner in the same room, makes such connections more than usually fraught with uncertainty — how can we be sure if another person’s feelings are real, or even if our own are?"

• I've said it before, and I'll say it again: This is one of the best shows on TV.

• I've gotta say, I'm pretty disappointed that no one commented on these song lyrics, or chipped in some of their own. These are some classic tunes.

• A look at Letters From Iwo Jima, which, for my money, could be the more interesting film.

• Hmmm.

• Regardless of your opinions of his style and methods, he's probably the most influential living critic, and it's good to know he's still in the game.

• Again, the best videos of the week:

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I'm pretty sure Kate Winslet is contractually obligated to be naked in most of her movies. At least the sex scenes in this one weren't as emotionally scarring as having Joaquin Phoenix get all freaky with her corpse in Quills.

Anyway:

Clickety-click.

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I'll have the pancakes in the Age of Enlightenment:

The Pajiba trade round-up.

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Sing me one more song about them dusty plains / Them honky-tonk angels and their lonely beehive pain

I've made my bed, so here I'll lie / I'm rollin' West Texas teardrops in my eyes

There's a seat for you at the rodeo, and I've got every slow dance saved / Besides the Mexican food sucks north of here anyway

It's written all over the face of the daughter of the mayor of Marble Falls / When she winds up in Denton town, doing the Valium waltz

There only two things in life that make it worth livin' / That's guitars that tune good and firm-feelin' women

Alison in Galveston somehow lost her sanity / And Dimples who now lives in Temple's got the law lookin' for me

She lived in Berkeley till the earthquake shook her loose / She lives in Texas now, where nothing ever moves

Nighttime would find me in Rosa's cantina / Music would play and Felina would whirl

Well there's floodin' down in Texas, all the telephone lines are down / And I've been tryin' to call my baby, Lord, and I can't get a single sound

I sure do love them red-haired girls / I'm just like all the boys from Texas

A Lone Star State of Mind

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[Permanent disclosure: Any and all TV shows or films discussed here will inevitably contain minor spoilers. Deal.]

I think it was the moment when Leoben the Cylon revealed to Starbuck that her excised ovary had been salvaged and used to create a human/cyborg daughter that I began to understand that "Battlestar Galactica" is one dark, sad show. The sci-fi drama's third season kicked off in high gear on Friday, picking up after last season's cliffhanger pretty much imploded the show's universe by jumping forward a year to show the struggle of the human settlers on New Caprica and the return of the Cylons, who invaded the fledgling colony and established their own rules. The show is simply amazing.

It's nothing new for a series to walk the line between light and dark; ever since "The Sopranos" bowed in 1999, darkness has been in vogue, especially on cable, with "Deadwood," "The Wire," "Rescue Me," "Nip/Tuck," and "The Shield" going all-out to show the inner horrors of the human psyche as their characters fell to impossible depths of loneliness and depravity. But "Battlestar Galactica" is different from most of those shows because it features likable, relatable characters, whereas most of the other series are just crazy for the sake of being crazy.

Take "Nip/Tuck." It's a visually stimulating show, but absolutely pointless. It does dark better than most — Sean's recent drug-fueled hallucination of his personal demon banging his personal angel was attention-getting, to say the least — but the darkness isn't tempered by any kind of genuine emotion. It's not that I want the show to be lighter; I want it to make me care about the characters who are dealing with such hard, dark times. And I don't. Sean is a whiny punk, his wife is a bitter wreck, and Christian is a soulless husk of a man who sees the futility of his ways and doesn't so much refuse to atone as much as he just lets thoughts of atonement drift away like a bad hangover. Let them suffer.

Conversely, the rough road that the denizens of the "Battlestar" universe walk is heartbreaking precisely because the writers, producers, and actors put so much energy into making me care for the characters. The stunning casualness with with Col. Tigh loses an eye serves to underscore the colonists' dire straits, reinforce the image of the Cylons' murderous ways, and instill sympathy for Tigh all at once. The show isn't in a rush to show how dark and crazy it can be, as in the story line on last season's "Rescue Me" when it seemed like everybody was raping everybody just for the hell of it. And "Battlestar" stands in dark contrast to Showtime's new series "Dexter," which is so busy trying to look cool you forget that it doesn't matter who lives or dies; you just don't care.

So many shows are wallowing in pointless vice without having it smack up against virtue, which is what creates genuine conflict and memorable relationships for a series' characters. The physical violation of Starbuck is that much more horrifying because we've already come to identify with her and relate to her, to sympathize with her struggle to balance the coldness that keeps her alive and the love (lately for Anders) that keeps her going. Tigh isn't some cartoon villain, but a man who wants to do right and has a blind spot a mile wide for Ellen, his duplicitous wife, and the series even tempers her acts of betrayal with emotion: She does what she does to save her husband from the Cylons. The plots develop from the spark between people's basest interests and purest intentions, making the darkness something we recognize as our own.

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Today's gonna be like a dream come true for most, if not all, of you oddly loyal readers. Follow this link and go crazy:

Click here a