Please, please, Liz, don't be caught dead wearing Ed Hardy

For the love of all that is ho....famous, what the hell is Elizabeth Taylor doing? George Carlin just died, she is gravely ill, these things always happen in threes. Apparently she wanted to visit an Ed Hardy store, which is certainly the death of fashion and general common sense. Ergo, Liz wants some Grim Reaper time.

Don't do it Liz. We forgive you for Reflections in a Golden Eye which Marlon Brando still rolls in his grave from, and "dating" Michael Jackson. Your work in AIDS Research and Cat on a Hot Tin Roof assure you a place in heaven. But if you're seen being wheeled around Glendale wearing any of those Christian Audiger monstrosities, then we know you are lost and given up all hope. Run away from the light! Feel lucky that I can't run any Photoshop programs where I have you wearing one of his blingy smock/hat combos or whatever swag they throw you.

Should I rename this blog "Oh, the Humanity"?

OUR INTENDED PURPOSE

Eh, probably not. But I am continually noting the minutae of human-overload type circumstances that are pissing me off frequently. In the context of the museum, I can accept it as a part of what is a public service, which is to be tolerated in a humorous way. But my Sunday forays of musical Escape-ism in Dupont Circle are somewhat sacred, and spiritual, and not to be interfered with. Unfortunately, Dupont Circle, being such a hive of activity these days has gotten to the point of over-saturation.

This past Sunday, June 1st, found our modestly amplified unit unintentionally competing for space with
Yellow-Shirted Scientologists in a tent, handing out flyers.
Red-Shirted "Make Hip Hop Not War" kids, activists, whatever they are, with full PA blaring, hyping and hollering horribly in what I felt was unwelcome deja vu of the DJ i heard the night before. How unneccessary! From the fountain, they had their speakers pointed west, but at one point someone turned a speaker to the east side of the park, directly at us. Immediately, to the shock of my cohorts, I brazenly stepped to the amateur edu-tainers and demanded they turn the speaker west. They complied, and I was hailed for my heroics of good taste. Playing resumed.

Today's visit to DuCi was marked by the handing out of re-usable shopping bags, courtesy of MLB, promoting the All-Star Game. I no longer collect such "Collectors Items" and already have several re-usable bags from Whole Foods, which don't get used enough. Will this mass-marketing target campaign at this locale ever end?

Scary Movies are Dead

Not nearly as scary as Helicopter Zombie.

(Starting out again in John McCain Mode)
My friends...I've been to 'Nam, I've been to Congress, look at my wife...I've seen some scary shit. What's left of Hollywood doesn't scare me. {cue applause}

Perhaps it's the socio-homogenization of our culture that Hollywood, seeking to emulate and/or please makes a weak movie. Maybe there are no true emotions left to tap that we are left with sheer amplitude, of reaction that has replaced fear.
Boy am I jaded, and misogynistic. Probably a few of you chose to see Cloverfield expecting it to be just another Day Of The Douchebags. You'd be right.
Quite frankly, Hollywood should stick to Jud-Apatow projects until he's completely drained of ideas because he may be the last screenwriter who understands how people talk. The necessity of disaster films post-9/11, either by replication of the actual event, or emulation of the experience of the camera-wielding hipsters running through crumbling skyscrapers is a pertinent question.
One thing they did get right. In the midst of an impending apocalyptic frenzy, one's first priority should be to preserve the lives of as many pretty girls as possible. Gotta repopulate the planet, right? Or space station...Area 51..whatever you got.

Who hasn't done a Tom Waits Cover in their life?

Jezebel has compiled the majority of reviews for Scarlett Johansson's album of Tom Waits' more obvious and accessable cover material. I think, considering the increasingly shorter chances of consistent cinematic success, it's a good career move. Obviously she wants some kind of hipster cred, and crappy non-pixar films and countless magazine covers don't get that done.

My review after one song: "Her voice is flat, unlike her AMPLE BOSOM!!!!"

Paying one's respects to a departed artist

Robert Rauschenberg, recently deceased, is one of the great American Modern artists of our time. Within the medium of which we view his art, in museums, galleries, etc. it would not be appropriate to pay our respects like one would do so in the streets. Say when John Lennon, and Kurt Cobain died, there were public vigils, candles lit, flowers, pictures and memorials laid out.
In a museum if you lay anything before a piece or try to slip a note underneath, you'd be hauled and and charged with vandalism.
So today, I propose a new tribute. If you are in proximity to an artist's works, as I was today, write him a little note, like so:

Respect.

Black Sheep, within & out

One month into the DVD release, 5 months after the theatrical release, WALK HARD looks to be a moderate failiure. Although I found the self-referential nature of it's bio-typical jokes distracting, it did not ruin the joke for me. John C. Reilly gives it his all, great performances throughout, but once the genre references are plundered, it's time to die.

My favorite moment in the film, naturally is the lampooning of the greatest moment of musical self-indulgence in rock history: Brian Wilson's recording of what became the Modern Suite "Smile". Dewey Cox enters this phase of intense self examination with "Black Sheep". This could not have been accomplished so accurately without the input of Brian Wilson's original collaborator VanDyke Parks, who teamed with Walk Hard's Musical Director in the film.

The directors cut of the film greatly expands on the recording session scenes where Cox is determined to unload the pain in his heart, but gets carried away with grandiose production values. However, the key is not in the exotic instrumentation, but in the song itself. Let's look at the words, as they tell of Dewey's guilty conscience, having accidently halved his talented brother with a machete when they were young boys.

Black Sheep, Black Sheep
Me!
I wasn't dreaming
Barely awake
Up to the grinder we stroll

Not just a fleecing
Spilling his will
Half of the kill
Vanishing memories of paradise Til
What do I care?
I'm in a field serene
Miles and Miles of solid green
Oh, to feed the flock, is a love to dream

At first, Cox identifies with the sheep, walking impassively to slaughter, but his sheep knows his fate in detail. It will not be the ritualistic bloodletting, but a cartoonish halving. Perhaps the writers had some bestial inclinations, but wisely withdrew them. Still, Cox feels a sheep's life cycle to be not such a bad one of pastoral grazing.

I just close my eyes
When I fantasize
Much to my surprise
I'm just half the size
That I used to be
Bye Bye White Brother
This Black Sheep got a role

I just open up
Like a catacomb
Though my heart is halved
I'm the half that's home
For the Life of me
Bye Bye Pastures of Plenty
I don't know where I will go

This is clearly LSD-influenced. His soul is opened up so the two halves of Cox are exposed, the white half, his departed brother. On the verge of a death trip, Dewey, the black fears Hell awaiting him.

Black Sheep, Black Sheep
The Fields are in harmony
Half is unsung
Now that the blade has been swung

Black Sheep, Black Sheep
The two were inside of me used to be
one Sheep, Black Sheep Me!

Dewey's separation from the idyllic unity of the universe is what he is sorely grasping for. He longs to be a part of the flock, but his soul is brutally separated by the ominous machete blow.

I'm losing my fleece from trying
I'm losing no sleep, I'm dying
Why shouldn't I keep from frying?

One spot in the universe
One spot on the sun
Just as the day has begun
I'm counting the clouds today
I'm starting at one sheep
Black Sheep Me!

The mania gathers steam, at first in a fruitless frantic scramble for survival and dignity. But if every sheep had a will, certainly it would object to being shaved of it's fleece, and eventually cooked in a frying pan.

In the end, we are tiny organisms on a tiny planet, marching to an unseen deity. Why shouldn't we ponder our place in the universe, knowing we will eventually vaporize? All that is left is to examine our plane of existence, count the clouds, the stars, the sheep...anything...before we succomb to sleep and pass into another dimention.

UPDATE:5/29
Although the Bonus Feature DVD has a mini-documentary dedicated to the collective songwriting effort of all contributors, there's nothing about Black Sheep. Nothing. However, there is an alternate acid trip scene, using more traditional psychedelic effects and a "Tomorrow Never Knows" style mash up of Black Sheep. Quite disappointing, just shows I'm completely weird.