The Oscars Are Garbage

Human Waste

The BCS is the most overrated time of year.  Not too distantly unrelated, is the time of year when the Oscar Nominations are announced in late January or some shit.  Admittedly, I’m a sucker for Academy’s annual announcement.  Year after year I suffer heartache and depression from my hopes for small films being stomped on by the Forrest Gumps and Titanics that surreptitiously win voter’s approval.

Regardless, I’m there, waiting by whatever wired-in medium I need to hear/read/see the list of the names of films in contention for Oscars. You can tell how the Oscars are going to play out just by taking a look at the film with the most nominations.  It’s almost always a given that that film will walk away with the most awards, and maybe just a loss or two in cinematography, editing, sound effects… etc.

Then there’s an anomaly like Titanic.  James Cameron’s epic shit-pile was nominated for 14 awards in the 1997 Oscars, and walked away with a Ben-Hur tying 11 wins.

So it was with great disappointment that I read a headline this past week stating that The Curious Case of Benjamin Button had been nominated for 13 Oscars.  “Fuck it.  Fuck-it-all.” I said to myself.  I couldn’t put myself through it again.  I didn’t even bother to look at the entire list of nominees… until this morning.

I saw The Dark Knight more than once just like everyone else.  It’s an inferior film to its older brother Batman Begins.  Sure, Heath Ledger was terrifying as The Joker; I thought I was watching him die on screen.  Could those geeks look someone in the eye now and say that he was deserving of a Best Actor nomination like they did upon the film’s initial release?  I’ll give him the nod for Best Supporting Actor, but what in the son-of-a cock is Tropic Thunder doing anywhere near the Oscars?  Robert Downey Jr. has become the undisputed leader of the media darlings.

That whole Best Supporting Actor category has become one big clusterfuck.  Josh Brolin has about as much charisma as Peter Mansbridge‘s pecker.

That’s all I’ve got, sorry for the lack of posts lately.  I be working like a dog in me other writing ventures.

The silence is broken once again dear reader.

__________________

SL

Dirty Harry Hits the Burbs, The Wrestler Is Sad On More Than One Level

Clint Eastwood is mad as hell.  Clint Eastwood is racist towards Chinese people.  Clint Eastwood doesn’t like clergymen that are young, and he sure as fuck doesn’t like drinking with strangers.

This is all according to the trailer for Gran Torino, opening everywhere tomorrow.

I’m not sure what to expect from this film.  On the one hand, it looks like Clint Eastwood, a disgruntled Korean War vet, goes all Mr. Miyagi on a young boy who tried to steal his car.  He makes the boy wax the car and shit, he receives gifts from the kid’s family, he even drinks beer with them.

What lies beneath Clint’s “respect your elders” message is a one-man war on anyone in his neighborhood that isn’t white.  Yeah, Dirty fucking Harry is taking on gangs with a shotgun and some boots to the face.

Know this:  I see a lot of old people everyday, but none of them strike the fear of God into a man the way a one-liner from a 78 year-old gun-toting Republican can.

I took in Darren Aronofsky’s The Wrestler last weekend, and I was left somewhat disappointed.  I believe everything Aronofsky touches turns to gold (I loved The Fountain, and I’ll kill you if you slam it), but this time around there was a lack of breadth and depth that we can usually count on from him.  Mickey Rourke was excellent as Randy “The Ram” Robinson, and Marisa Tomei showed her acting chops as well, but the film ultimately failed to reach beyond a simple sad tale of a washed up icon.

It works well as an accurate account of the darker side of wrestling and the toll it takes on a person’s body and mind, but suffered from a predicatable ending.  Not bad, but not great.

SL

Battles With Billy, Bands, and Uncle Ted’s Legacy

What’s on Billy Corgan‘s bookshelf? Oh I don’t know, maybe some Dostoyevsky, some Philip K. Dick, and definitely all of the Twilight books.

Was his feeble cry for sympathy an attempt at making 2008 a really really sad year?  Billy bud, your best piece of music was released over 15 years ago.  Then you went and followed that up with a bloated double-album and shed your hair.  It was over when we realized that the girl in the band wasn’t actually singing; it was you all along wasn’t it?

So here are a few albums (in no particular order) that made 2008 rock for me:

1. Blitzen Trapper – Furr
2. Wolf Parade – At Mount Zoomer
3. Beck – Modern Guilt
4. Deerhunter – Microcastle
5. Hayden – In Field & Town
6. Stephen Malkmus – Real Emotional Trash
7. TV on the Radio – Dear Science,
8. Why? – Alopecia
9. The Dodos – Visiter
10. Blood on the Wall – Liferz

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It’s officially over between me and Rogers.  Here is a transcript of the latest battle between yours truly and Accounts Receivable:

Me: Why is there still $44.00 in extra internet usage charges, and why was I billed for the month following my disconnection?

Rogers: Do you know what bandwidth means?

Me: Never heard of it, enlighten me.

Rogers: We calculate all information sent and received by your modem.

Me: I think my modem was compromised, do I still have to pay?

Rogers: Let me check, please hold.

Me: Hold my ball-sack

Rogers: Pardon Sir?

Me: Hurry back.

Rogers: (2 minutes later)  If your modem was compromised then you don’t have to pay it.  Are you saying your modem was compromised?

Me: Where the fuck is Ted, I want to take this to Ted.

Rogers: I’ll log it as compromised, you don’t have to pay that charge sir.

Me: What about the extra month you billed me for, I don’t want to pay that either.

Rogers: You didn’t notify us within 30 days of your disconnection, so that is an eligible charge.

Me: Eligible for what, parole?  I’m not paying that, no one told me to notify you.

Rogers: No one told you that you had to notify us within 30 days?

Me: That’s what I’m saying.

Rogers: Oh ok, then we can remove that as well.  Anything else today sir?

Me: Goand.

Rogers: Pardon Sir?

Me: Go-and.

Rogers: Go and what sir?

Me: Fuck yourself.