There's Gold in that there Entourage

If you haven't seen the HBO series Entourage, you can get a taste for it by watching these choice clips on YouTube starring Jeremy Piven as obnoxious agent Ari Gold--the role he was born to play. He certainly paid his dues slaving away in all those sitcoms and movie sidekick roles.

Kiss Kiss So So

I finally watched Shane Black's Kiss Kiss Bang Bang on DVD. When I first saw the trailer in theaters, I was totally turned off. It seemed all smug, no substance. Then I started reading fanboy raves about the screenplay and thought I should give it another chance.

It got off on the right foot with an animated, retro chic title sequence that was supremely tasty. Many kudos to the artists who created it. The first half-hour of the film was pretty irresistable, too, with its irreverent narration and deft, julienne slices of life in L.A. But after the convoluted, "bad '80s TV drama" plot kicks in, it's downhill in a Lamborghini. Too bad, too, since up front it was so promising and all the leads do a solid acting job--from a twitchy turn by Robert Downey, Jr., some nicely subdued stylings by Val Kilmer and some much needed sunshine from Michelle Monaghan.

I actually got just as big a bang out of this animated Motorola TV spot. See how many movie references you can recognize. (Takes about five minutes to load.)

Former correspondent makes dinner of host

I'm worried about Jon Stewart. Now, truth be told, I haven't been watching him that long. I was a latecomer to the genius of The Daily Show, but soon grew very fond of Stewart's wry delivery and hilarious facial contortions. As little time as I've spent with the man, I've noticed a marked difference in him in the last several months. A little more grey in his tousled mane. A little more drawn in the facial region. A little saggy in the sassafras. He's starting to remind me of Bush, Sr. in his second run for office--like his heart just isn't in it anymore.

The ennui is especially noticeable when he does his passing of the baton to Stephen Colbert in their nightly between-show banter. Jon Stewart literally pales in comparison next to rodeo-horse-ready Colbert. It's like watching the old family dog being given the jumping bean treatment by a slathering, wound-up puppy.

As much as I love and admire Colbert's razor sharp schtick, it's sad to see his old boss, the golden boy of sarcasm yore, get all tarnished and tired. Even Colbert's writers seem more revved and revelant, earning more and louder laughter from me than their storied lead-in--a show that stooped to make fun of Stephen Hawking's powers of flirtation the other night. A little too Leno-esque, if you ask me. Ah, well. If nothing ever changed, we'd all be left in the same underwear.

Vintage smart-ass

When asked to use the word "horticulture" in a sentence, famed wit Dorothy Parker replied: "You can lead a horticulture, but you can't make her think."

Summer lovin'

In music news
If I could nominate the official song of Summer 2006, I would pick Corinne Bailey Rae's "Put Your Records On." It's easy, breezy R & B/pop with just the right attitude for dancing despite humidity in a sundress and bare feet. Her new album comes out in the U.S. on June 20. Commercially speaking, she has the bones of Norah Jones and will probably be a big, fat hit. As many times as I've played the song, I never get tired of it. It just makes me grin.

In political news
As much as I hate to pay a compliment to Dubya, his secret trip to Iraq to meet with the new government "eye to eye" was a vitally important gesture. I hope the curfew and other security crackdowns bring some kind of relief.

I also hope the Democratic party can get its act together before the mid-term elections. Sadly, as Bill Maher so cleverly put it, the party always seems to have a way of "wrestling defeat from the jaws of victory."

Speaking of Iraq, my adopted Army soldier gets a two-week leave to visit his family in the U.S. this month. It will take him four days one-way from Iraq to California, via military transport. So eight miserable days traveling for 14 at home. Something tells me it'll be worth it.

In entertainment news
I'm not proud to admit it, but I watched Britney on Dateline. I did feel sorry for her when she started crying about the paparazzi. It must be crazy-making to be stalked by photographers like that. I remember reading that Paris Hilton has been so over-paparazzi'ed, she now hears the whirring/click of the cameras even when she's alone. One thing I can't figure out about Britney is why her country girl accent is more pronounced now than in the interview clips of her at 19. Maybe it's like Madonna's faux Brit-ish accent. Some kind of identity crisis/coping mechanism. I also caught Matt Lauer oogling her prenatal boobage for a millisecond. Naughty boy.

In personal news
Since my last post, Desert Storm and I have e-corresponded about his coming out. We both acknowledged how much our relationship meant to us, as well as how we both toyed with the idea of reuniting over the years. It was touching and sweet and jam-packed with closure. So it looks like I've traded in my "big fag ex-boyfriend" (his words) for my first gay friend. As Borat would say, I like.

In comedy news

This week on The Colbert Report, Stephen took himself on in an argument about Gitmo. He and his writers deserve an Emmy for best comedy sketch deconstructing the Gitmo dilemma. To watch, go to the most recent videos page for his show and look for "Formidable Opponent: Gitmo." Just one more reason to vote Colbert in 2008.

Didn't ask, didn't tell

I feel like I should be sitting on a couch on a daytime talk show set as I write this, but I found out today that Desert Storm is gay. I am not referring to the military engagement, but to my ex-boyfriend who earned the nickname after our short, intense relationship that had many strange after-effects. He was hilarious, handsome, creative and a performer--the latter of which offered a vicarious thrill. We had great chemistry, great affection and great fun--until he did a kind of Jekyll and Hyde routine with bitterness, anger, put-downs and coldness. The worst part was that I bit my lip, and my tongue, and stayed. He had dealt with depression off and on and eventually went on meds while we were dating. I didn't want to leave him when he was down and out. After he started his prescription, he was much nicer to be around. The good parts of him stayed, the bad parts faded. I figured I had it made. Then he dumped me via a phone call litany of my sins against the church of him. Sins that ranged from partly true to exaggerated to outright false. I was crushed and wrote him two righteously angry letters in my defense. My letters caused him to ex-communicate me.

The break-up recovery was the hardest and longest I'd ever been through. Partly because it happened without real warning. Partly because I should have initiated it months before. I was mad at him and mad at myself. He'd let me down, but much worse was the fact I had let myself down. Eventually, strangely, we made our amends about a year later in the mosh pit of a rock concert that we happened to attend separately. He handed me a guitar pick that had been tossed into the audience. It was our peace pipe. I've saved the pick and all his notes and cards and a cool, little handmade collage gift box he made me and still have it all, tucked in a bottom drawer.

We would e-mail semi-annually for a couple of years. Then he surprised me by asking me out, out of the blue. It was one of those moments ex-girlfriends wish for: the offender returns, realizing what he has given up. I hemmed and hawed for a few, well, months, and he finally got the idea that I was leery. While it was tempting to reconnect, it was also tempting fate. The last time I saw him was over a year ago when his band played nearby. We had a nice talk after the show, hugged goodbye and had an awkward parting glance.

So, cut to today when a buddy who is linked into Desert Storm's mutual friend network called. She said she had big news about someone we both knew. I immediately thought, "Desert Storm's getting married." Close, but no cigar. Rather, it was the exit of a closet by my most infamous ex. And while I say gay, I must assume he's really bisexual since he was a true lover of the ladies and quite a lustful lad with me. Gay, bi, straight--whatever. When two people share their lives and their hearts for a length of time, their preferred sexual organs in a partner is really secondary. As long as no intentional deceit or abuse is at work, people are people. Souls are souls.

Did I suspect anything, the daytime show host would ask me about now. Well, he was in touch with his feminine side to be sure. The story he once shared that sticks out in my mind is the time he wanted to dress up as a certain female pop star for Halloween when he was about 11. Very My Life in Pink. And people who knew him casually would sometimes assume he was gay. So it's not a big surprise that he might like to take a walk on the non-hetero side.

The happy ending is that I'm happy for him. Our relationship will always be a little piece of his history, and that's nice to know. The fact that he came out actually helps me get some closure regarding my occasional "what if" musings. After all, the positive parts of that relationship were exactly what I picture the perfect relationship to be: snappy repartee, amazing chemistry, mutual cheerleading and shared creative expression. The negative parts of that relationship, not so much. But I do wish Desert Storm well and hope this will bring some added happiness, pleasure and peace to his life. I hope I can talk about this with him someday. Partly out of curiousity about what was the straw that made the camel Brokeback, partly because I still care. And still love him. And always will.

The shallow and the deep

Watching American History X for the first time was a disturbingly enjoyable experience. Disturbingly enjoyable due to the fact that Ed Norton's physique was incredibly lust-inducing, while his behavior as racist agitator was absolutely revolting. Eddie's perfect pecs aside, it was a solid film. A friend at work tells me the production was an unbelievable mess, but the final product is extremely well-acted, intelligently written and, sadly, still very relevant in its examination of everyday racism in the U.S.

The rest of my weekend DVD viewing included part of season two of HBO's Entourage. I've always enjoyed watching Hollywood jack-asses in action (e.g., Swimming with Sharks, Hurlyburly), so this series is right up my alley for low-maintenance chuckles.

When queue'ing it up on Netflix, I'd remembered that Hedwig and the Angry Inch was a good movie, but had forgotten how good. Basically a non-traditional musical about an "anatomically incorrect" struggling singer from Berlin, it shares the joys and pains of an artistic soul yearning to find his missing half. What's not missing? Wonderful touching (and cleverly expository) lyrics, infectious rock 'n' roll music, hilarious dialogue and brilliant acting by star/director/writer John Cameron Mitchell. Stephen Trask co-wrote the original play and the lyrics.

Here is Hedwig describing the impact that music had upon on him during his troubled childhood:

"Our apartment was so small, that mother made me play in the oven. Late at night I would listen to the voices of the American masters--Tony Tennille, Debby Boone, Anne Murray (who was actually a Canadian working in the American idiom). And then there were the crypto-homo rockers: Lou Reed, Iggy Pop, David Bowie (who was actually an idiom working in America and Canada). These artists, they left as deep an impression on me as that oven rack did on my face. To be an American in muskrat love, soft as an easy chair not even the chair, I am I said, have I never been mellow? And the colored girls sing... doo do doo do doo do doo... but never with the melody. How could I do it better than Tony or Lou? Hey boy, take a walk on the wild side!"

If you need more encouragement to view it, I've also never seen gummy bears used in such an evocative way. Lovely upon lovely.

Warm and fuzzy, new-agey, tree-hugging life philosophy alert!

My weekend was not only about the small screen. It was also about the big picture. As in life and the meaning of it. When I explain this occured at a yoga workshop for women, some may run screaming from the room. Nevertheless.

First off, the teacher paired us up to do a partner exercise where one person made their hand into a fist. The fist was supposed to represent all the hurt, anger and fears in our life--past, present, future. After we made our fist, our partner was supposed to gently try to pull our fist open. I played hard to get and my partner said "Whoa" at the tension of my grip. I finally let her open my fingers. A gimme.

The second step was to make a fist again. This time, our partner was not to pry it open, but instead would gently cup the fist with her two hands and sit quietly. It was such a cool experience, because as soon as she covered my tightened hand with her reassuringly still ones, my fist automatically relaxed. The point here is when we experience the negative parts of life (anger, hurt, fears), we are typically hard on ourselves (making an emotional fist within ourselves). The prying fingers of our partner represent ourselves saying, "Why did you make that mistake? Why didn't you take that chance? Dumbass mofo." and the like. The cupped hands represent how we should handle ourselves with compassion instead (e.g., "Everyone is fallible. What can you learn from this?").

At the end of class, the teacher explained the meaning of "namaste," something that is said in unison at the end of most yoga classes with folded hands and a bow of the head. This teacher explained that the translation means "I am not me." Sounds like a slap in the face to one's self-image, don't it? But on second-thought, it's very freeing. If I am not "me," I can be anything. I can do anything. The things that worry "me" don't have to worry the non-me. The baggage that "I" used to claim can be left to spin on the airport turnstile. "Non-me" is now everywhere and everything. Endless possibilities. I know, I know. Cue the Marlo Thomas music, right?

The teacher left us with the thought that even though this world is in a terribly bad spot right now, we as individuals can have an impact on it. One small kindness or one 10-minute meditation adds one more kindness and 10 more minutes of peace to the world. Can you dig it? If not, I'll dig it for ya.

Peace out? Peace in, baby.

I knew I shouldn't have eaten that granola last week.

pity this busy monster, manunkind

I find it infuriating that a U.S. official would feel no qualms about calling the three recent Gitmo detainee suicides "acts of warfare" vs. "acts of desperation." The detainees in question had previously tried hunger strikes to no avail. According to an NPR news report, since the "war on terror" influx of prisoners, only 10 detainees have had an opportunity to have legal counsel. Over 20 detainees have attempted suicides for a total attempted suicide count of 41 and a few are in comas due to failed drug overdose suicides. Attempted "acts of warfare," I assume.

I know, I know, according the U.S. administration, these detainees are "bad people." Compelling words, no? A kindergarten kid would get that. Although, where is the evidence to convict these bad guys? Why haven't charges been brought against them? Odds are, at least a handful of these people are innocents being held captive behind those walls where a guard breakroom once allegedly featured a poster of the smoking World Trade Center with the headline, "Are you in a New York state of mind?" Human rights and the Geneva Convention brushed aside with a Billy Joel lyric. Now that's an act of warfare even an uptown girl should recognize.

Project Meltaway

Despite being home sick from work on election day, I de-pajama'ed in time to make my way to the polls. I not only enjoyed the pleasure of participating in the democratic process, I also enjoyed the attentions of a flirtatious 70-year-old polling place volunteer. See, there are rewards for doing one's civic duty.

And speaking of civic duty, I fulfilled my self-imposed moral obligation of seeing Al Gore's documentary An Inconvenient Truth. It was a nicely crafted piece that simplifies the global warming dilemma into bite-size pieces of information, nicely couched between personal moments and philosphies of the man who should've been president. Al comes across as a southern gentleman who justs want to make sure his guests (the world population) are aware that their sloe gin fizzes (growing carbon emissions) are about to fizzle out (alter life as we know it). It's an alarming situation, but not entirely hopeless (if we hurry up and change our bad habits). I heard that the film had made the top 10 list for the weekend box office results, which is reassuring. Big ups to all who realized that Al's PowerPoint presentation was important enough to project on the silver screen (director David Guggenheim, producer Laurie David, etc.).

As my friend P-girl and I exited the theater wide-eyed and anxious to list the ways we were doing our part for the environment, I mentioned that I turn off all the abandoned desk lights that I pass on the way out of work each night. Just after P-girl and I stepped into our respective theater restroom stalls, the lights in the restroom went out for a few seconds--leaving us in tiled darkness. "It wasn't me!" I called out to her through the shuttered stall door. She laughed. You can't plan that kind of comedy kismet, my brethren.

The web site associated with the film is climatecrisis.net. Pay it a visit if you are inspired to see what you can do to keep our biosphere from going belly up.

And if you need distraction from the environmental brouhaha (and I know I do), rest assured that Project Runway Season Three will hit the cablewaves July 12--regardless of worldwide glacier demise. Talk about a perfect storm.

Spelling it like it is

I didn't expect to experience an epiphany while watching the National Spelling Bee competition on TV the other night, but when one of the finalists got this word, I did.

From Merriam-Webster's online dictionary:

Welt·schmerz
Pronunciation: 'velt-"shmerts
Function: noun
Usage: often capitalized
Etymology: German, from Welt world + Schmerz pain
1 : mental depression or apathy caused by comparison of the actual state of the world with an ideal state

"Hey, that's what I've got!" I said to myself. I've been weltschmerzed without even knowing it!

Appropriately, my next movie outing will be to see the Al Gore vehicle An Inconvenient Truth. Something tells me it's going to be a big popcorn tub full of Weltschmerz, but I've got to vote with my movie ticket and do my civic duty by sitting through the bad news. Fortunately, my friend P-girl and I plan to drown our global warming sorrows post-viewing with a couple of cocktails at the conveniently adjacent theater lounge. Maybe I'll ask the bartender to concoct a drink in honor of the event. Make it a Weltschmerz, straight up (we've got enough melting ice in the world, thank you very much.)