Hot Tub Time Machine (2010) **½

There were certainly some laugh-out-loud gags, and fun cameo/supporting cast choices (particularly the meta choice of Crispin Glover as a bitter bell hop), but for the most part: tired plot, tired homophobic and sexist humor and characterizations, and an utter lack of creativity in utilizing the time travel premise. And the most cloyingly conventional and predictable resolution ever. This movie gives us one gift: a prominent role for Clark Duke, who plays 20 year-old straight man to a bunch of sad-sack 40-somethings. I'll look forward to seeing his career develop.

Super Bowl 2010 Commercial Wrap-Up

This year the theme of the Super Bowl commercial spots seemed to be: "Men need to reinscribe our dudeliness because women are threatening our masculinity."

Example 1: A Dodge Charger commercial in which a blank-expressioned (almost lifeless) man lists off the ways in which he compromises himself (presumably for his woman), i.e. "I will take off my socks before bed, I will clean the sink after I shave, I will listen to your opinions of my friends, I will listen to your friends' opinions of my friends, I will put the seat down," etc. as long as this allows him to (animated, forceful language) "drive the car I want to drive!"

Example 2: A FloTV commercial tag line: "Change out of that skirt, Jason" after suggesting that his girlfriend has "removed his spine" !!

Example 3: In the Dockers commercial, a huge group of men are wandering around in their underwear proclaiming, in unison, "I wear no pants!" Then the ad copy and announcer command men to "Wear the pants" again. This was a very tame version of the revolting print ad component of this campaign, which implores men to "step away from the salad bars" and from their lattés, blaming our "genderless society" for the broken state of our civilization. (Click the ad for a larger image.)

The most politically incindiary of the bunch, of course, was the much-publicized spot from the right-wing Christian advocacy group Focus on the Family featuring NFL player Tim Tebow and his mother sweetly recounting the difficulty she had in pregnancy and the "miracle" of his birth, insideously reinforcing the organization's anti-choice stance.




Unfortunately, Planned Parenthood's response to the Tebow ad wasn't funded enough to air during the big game, but it's nicely done, and you can check it out right here, all you miracle children!



What alarms me most about the Tebow ad, and also about the counter ad by Planned Parenthood, is that the word "abortion" is never mentioned. It reminds me of the confusingly tame ads against Prop 8 that didn't discuss the concept of "gay marriage" or "same-sex marriage," only referred vaguely to "equality." The American public needs to be challenged to talk honestly about issues. We don't need to be fucking spoon-fed euphemistic pablum. This is the same sort of short-sighted politicking that allows the "debate" about health care to be hijacked by people who liken a nationalized health plan to Nazism.

PS - I hope Tim Tebow comes out.

Where's Che?

For a good couple years now, Astrid, DJ, and I have been playing a game called "Punch Che," in which we get to hit each other in the arm whenever we come across someone wearing the iconic image of Che Guevara. It's basically like "Slug Bug" 'cept the entire point is mocking people for buying into the unintentionally ironic marketing frenzy around one of history's most notorious leftist revolutionaries. I'm not a Che-hater, though being a pacifist, it's hard to get me behind the tactics of guerilla warfare (okay, a punching game doesn't count as violent; we're all consenting to being slugged.) It's not a criticism of Che, it's a game making fun of the absurdity of all the lily-white hippy kids who have no fucking idea what Che did or what he stood for wearing his image. Extra points for Che-wearing white kids with dreadlocks.

OK, so, on Sunday, during the insanity of Pride on Market Street right outside the posh Zuni Café, where Astrid, Giddy Girl, and I stopped for a very bougie bloody mary, and after running into my high school English teacher, who is a dyke, no less, at the bar, I spotted someone in a run of the mill Che t-shirt, and got to punch Astrid.

Then not five minutes later, another dude walks by with a Che t-shirt, this time the Argentine agitator emblazoned, tattoo-style, on the bicep of the equally recognizable popculture icon Homer Simpson. My brain broke, and I burst out in uncontrolled, tearful laughter at the sight of it. I'm sure many of you have seen Che's image mashed up with Homer before, but I guess I'd been under a rock. The brilliance of that many layers of irony packed together into a gimmicky t-shirt was just overwhelming to me.

Nipple-portrait of Lincoln

Wanda Sykes at the White House Correspondents' Association Dinner. Some pretty great material. It's interesting to notice the moments when the audience is really uncomfortable. The crowd bristles at the idea that she would encourage her kids to ride in a car with a stranger instead of Dick Cheney since he's such an avid defender of torture tactics. She's right on the mark.

Andy Hallett, In Memoriam

Andy Hallett, who played Lorne, part of the Angel Investigations team, died on March 29, 2009. He was only 33 years old. He'd had known heart disease since the series wrapped, and he hadn't been acting much in the last five years. Check out the Boston Globe obituary. Rest in peace, Andy.

Joss Whedon with Andy Hallett as Lorne.

Tilda Swinton is poly!

Is this news to anyone? I had no idea. It's fucking awesome. I love it when actors/celebs whose work I love turn out to have common political or social values with me and are outspoken and unapologetic about it. In this case, Tilda Swinton, English actor-extraordinaire, is in a relationship of almost 20 years with Scottish artist John Byrne, with whom she has two kids, and is also shagging a man she's "become very fond of," German artist Sandro Kopp. Evidently her partner has another lover as well, and everyone's talking about it openly, Swinton even telling the press that this is the best thing for the kids. This is brilliant!

Vintage Bree: Nagel and Me

My fascination with the gaudy and über-'80s lithographs of Patrick Nagel started in about 1990 when I was known to frequent, frequently, a now-bygone coffee house in San Jose called The Phoenix. I've wanted to write about the Phoenix for years, and I may yet get around to an installment of Vintage Bree about the history of cafés-past in my life, but the thing that is germane to this story is that the upstairs of the Phoenix was lined with dozens of framed Nagel prints. The aesthetic of the café was generally more palatable than that, with minimal décor and ample seating, but for some reason, the upstairs was crowded with Nagels. This prompted B. and I to write a song about them called "Women on the Walls," in which we extolled the eerie omnipresence of Nagel's women in the café and imagined the highly dramatic stories of their lives. The song, earnest only in its minor chords, a total product of our collective early-twenties angst, became a camp classic among our friends for many years. It even utilized Berkeleyan principles (ripped naïvely from the Western philosophy class I was taking at the junior college at the time) in a refrain presenting the Women and then flippantly erasing them from consciousness with the bat of a heavily mascara'd eye. While the song remained a party trick for a number of years, it faded into obscurity just like other songs I'd written with friends from that era, many penned at the Phoenix, until B. and I had a rare opportunity to showcase it in public.

It was November of 1997, and Mag & Ana had organized Nagel Night at Trannyshack, the local irreverent underground drag club. The ode included many fabulous performers lip-synching to Eighties songs, arty send-ups of Nagel's portraits, and even a (very tasteful!) dramatic reenactment (lovingly rendered by our friend Dingo Chan) of Patrick Nagel's tragically ironic death scene (he had died in 1984 of a heart attack after doing 15 minutes of cardiovascular exercise in a charity event for the American Heart Association). Take a moment to absorb that last sentence, please.

B. and I, not in drag, nor Eighties pancake makeup, nor lip-synching, were a bit oddball in this clamour of oddness. It was the two of us on stage, with my acoustic guitar, singing this sort of hippy dirge in our very untrained voices. And now, at long last, for the first time ever at Toothpick Labeling, I present to you the original song, newly recorded in crystal clear digital!



It was quite a happening. But, dear readers, there is so much more to the story, if it can be believed! The very next day, a foggy November day it was, found me canvassing (I worked for the Peace Organization back then) in a modest neighborhood in Pacific Grove, a quaint seaside town just south of Monterey. It was my charge to find new supporters and renew the members of the Org that lived in the neighborhood. I was excited to speak with a gentleman that evening who had given $100 to the canvasser last year, and knocked fervidly at the door of his tiny bungalow apartment. The man of the house answered the door, a pale, gaunt, bespectacled guy, pleasant to talk to. As we discussed the current campaigns of the Organization from his doorway, I caught glimpses of the tiny apartment in the background. Every surface in the place was piled with papers and used dishes and scattered pieces of electronic equipment and half empty bottles of Zima and I'm sure lots of other stuff I can't remember or even fabricate for you now. The one thing that I remember with absolute clarity was perched on the coffee table among all this clutter: a white ceramic Nagel coffee mug.

I said, "Is that a Nagel coffee mug?" He replied with interest that it was, and asked me about my knowledge of Nagel. Right away I could tell that I had to keep my snooty "so bad it's good" attitude about Nagel in check. He regaled me with stories of his avid collecting and his admiration for the artwork of this master lithographer. I relayed to him the story of "Women On The Walls," and my experience of performing it in San Francisco the night before, and he was enthralled. Then, he showed me his Pride and Joy. Rolling up his shirt sleeve, he revealed one of Nagel's Women tattooed on his left bicep.

Full of awe at the synchronicity of the cosmos, I renewed his membership at $250.00 and walked off into the Monterey mist.

Today is Patrick Nagel's birthday. He would have been 63.

___________________________
Women On The Walls ©1990/2008 astrobarry & bree (with many thanks to Cisco for his engineering prowess and to B. for being there. For all of it.)

Vagina Dentata!

Had to re-post this from the dspot - thanks for keeping your finger on the pulse, Dax. Oh my god, Tina Fey is fucking spot-on!

Vintage Bree: Who Killed Roy Orbison?

It is early December, 1988. I am in my high school chemistry class, junior year, chatting with my lab partners as we mix some concoction of stuff in order to make a polymer or some shit that I didn't understand then and certainly don't understand now. We are chatting about this new supergroup called the Traveling Wilburys, and all of us agree we really dig their single Handle With Care, which has been ubiquitous on the radio lately.



Then I chime in that although I really like the song, I can't stand Roy Orbison's vocals and wished he wasn't in the band. Most of us are in agreement about this as well.

The next day we all come running into class, shocked at the news of Orbison's death. All eyes are on me as the group collectively charges "You killed Roy Orbison!" And while the news was unfortunate, indeed, given the '60s crooner's renewed fame with the Wilburys, this becomes a running joke for the rest of my high school days.

Jump to the year 2000, my ten-year high school reunion. I'm having pre-reunion cocktails at my good friend Gabe's apartment in San Jose with a few other high school pals that Gabe has kept in touch with. Of these friends is one of my former chem lab partners, Tom, who somewhere between high school and adulthood has grown to a towering 6'4 from his 1988 height of about 5'6. Tom was one of the truly sweet guys in high school in a field of obnoxious rich jocks and stoner wasteoids that made up the major portion of the dudes I went to high school with. So as we get to reminiscing, Tom and I both start telling the story about that fateful conversation in chemistry class. We take turns telling pieces of the narrative, and then Tom claims that he is the one who had wished Roy Orbison's departure from the band: by his own account, Tom was the one who killed Roy Orbison!

I sit there blinking as everyone laughs at the story. Over the course of the last dozen years, Tom and I, and our selective memories, have taken credit for the uncanny wish that coincided with Roy Orbison's fatal heart attack on December 6, 1988. I decide not to correct Tom's version of events, and take another sip of gin and tonic. Wouldn't want to be Petty about it.

Crazy Spam

This one made me laugh out loud: Angelina Jolie set to destroy own vagina!

In other spam-related news, I keep getting these horrible ones that say, That's an ugly face you have there, Bree! Do advertizers really think I'm gonna click on a message that's insulting me?

Mawwage, Part Two

Phyllis Lyon and Del Martin became the first legally married lesbian couple in San Francisco just about an hour ago. Huzzah! Not only have they been some of the most important activists for LGBT rights in history, these broads have been together for 56 years! Can you imagine being a lesbian in the '50s, with that most complete cultural denial and repression aiming to destroy you and deny your existence, and at the same time, sustaining a relationship for over fifty years? Unbelievable.

Mazel tov to Del and Phyllis!

This is also good: the first gay couple to legally marry in Santa Clara County was
David and Rich Speakman of San Jose.

"The couple is using President Bush's economic stimulus check to pay for their wedding."

"'It paid for everything,' David Speakman said, 'so we should probably send him a thank you note.'"

(quoted from the Merc.)

LMAO!

Journey To The Bank

This is really old news by blogospheric standards, but does anyone know about Journey's new lead singer, Arnel Pineda?* Founding member and songwriter/guitarist Neal Schon found Pineda singing Journey songs on YouTube with his band in the Philippines, and then after meeting with him and playing a gig with him in Chile, announced the Steve Perry sound-alike as their new frontman. Check out Journey's performance on Ellen from last week:



And that, my friends, is how once-great pop bands of the 70's and 80's strike 21st Century gold.

Now, at my most lenient, I can understand why Journey would be ecstatic about getting a great singer again, a great singer who happens to sound exactly like Steve Perry. They can relive their glory days, play huge venues filled with excited paying guests, and generally feel like big boys again. Yes, and the money. If they'd hired a singer with his own distinctive voice they'd a crashed and burned - who gives a shit about Journey without SP?

Beyond all that, I have to wonder what it's like for Arnel Pineda, who would ne'er have achieved international fame without sounding exactly like SP. I'm famous 'cause I sound like Steve Perry will be running in his internal monologue for the rest of his life. But again, cha-ching. For his part, he seems to be taking it all with a grain of salt, judging by his press statements. I would love to see what Perry has to say about it, but haven't found anything. Though if anybody's interested, there's a great, long interview with Perry and a follow up interview with Neal Schon on GQ which is pretty in depth, as far as popculture reporting goes. Sadly no dish on Pineda by Perry, though. And while I won't buy their new album of 11 "classic" Journey tunes and 11 new tunes recorded with Pineda (really, who gives a shit?) I can't say that hearing the new formation of the band hasn't given me chills. Why would I blog about it otherwise?

____________

*Thanks to ch for the tip.

Pygar is Dead! Long Live Pygar!

70 year-old actor John Phillip Law has died. Many of my beloved friends might remember him as the blind angel from Barbarella, otherwise known as "Pygar, Last of the Ornithanthropes."


The instant I heard the news, I knew it was my sacred duty to memorialize him. Rest in peace, Mr. Law. I will explore more of your film oeuvre as soon as that damned thesis is put to rest.

John Phillip Law's official website

John Phillip Law on imdb.

Pavarotti vs. The Walrus

So Google is celebrating Pavarotti's birthday today by linking him on the homepage, a custom I've quite enjoyed over the years on various birthdays and anniversaries of important people, events, yadda yadda (e.g. The Lunar Landing, Einstein's birthday,etc.) My question is: what are the criteria (if any) that Google uses to determine who and what gets commemorated in this manner?

I became curious, because John Lennon's birthday was a few days ago, and I had wondered why Google didn't acknowledge it, and now Pavarotti is being celebrated, and I'm thinking, hmm...is opera so much more culturally relevant than rock 'n' roll, particularly when "John Lennon" registers a million and a half more Google hits than "Pavarotti?" Clearly, Google can't possibly acknowledge every outstanding public figure or historical event, so there must be some sort of formula or process that determines who gets the goods.

I emailed Ube's man, who works at "the Google" (in the words of G.W.), to see if he knows the secret. Anyone out there know?

xo
Bree

TMBG

Saw They Might Be Giants at the Fillmore tonight with Astrid and DJ. It was my first time seeing them, but both of them have seen the band numerous times before, DJ claiming he's seen them "more than 15 but less than 20" times. I dunno how impressive the show was to DJ, ever the malcontent, but I thought they were pretty fantastic. Highlights were Ana Ng, Doctor Worm, and Mr. Me, complete with a bitchin' horn section. In some ways, their showmanship is rather carnivalesque, which totally fits them as a band. At one point, they did this shtick where they received "phone calls from the dead," putting a mic up against a projection screen showing a cartoon cemetery. The call they got was allegedly from television's Jerry Orbach, but as the skit progressed, the caller turned out to be a Jerry Orbach impersonator, also dead, mind you, but a charlatan nonetheless. Wacky wacky.

TMBG is yet another of those bands out there that I've always loved, but never got around to following closely or owning much of their stuff. I'm only really familiar with their first three albums (the self-titled album, Lincoln, and Flood); then I stopped paying attention. But they've got a seriously large oeuvre. I'm probably not going to delve much deeper at this late date, but I'm really happy to have seen them live finally. They are some good fun.