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I'm tired of celebrities. We've just endured 'awards month', where our entertainerazzi circle-jerk
themselves about how great they are at several award functions. It's a blatant fact that few ponder, but
let's keep this in mind- these "awards" are designed by and for the industry itself. We
are expected to get really excited when the academy picks this year's clique of honorees from its
own ranks. What do I give a tiny fuck?
The only saving grace of Oscar night (and SAG night) was Roberto Begnini. This guy made such a great film,
and it was so widely recieved, that the clique of self-congratulatory jerkoffs HAD to acknowledge him. It would
cost credibility (and thus market share) if no one in Hollywood gave Begnini a trophy. The optimistic part
of me wonders if Begnini's Oscars will send a message to the film industry- a message that a good
film is more important than an expensive film. That the writers are more important than the names
of the actors. That the director is more important than the pop artists contracted for the theme
song. This may signal a subtle change in the way studios dole out their advances.
The realist in me thinks they gave him a couple awards because they had to, to maintain any
credibility in the public eye. Not since George C. Scott has an Oscar been so politically charged. I'm glad
Scott told the academy to stuff their oscar up their ass, and I'm also glad Begnini took them and
ran.
The best for me are the pre-Oscar shows. Here's where we can see what all the important people of
the world, all the players, all the world's movers and shakers and policymakers (you know, MOVIE STARS!) ARE FUCKING
WEARING. I was tossing and turning the night before, wondering what [insert starlet name here] would be
wearing, and who made her shoes. These things are important? Do I belong on this planet? I'm supposed
to WANT to watch three hours of movie stars telling me who made their shoes, interspersed with a vacuous
tele-essay on the history of Oscar-night fashion? I really don't feel like part of society, and I feel no
regret about it. I have discovered the lowest form of human life, though- lower than a meter-maid
or telemarketer. It is a *reporter* at the Oscars, whose function is to hound and hawk every celebrity
who walks by- "mr. alda! alan! hawkeye! give me a minute!?" and then ask the same questions of
everyone who stops-
1. Who made your (suit/dress)?
2. What are your plans for next year?
3. What do you think of [insert name of contrived gossip scenario here]?
Doesanyone remember when Whoopi Goldberg was funny? I think it happened once, in the third week of
October, 1988. Three years ago, I almost ran over someone who walked in front of my car. When she jumped
at the sound of my tires screeching, she dropped her bags and I saw it was Whoopi. I am eternally regretful
that I stopped. Had I known it was her, I could have lubed my chassis with her and driven off unseen. The
world would be a better place.
I'm tired of Dennis Rodman, and I'm tired of people who talk about Dennis Rodman. Dennis Rodman,
like Courtney Love, is a person of below-average intellegence who uses the contrived mystique of
*differentness* as a substitute for *interestingness*. Pro sports make me puke, and after the nausea has faded,
Dennis Rodman makes me puke again. He is a half-wit egomaniacal thug (although a pale shadow of Mike Tyson or Shaquille
Oneal in that regard) with absolutely no discernible personal worth. The classic response- "yeah,
well Rodman could kick your ass!" begs three responses-
1. Don't be so sure. I have a mean streak that defies comprehension.
2. uuuuh..how would that prove me wrong?
3. I'd like to compete with him on MY turf. OF COURSE!
CLIFF DAVIS vs. DENNIS RODMAN in:
A no-holds-barred spelling bee!
A sudden-death debate of Sartre's underlying narcissism!
Beer-for-Beer, Hour-by-Hour, last man standing takes the trophy!
First person ever actually to work an honest day in his whole fucking life wins!
Speak intelligently, win a prize!
Quick concert review- marilyn manson, hole, and monster magnet at the forum.
monster magnet put on a tight but short set. they are true rock stars in the good sense. opened with *kick
out the jams* like any good monster guitar rock band should. they put the best of all rock genres into one brutal
assault. skinny dave wyndorf shaking his ass in tight black leather, is link wray, mick jagger (1965), old ozzy,
and sid vicious all at once. truly fine performance. i'd like to see just them, somewhere teeny like the
roxy.
hole sucked. they were comatose, and courtney (as usual) tried her best to act like a smart girl
playing dumb. i think she's really dumb. their set was a long self-indulgent funeral dirge. when she asked the
audience what we wanted, i yelled that i wanted kurt back. she spent a lot of time ragging marilyn manson.
later i figured out why the bitterness...
marilyn manson was the best-staged act i've ever seen. the elaborate set was lit in different patterns
about three times a second, a little flashpot here and there, and marilyn manson rising from the floor nailed to
a ten-foot crucufix of televisions. that was the opening two minutes and it went straight through the roof
from there. costume changes between each song and during some songs. mm on six-foot stilts and crutches,
prowling the stage like a spider from tim burton's bad dream.
about the sixth song into the set, mm was standing on a monitor and slipped while jumping down. he planted his
head onto the stage and was knocked cold. taken off my paramedics. lights up, show over. fuck.
current fave CD- Halloween Hootenanny, a compilation of surfabilly-trash from Zombie-a-Go-Go Records. Thanks
Trixie!
Enough drivel for now- I have two final exams tomorrow. I took two today, having not attended the classes or spent
a second studying for either one. I came out OK, but I'm tempting fate if I don't at least look at this stack of
someone else's notes for tomorrow.
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