Alice Cooper and Stewart Copeland? Yeppo.

There's a new documentary heading to theaters called Rock School - not to be confused with the Hollywood production: School of Rock - thank you very much. It's about an after school venue where young minds learn rock and roll music (review up next week at BluntReview.com).

So, last night my friend and I headed to the LA premiere...after the film everyone skadattled to the "after party" at The Knitting Factory. The Knitting Factory is a dive- circa 1983 cheapo rock hall- but it's cool when you're party "owns" the venue.

Tonight several of the talents in the documentary - and a kid name CJ who is simply a wiz/legend-in-the-making in particular - would be entertaining us with their lessons learned. It was - basically - a recital. BUT these kids don't learn 3 chord Beatle ballads at this school - they learn Black Sabbath, Metallica and when they reach a higher level - Zappa.

Okay - this is NOT my kinda music. Nadda interest. But, I do understand that as musicians it is the music (technically) that is harder to create and more soul herion(like Sashimi for a Sushi fan, or perhaps like Johnny Depp directed by Tim Burton - it puts them in a happier place mentally). And these Zappa songs especially, are truly fun for the player...not so much for the non-pharmaceutical popping listeners I am afraid (again -- I speak of ME). It just seems to be eight instruments playing four songs at two different beats to me. No offense to Zappa fans - I get it - truly - but don't dig it.

So, the rock school kids get up do a few pretty good standard metal covers - then Alice Cooper and Stewart Copeland join the youngsters on stage for 'School's Out For Summer." Alice looks EXACTLY the same...and Stewart looks like a cute Borders' Book employee all in khaki and those nerdy glasses and smart guy shag-cut (YUM). Then a weird thing happened though. As Alice turned the mic towards the group and begged the audience to sing the creepy lullaby chorus (..no more pencils ...no more teachers...) NO ONE sang! It was sad and hilarious at the very same time. I - of course - was waving and singing, nay bellowing, aloud in the back like my old 17 yr -old front row concert-going self.

After the song - we were done. The kids played on but my friend and I said, "You know this?"..."Me neither..." Meanwhile Zappa's Napoleon Murphy Brock was standing with us - he told us he "may be coaxed into playing...," but the PR folks just walked by him and the 20-something "White Stripes is the strangest "rock" they know" audience had no clue a legend walked among us - well for Zappa fans.

We'd had enough and exited stage left. I said to my friend, 'That was the lamest rock audience I have ever been in - they just STOOD there." He said, "Dear, it's Hollywood - no one wants to break out of the pose and show individuality - or godfabid sweat off their MAC make-up." Touche....touche.

I dropped him off and BLASTED true music (Streetcore by The Mescaleros & Joe Strummer - Review&Link) through the canyon on the way home.

And for those into '24'...did that ending ROCK or what. Though, didn't the CTU folks appear just a tad calm after the missile got hit in mid air -- basically over their heads? AND what was with the whole trying to kill Jack the hero deal? Argh. Well, as Keifer, err, Jack walked off into the sunset all I could hear was" everybody's talkin' at me...can't hear a word they're sayin'....just the echoes of my mind...."

We must now wait till January to revisit with the lad.

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Wretched Regency!

Okay, I waited all week for the "climax" of PBS' Regency House (<- I already told ya all I am secretly a stay-at-home hermity geek when not schmoozing among the stars).

So, I stop for food at Handy Market - the BBQ I am now addicted to - with a spring in my step I get a round of treats for both of my hounds, and myself (calories do not count on Saturdays - did ya know that?).

I tell each group of friends I am afraid I can not go see so-and-so, catch a film at the cemetary (Cinespia.com), make a dinner party and so forth. I suffer through a bad BBC "Mystery", fighting off sleep from its odious elements of pure obviousness, all in the name of my addiction de jour.

Aha! Here it comes. 'Regency House.' I have questions: Will Capt. Glover get the chick? Are the other guy and the older lady gonna get together? And what about the head of the house? Man-o-manechvitz is he HOT. Will he bed anyone???

AN ASIDE: For those not alone on a Saturday eve, watching PBS (or who have cable and more than 3 stations that are actually visible), 'Regency House' is one of those "put the people of today back through time for a few weeks in a historical spot and tape them for jollies" shows. Yes, it is (I am afraid) a reality show - but, in my defense, with realistic historical elements as they all live as-they-would-have.

Pure historical bliss. In the show all these couples are "courting" as they would have in 1815. So, we learn all about the period, stuffy ettiqutes of the day - the gloriously snobby facts about social ranking and the set-up marriage plots they would have been put through! All while you're watching a catty sort of dating show....It is a sinful joy.

But, even though I had the house chilled perfectly, the BBQ buffet set, my super comfy (equals=terribly unsexy) robe upon my carcass - I was let down. It's as if they rushed the ending. BAH! How could they? Actually - it was well done (technically) as all the episodes were...but lacked in prying details one watches these sorts of shows for in the first place. Naturally, the head of the house and the Countess did schtupp---but were they planning on "hooking up" in our times? The sleazy 1960's looking Davy Jones meets Mr.Darcy pauper guy didn't get the rich chick- the handsome rich guy won after all. And he "won" after the woman basically ignored the man all eight weeks and made him cry (on camera no less) about ten times...Whadthefu? I once asked my ex-boyfriend to mow the lawn (literally- as he had no JOB, to you know "help out"), and he left me. This episode left me with hardly any ANSWERS. Maybe there will be a post show? A "what/where they are now" deal...I really need a boyfriend no? Eh-at least my Saturday eves are free again.

Next week there's a bunch of premieres. Cinderella Man on Monday and Rock School on Tuesday. Rock School is a documentary on a real Rock School - not the Jack Black flick. This is probably where that film came from. The cool part is after the film premeiere we all head over to The Knitting Factory to see CJ (a child guitar wiz) and secret guest (Alice Cooper) play a gig of Zappa music...I am missing the Anmerican Idol end - but it's Bo's gig anyway...and Alice Cooper doing Zappa? Um, how could I pass THAT up???? I shall be sporting a classic rock-chick ensemble and spiked hair circa 1983. My escort is a HUGE Cooper fan - I am a HUGE Zappa fan - so we shall be in for a unusual thrill. Sometimes my "job" is tre cool.

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John Lennon's Jukebox

Okay, how many folks caught the PBS special on John Lennon's Juke box? I had just finished watching Immortal Beloved for the fiftieth time, and needed to decompress, as IB is a heavy and emotionally burrowing film.

Viola - a weird Beatle special...Just when you thought literally all there was to have (any micro-info on the fab four) had been had, here comes a comes a documentary on John Lennon's jukebox. It's almost like an SCTV sketch, "The Beatles Toothbrush." Okay, that's cruel - it was well done - but you get my drift.

It just - kind of - made me giggle. I mean, as an avid collector of music myself, how'd they know this box of 45s was actually handpicked by John, and not bought in one swell swoop at a local yard sale (I'd missed the beginning)? Or were these songs truly inspirations of a legend and his band mates? Or his musical loves?

The jukebox choices were all older rock and motown - and many seemed likely to be of John's interest (generically speaking)...but then, just as I started buying in to their "how cool is this" scenario, the filmmakers show the "traveling" un-ornate box in various places - in a warehouse being perused by Sting, on a lawn somewhere...The funniest tableau being its placement precariously upon a ledge in front of the infamous Chelsea Hotel sign in NYC. Maybe it was me...but I just started to laugh.

I positively tuned out, after the guy from the 'Lovin Spoonful' made some bizarre remark about music having nothing to do with our lives and politics...WHATTHEFU? Um, isn't music exactly what life is - a refracted reflection? An artful interpretation. Ass.

So, off the TV went and in popped the dvd. I decided to do my homework...

I am being interviewed for the new Fight Club DVD and its messages of the Gen X struggles with self worth and such next week - so I needed to remind myself of the funnier, and more brilliant scenes - I wouldn't want to come off like an uninformed fool.

Man, I forgot how much I loved that film. REVIEW:-> http://www.bluntreview.com/reviews/fight.htm

In Fight Club, Edward Norton and Brad Pitt along with Helena Bonham Carter, under David Fincher's direction, really made a wildly unique and darkly humorous film that was way ahead of its time. AND it's not an independent film. Love it or hate it , Fight Club's a helluva film.

Tomorrow it's Star Wars and a restaurant opening - I have a new swanky get up to parade about in...so I should go and force sleep. I wonder if the evening's odd mixture of Gary Oldman as the vile van Beethoven, folded into a Lennon piece, with a touch of Brad Pitt's uber buff bod will induce any fun dreams...

Gosh, I do so hope.

Perhaps Bein' a Star aint so Shiny...

I was interviewing Penelope Cruz last month and she - of course - really didn't want to talk about love and men. I mean everytime she skanoodles and gives the schnook the boot-adles it's on 'Entertainment Tonight'...she said she's like any girl looking for love, and she tries to find someone with a sense of humor (it's all in the Elle Canada interview)But, I made her laugh by telling her an edited version of my last marriage...believe me, Pen's glad this aint her story:

Five years ago I came home...la-de-da...and there it was: "I want a divorce. There's chicken in the fridge for you. Love Kev." A culmination of denials scribbled haphazardly upon a tiny yellow piece of stickup pad, that basically contained a Haiku of our last four years together.

There it was being defiant. Proudly, dutifully, and a tad wimpy, performing its communicative mission stuck on the side of the livingroom's centerpiece (by sheer girth), his high-holy obsession and hobby, the saltwater fish tank.

It was this quiet, tiny, blink-and-you'd-miss it, square yellow mini-tile, like blip of sea-trash on the beautiful waterscape - a fake waterscape, like our marriage. Its expensive fluorescent-like light purposely designed to exaggerate the scale colors of its kidnapped finned inhabitants from world's far off (like Hawaii, Polynesia, The Cayman Islands) and make the bewildered things not only look happy, but as if this ten foot existence was the end-all last-word in fish condo living - a Shangri-La of the fish world. I always found it cruel - yet beautiful.

Oddly apropos, the serene staged study in managed utopia, like our marriage, was a pretty lie.

Finally the final blow had been made - what now? Should I eat the chicken first? He was a lousy husband, but his cooking was exceptional. And, why can I even eat at "a time like this"? Oh, right - we both knew it was over, each waiting for the other to make the move; call checkmate, lower the boom, surrender to the obvious. It happens...

I couldn't actually be the boom-lower-er. I had one marriage (albeit a drunken accidental anarchist-young thingy faux pas) under my belt (so-to-speak). And, I was not facing my family with another amour defeat extraordinaire…besides one had their pride.

I grabbed the plate of chicken cutlets, fed the fish, took a deep breath, and called my mom to gage the sympathy level.

There was none. "What did you do to him?" she shrieked into the phone. Of course, I was guilty…he was her gardening friend, her son-she-always-wanted. What was I thinking? But, I reminded myself this was only a phone - she could not see I was less than distraught and dining on gourmet fare.

I explained it was fore coming, we would remain friends, we were not really the marriage sorts, and I am actually relieved.

Silence.

It was hard for her to understand there was no hate. Just a separation of the hearts and interests with interest.

Then she had an odd, almost, deranged (and certainly unexpected) epiphany. I was her daughter - and there's apparently some sort of maternal law, you must side with the blood relative if said kin is from your womb - she became almost maniacal in what I should do next. My own sweet little mother said I should grab the credit card and shop till I wanted nothing more…she'd always wished she'd done something like that to my father. Her voice somehow unfamiliar at present...

I realized she was projecting her own evil resentments - of which I had none - and I certainly was not that kind of person.

I managed to placate her - in mid conniving - hang up, get a comfy blanket, gather on the couch with the dogs, a bottle of wine, some cheese and crackers (I would let the crumbs fly without his Felix-like mumbling and broom at my side), and pop in favorite "healing" dvds (Singin' in the Rain, then The Grinch (Carrey version-natch), followed by The Apartment). I also decided to enjoy the peace of a house without continual hammering, bad-guitar playing and perpetual whining about who did what to him that day…and I now had the whole king-size bed all to myself…and the toothpaste would be properly squeezed from it's bottom...this was not so bad after all. I keep hearing 'I'm Free' by The Who...is that a normal reaction?

Hmm. I am, I'm afraid, a bachelerette through and through.

I framed the stupid stickup note though - 'cause this stuff you just can't make up. Well, unless you're the Star or The Inquirer...they'd love to take this tableau and make it an A-lister's scenario no?

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Friends Come in 31 Flavors Too...

You always hear, "If you can count your real friends on one hand - you're a lucky person!"

I must be blessed. Oh, sure I am perpetually broke and need to shop at the 99 Cent store to make ends meet....but I am filthy-rich in friends.

Take today. The McLouds downstairs are moving. There's the usual banging and aggravation but today, I needed to be out and functioning a bit early - and I have an important appointment regarding my Red Carpet Segments ( http://www.bluntreview.com/reviews/inter.html ) being a part of a major motion picture's DVD extras. My interviews for their extras....this is big and a no brainer.

Ah, but nothing is this simple in my life...

FIRST, My printer poops - literally - in mid proposal print -out.

PANIC.

I think quick and call my friend - who's a computer gal. Solved. She'll print it up and meet me in front of the big-wig meeting spot -- no one will ever need know of the printer mishap...

PERFECT.

I doll-up. Kiss the dogs and fly down the stairs. I have "plenty of time."

Um - no. The ass McLoud family parks their SUV from hell one foot into the area of my garage door. ONE Foot --just enough so I can not open the door --- in an ALLEY that has 30127946 other spots to park, mind you.

I run to their door. The weirdo wife says in her bellowing, "My husband with the keys is no here" WHAT???? CALL HIM!!! NOW!I admit, I was not my usual well-balanced, diplomatic, self.

She does and he's en route back - should be half an hour with the traffic.

That leaves me - late for my very important date...oh I was getting as mad as a hatter.

SO, up to the apartment I go to call my friends, who themselves are now en route to the meeting-- there's a change in plot plans:Iadvise -- they need to get me, to get me, to the meeting. Sweetly - and without skipping a beat - they comply.

I am about to cry.

Meanwhile, I don't have my cell phone or wallet 'cause last night I got home very late and left them in the car (it's safer) Of course, never - not for an instant - thinking that the McLouds would be SO RUDE as to block ONLY my garage when there's oodles of room as far as the eye can see for their Gas Guzzling Gargantuan pig-car)

They call and tell me they are stuck in bumper-to-bumper traffic....of course they are. BUT, being natives, the jump off to do surface streets. It's now a half an hour to the appointment and 108 in my small dwellin. I am starting to sweat. I pick up the phone and call the meeting secretary to "feel the temperature" for tardiness. Ever-so-calmy I explain my neighbor is moving and has blocked me in (giggle) I may be a minute or two late...

Diverted disaster - and it was the truth after all.

They come and get me as we speed off onto the main road - WHAM - a annual Street Fair! I kid you not - I had forgot. The whole street is closed from where I am....to where I need to go. Hahahahahahaha. I basically have a melt down - careful not to smudge my mascara.

It was just too much ya know. So after a hearty laugh-n cry. I pulled myself together and by the door I was presentable and professional - and the scream-crying fit actually calmed my nerves. After all anything these very powerful producers had to say? Paled in comparison to the last hour of circumstantial brouhaha.

When we left the meeting - my friends hidden down the street "on the look out for me," decided we'd stop at Handy Market's BBQ pit - a tradition that's a Burbank legend. I was told about it by Mr. Clint Howard and always wanted to go. He did not fib - it was truly delectable. THEN we hunted icecream for an hour...it was a an exceptionally hot day and everyone seemed to be needing icecream...each place had lines out the door. Of course. I mean after all it was one-of-those days and I had dragged them right down into it with me:)

FINALLY, we found a Baskin Robbins without a bazillion folks in our way;)
Joy of Joys - except they put a Libra (me) in an icecream parlor with more than three choices. I finally got the pistasio...damn...I wanted the praline....argh.

Oh, so my point about friends? These two super angels, picked me up, drove me, didn't laugh when I cried from the remarkable sterss, waited an hour for me through my meeting, THEN treated me as I still had no pocketbook) to lunch and ice cream like a little kid....

That's what being a true friend is all about.

I am out the door now to go trim their dogs hair - Parker bites, but he and I have an understanding, and in a past life, I was a professional dog groomer...
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Debussy Lives...and he plays every Friday eve....

Okay, I have already proven a tad addictive in these diary-like rants. So, my obsession - the real - one....the one friends now basically just sigh at: Jon Brion. Since Joe Strummer, whom I adored, died I was left without music (new music) that really touched my soul.

Then a PR guy says, "Hey, can you cover a score for 'I Heart Huckabees' and our client Jon Brion? You may like his music - it seems very you." I said, "Send it over - lemme see if I dig it."

I now have in my possession a treasure. It's Brion's "samples" for David O. Russell's masterpiece (that no one saw). It's about an hour and half of him "tinkering" - looking for the theme... I could not believe what I was hearing.

Brion's already converted fans would probably freak to even know I've got it- and that such a cd even is in the universe - let alone in my possession! ...but I digress.

So, I go to see the guy live - before our interview - I was with my then boyfriend. Well, a guy a was schtupping - he looked a tad like Count Chocula for my tastes but he was smart, and tall - so I kind of put-up-with-him. You know what I mean...

Meanwhile, I expected, a lame ass typical guitar snob. Figuring the cool music I had heard was just fandangled studio trickery - after all, no one can be that great...

But, I am wrong, and positively blown away by this Jon Brion guy. He plays all the instruments, and does a ton of songs (besides his own) with odd twists (Like Bob Dylan hues for Queen, or Cole Porter ala Metallica-style). Meanwhile, the beau de jour turns to me and says, " Do you think he's cute?" Okay, guys, never ask a chick you're dating if a Paul McCartney-like mega talent who is obviously making her toes curl ('cause he's so good) if she thinks the rock-star on the stage is cute. DUH.

They have to lie. Well, at least if they are in that state of nirvana brought on upon some rare soul that's upon a stage wielding music like a Debussy reincarnate or something - like this Jon Brion chap was. Ha. Mr. Insecure had to question me. So, what could I do? I smiled, and said, "15 years ago I would have." LIE. Jon Brion is ah-dorable.

But it's really his music that I am drawn to. Brion's music - which - because of his utter passion, just makes him glow. It's almost a sexual experience. And, I do NOT mean that in a sickly, or fan girl freak-way. Have you ever seen a true musician, the pouring from the pores type? It's like, if a time machine placed you at the hall as a young undiscovered Mozart started a show, and you knew "this is different - this is special"...and you were there...That's what I mean.

So, every Friday night I am at Largo, watching Jon. It's like a soul feeding - and I am NOT alone. Many of the faces there are always the same...for the second set at least.

Naturally 'cause I'm a girl, everyone assumes I am smitten with Jon. I am not. He's a musician - I know what that means...I've been there ya know? But I sit there all smiles diggin' the music and folks seem to figure I'm just a groupy. Me...a groupy - I love it.

The reason for my babbling on this particular day, is to tune you in. Go read the interview and / or the soundtrcak review (Eternal Sunsjine & I Heart Heart Huckabees) w/ Jon Brion and myself at BluntReview.com in the music section - discover folks. Discover. If you're the type that digs a Debussy piece, or even into an original genuine talent among the mishmash of homogeneous crap out there...know and love Jon Brion.

Okay - good deed of the day done - I must walk the dogs, and go to bed....

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72 hours , Through Canyons, Into 24

Okay, I already admitted to being a crack-baby for Idol and House...did I mention my affection for 24? I have a life - I swear...

The heavy guy in the show, Edgar, eats at my sometimes-sushi place at the bar next to me. We sit together a lot - I said to him a few weeks ago, "Thanks for saving the world." I'm polite, I only watch the show so I can say I've seen his work - Ya, that's it, I watch it for his sake.

(Aside for fellow enthusiasts->) This past Monday I was so thrown when the missile went off. Um, why are there like 4 agents working on this end-of-the-world-as-we-know-it situation by-the-way? Is CTU the only branch of the Gov. in this TV world of theirs'. Plot faux pas aside, you know I was genuinely upset, like it's real (see - a goon am I at heart).

But Chloe will fix it -lips perpetually angry and brow furrowed - AND!!! HEY, was that a crush/love triangle angle emerging from the Frost Queen raising its brow towards Jack? She told him (and I quote), "They could talk" about his picking the terrorist with the info over what's-her-name's husband (thusly ge executed the character Paul in-a-way) any time Jack would like. She just wanted him to know, "IF HE NEEDED A FRIEND." The oldest girl-ploy in the book kids. Hmm.

Okay- so...

The weekend preceding 24 was stupendous and as grand as the word itself! It started with visiting friends from NYC and I dining at Le Petit Four on Sunset Strip - it's a great restaurant. We laughed for hours and I had (yes, I admit) steak tar tar. They each had a delectable dish as well; pasta with a decadent creme sauce, and a strange Willy-Wonka-ish salad with a slab-o-tuna atop. The place has mirrors all around on the walls above the diners - so you can people watch properly. I spied a handsome fella alone...he was waiting for someone and had that "dumped" look. We created a mini-biographic for him; straight (he was wearing a dirty Nike shirt), waiting on a blind date from LavaLife, his friends talked him into it, he liked Bob Dylan - but always said he was into Radiohead to seem cooler, and his dog, "Sasha" was his only true friend as he was a boss at a snooty PR firm down the street and everyone wanted his job...

Well, his very-tardy party showed and I was el wrong wrong wrong. He was indeed gay. Apparently retro trash sports shirts are "in," perhaps considered "manly?" His dinner companions made Nathan Lane look rugged, and he giggled like a periwinkle caught in a morning storm as the eve expanded, OH and the melange of bullet proof? He OPENLY adorned lip gloss as they had even just arrived and stood at the maitre d'. Hmm, I may have to give up my Sherlockian membership - though he was on-the-other-side of the restaurant, and I could only see the top half of him, and the wine had diluted my sleuthing skills.

Saturday I frolicked about in the house - trying to unclutter. But I just ended up sorting my 106243 soundtrack and musical cds in alphabetical order - high on a valium. I had no plans for the eve - I was awaiting Regency House (my Saturday night addiction), hanging with the hounds, Taylor and Clyde.

Sunday I was off to Malibu to visit. My NYC friend was staying in a bluff-side guest house. The owner - who swaps with her New York pad - is into Ganeesh and yoga. The house was serene and filled with that "happy soul" feeling. We went to Paradise Cove restaurant(forgetting it was mother's day - mine's been called, gifted and burped -- she's in Ft Lauderdale) for dinner...We had to sit on the beach dining area -- poor us. Aha- but the secret is BAD SERVICE out their among the rabid seagulls. As my friend was about to go New Yorker-style blunt on the waitress, our other friends called - they were down the street! So they met us.

By now the ocean breeze was an arctic wind. The 16 year old waitress (with the BMW) parked in back no-doubt, told us the heat lamps had no kerosene - never did. I said, "They're what, props?" She said, "Basically yeah - we have no place else to store them." OH, how we laughed at her adorable honesty!

Our friends really didn't want to stay in the cold - and I was already half-way to hypothermia. We finished our dinner and left to go to the next dinner at Marmalade Cafe about a mile down-the-road. On the way out we saw Bela Lugosi, err Martin Landau and his family cruisin' in a golf cart in the lot.

At Marmalade, celeb spotting: Garry Shandling looking like he was whining at his friend en route back to his car...

Once in the restaurant, we sat next to a literal Beach Boy-- though I am not sure who. We chatted and he's Swiss like me, so if that identifies him... The bread pudding at Marmalade is to-die-for good. It's just bread sugar, butter and apples - but MAN....

I left everyone about 1030pm and decided to take the canyon road back. I could blast a score cd and no one would be on-my-ass. chose Edward Scissorhands...it makes all around you simply magical. Like this past weekend....


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Argh - the traffic

Okay, I know every comic from here to Baton Rouge has a schtick on traffic-and airline food. BUT I was tortured today...it's really my own fault. I drive a hippie vehicle- the Volkswagen Beetle. I always wanted a Beatle named John ;) But, the car seemed to hate the name - so we settled on Dudley. (aside: look at the beetle design - they have a d-u-d upside down-- like DuD short for Dudley...in this case, Dudley Moore - who was adorable, funny, and had that cool 1980's perpetual rocker hairdo...)

My point is no one is intimidated by a Beetle. They assume some patchouli smelling, macro-biotic, ELP fan is behind the wheel - and not the wild, Speed Racer fan, born with a lobster cracker in one hand and the old New England tradition of weilding (safely through traffic). I should be in a BMW for my autobaun-like facade and motoring abilities...but I digress.

Okay, I was supposed to see Kingdom of Heaven today...on the other side of town. BUT, I was also supposed to drop my friend at the airport- naturally on the other side of town. No prob. I equipped the car's cd changer with cruisin' tunes ala me and off I went at the ungodly time of 11am - showered mind ye.

So no prob at the Burbank airport. Well, except for the obligatory fat-evil drop-lane cop-nazi. I was trying to ask if I could drop off here - so I didn't get a 125.00 ticket. She mugs, "I can read lips!" Okay....calmly I rolled down the window --completely-- apparently the baggage in the front seat , the fact that I was in the drop-off lane, and the passenger oddly in the back seat gave her no clue. Ass.
So off I go merrily towards Kingdom of Heaven.

It's at the studio lot. Which, yeah, I know sounds cool...but their security is psychotic - especially at Fox. Who knows why. But, I usually avoid anything there...though I did see Huckabees there -with food and wine and oh-my:)

Okay, so logistically, it's at least a half an hour to get through their gaurds-from-hell and find parking...there are four hundred sound stages (one is the Simpsons house-y studio *smile)and 4 (I counted) guest spots in front of the Zanuck Theater. Though next to the guest spot some small penised fella has a sign in front of his spot (ala Swimming w/ Sharks) That says, "This is my spot - I earned it and you will be towed" the logo is a Jolly Rogaer- natch.

Okay, I can not walk right - I have MS on top of a motorcycle accident so I can not park in the front lot and hike - literally- to the other side of the eighteen block studio to the cool theater. Oh, and there's no carts for the "handi...er, physically challenged" - Asses.

So have to pee like a race horse after the airport. So, I just had to make a pit stop...after the obligatory half-a-roll of toilet paper toilet-seat sheilding I go and run back out to the car.

Back on the road I decide the murders on the highway seem to be in a circular pattern and the one I'd take is probably next. I'm not paranoid, but ya know for an extra five minutes? I'm doing the beautiful canyon - it goes better with my musical selections anyway.

BUT no. I hit every Frogger game-like scenario en route. Truly weird stuff- just everywhere! First it's a trash truck- on a one lane road, then a firtruck doin' ninety heading towards me (even though he had an ENTIRE OTHER LANE) , followed by a 20 mph jerk who slithered from a hidden drive, then an assault vehicle cuts me off (that black 1/2 truck half Hummer monstrosity) that comes whipping outta (I could see) positively nowhere. I'm in a cold sweat and I need a valium...but, the DeLovely soundtrack will suffice for now- 'cause I'm in sufferage city!

I look at the clock it's 15 minutes to "showtime" and I'm at least --- even with my inbred ways of traffic manipulation Boston style--- a half an hour away from fore mentioned security boobs who strip the car, and enjoy unleashing the small amount of power life's given them
I actually turned around...
So, I may run out in the a.m. and actually buy a ticket at this cool small old theater I love to go to, then review you. If I'm up to it!!!!

MEANWHILE. Saturday there's a new contest at www.bluntreview.com - The Life Aquatic DVDs. You can enter for a chance to win - the Hitchhiker's Guide Books will be selected tomorrow.

Happy Birthday

Happy Birthday - and I am not referencing the Maher Baba album by Pete Townsend - of which I own an original thank you very much ;). It's my father Russell's birthday.

He's been gone for years now... and it's an odd thing - I wait up every year till midnight, then look up and say happy birthday before diving into my cocoon of comfy blankets. Still painfully aware we won't be getting together to engulf a bucket of Ipswich clams, or giggle at his raving-cackling towards bad drivers by stringing together rich profanities disguised as Dr. Suess words (yes hanging out the window fist a blazin' as they speed past)- "You fucnickelbastarasswimpleturd," he'd bellow while we crawled along in his gallopy at a whopping 40 mph - on the highway. Or our adventure searches for crabs and creatures along the Revere shoreline. We hunted by turning over boulders and collecting and comparing - the winner (the one with the creepiest collection) got to rename them, scientifically "Wormalotlegscusatean", or with a snobby moniker like "McCrabalaster Becksworthington of Leopold Manor". It's memories like these that make the pain subside. We had so much fun - always. And it's not right to cry and be sad, when I was given this great gift of knowing him at all.

But, it's another odd tradition that started after his death that - quite without my involvement - occurs every year on the eve of his birthday that's really kinda cool. Without fail (so far) there's a Marx Brothers special, or film block on TV - and I don't have cable.

It's weird enough that I notice this - true - but it's even weirder as my dad use to take me to every Marx Brother festival the "vintage" Exeter Street Theater in Boston ever had...from the mind shaping age of, I don't know, 5 years old? He'd plop me down fifth row center and we'd watch hours of the brothers' mayhem - both just roaring and inhaling the tall-as-me barrel of popcorn. He, of course getting way more of the more adult stuff the troupe was between-the-lining, and me laughing at him laughing, and at Harpo's Lemonade stand and outrageous shenanigans (still do). I adored Chico's piano playing (still do) and Groucho's quick quips and wildly fast word play (still do) - I seem to recall actually getting his sarcastic humor by the second film. I still have many Yiddish and Marx-phrase words in my vocabulary, make odd vaudeville references and sing "Hooray for Captain Spaulding" (or at least hum it) when I'm in a nervous situation (IE: SAT Tests, DMV tests, Walking alone late at night, on a bad date, and so forth).

Is this some weird reaching out from the great beyond? Does my father's spirit program TV in the after world? Think Beetlejuice's vast waiting room. Maybe he got to be a guardian angel of a programmer? Or, maybe, it's one of the Marx brothers' birthdays so they dust off their classics? What ever the case - it's a weird coincidence that I basically just accept and embrace for the sweet memories it stirs up. I don't even check the TV Guide -don't have to. I just look around at 800pm and 900pm and viola there they are! Which tonight hurt - 'cause I wanted to see Family Guy, or Man with the evil baby thingy kid. But, it's my duty, and my heart, to remember all the laughter - so I don't cry all day next I suppose...

Lydia oh Lydia that encyclopedia - Lydia the Taaaatooooed lady! Hehehe. Happy Birthday Dad.

A Sizzling Saturday Eve

I know, I know, folks think I'm out carousing the town in a faux mink vintage stole made by Edith Head...Okay, maybe they don't but certainly you wouldn't have me pegged as an Appointment TV gal. Yep. Mondays - I have become a fan of 24, Tuesdays, Idol & House. (unless there's a film I have to see/review).

Friday eves I usually go out to Largo and see Jon Brion till 200am...so, Saturday nights I stay in and chill.

Now, with this blissful ritual, I've discovered on Saturday nights PBS seems to break out the goods. None of the " Wallybees of North Umbria Mating Among the Captives" study-stufamagol. No. Last night on "Indie Lens" they had The Ramones End of the Century (Purchase ). Oh, I'd wanted to see this !!! The music reviewer at the site, Radio Bobo-K, totally lucked out by deciding to review for BluntReview.com RIGHT when this puppy came out on DVD (reviewed on bluntreview.com in music).

I adored The Ramones - they were after all the stepping stone to much of the cooler music of the late 70's and 80's. And they could be very very loud on my stellar system blending a state of other-plain glee and an odd reaction by one's soul; its trying to get into the another room for some peace and quiet...

Then, I grew bored with them - well the documentary (it is a tad long and no commercial breaks, or control buttons to pause). So I clicked to the other PBS station just as Mystery Theater was ending (whaaaa) - BUT this new show series called, 'Regency House' was just beginning! It's that whole "put folks in another era and see how they respond" deal. Human hamsters in Victorian England! I RAN to make a bowl of popcorn, brewed a tea, and settled in.

Okay, the show's premise: it's 1790- or 1801 or something, I've missed the part of the actual time-period (making the popcorn). They are all wearing the frilly corset ala Kate Winslet films, and the men have that cool Johnny Fingers hairdos and the form fitting manly man pants, and of course the once a week bathing scenario (eeeerrrrrryyyeeeccchhhh). They (the cast) are to spend a summer (8 weeks), courting as they would have 200-ish years ago. The have guardians - which are really pimps trying to match the wealthy-with wealthy. They have strict rules, which are really a way of keeping the women at bay while the boys play - as it was. Man, what a terrible time for women. AND they all talk openly about marrying for status - head NOT heart - as it was. Boswell's world revisited eh?

They've been selected from varying 21st century lives, some rich some poor, and placed in the house as their past rank counterpart. The rich in today's world are rich in the past-- and the priveledges are sickening. ONE girl, a lowly secretary in today's scheme, is not a servant (heaven forbid) but STILL can't even dine with anyone, or play in any of the reindeer games because she - financially & status-wise - has nothing to offer!!! Dear god I'd have just shot myself and been done with it-- but then again, the guns of the days missed 2716 of the times.

Anyway, I highly recommend both the purchase of the Ramones history ( Joe Strummer shows as one of the commenting mega-talents), and look up "Regency House" it's wild - and I am shocked that folks can't handle 8 weeks - some were freaking out in the first couple of days. If they were on a set of a period piece? Geeze- that's probably twice as gruelling - CATERED FOOD! Though- I didn't know this nasty habit the old-time folks had of putting the animal head with the roast-- to show freshness. YECH. So, here's this pheasant with a chopped head and it's feet at the other end of a bbq'd carcass. Go Veggie!