Friday, April 14, 2006

Magic Carpet Lightning

Ah, April, what a glorious month you are! The weather still sucks, tuition is hiked and [college university] raped the student body once again, not even bothering with a reach-around or dinner. I should really preface this with the fact that I’m angry. Maybe it was talking to Henry Rollins last week. I really do appreciate him making time to speak with me, but then again, I doubt most of you self-absorbed, pretentious sycophants give a flying fuck. But again, I am angry and that means I am a fucking katamari designed to burn hotter than the hell you bitches are headed for—I’m looking at you, asshole at Bowery Poetry Club who lets in underage girls and then kicks them out when they won’t dance with him.

Normally, I’m happy during April because of the Arlene’s Grocery Picture Show. You get everything you ever wanted from New York: legal indoor smoking, dancing Suicide Girls who are disgusted with the room and an awesome musical guest. In 2004, it was Joe Jackson; 2005, I wasn’t quite sure since my buddy, Mr. Snuggles, decided to projectile vomit on a door. But there won’t be a musical guest this year, since the Picture Show is on hiatus until 2007.

Now I’m really fucking angry. Instead of having my drink be ashed in by the jerk next to me while pseudo-alternative girls shake their ass at me, I have to stand in ungodly lines with screening rats (read: pretentious assholes that get a pass to a movie screening. See also: Tisch kids who pretend they’re [writers.] Thank you, Jeremiah Newton, for telling them to do that. Really helps our reputation!) No, I refuse to go to some shitty film festival and pay $10 or $20 to listen to someone talk about how bad a film that they haven’t even seen will be. That’s what I do, goddamn it.

Speaking of Tribeca, we here at [place] (that’s me, my six or so writers, and the collection of Johnny Cash and Nick Cave I keep on my iPod) have this to say to Robert DeNiro, the area known as TriBeCa and the film festival that Mr. DeNiro helped create: suck it. Suck it hard. Suck it long. But whatever you do, just keep sucking like you did in “Hide and Seek,” “Analyze That!” and when you make people bend over backwards to attend one of these films.
This festival is a farce and I’ve seen better flicks at Two Boots (ironically, where a few of the films are going after their glorious Tribeca run) and it’s bullshit that we have to applaud one of these things every year. Porn is better than watching Robin Williams struggle on screen for a paycheck.

Speaking of which, “Joanna’s Angels 2” came out on Tuesday, so you should all run to the “fantasy” shops on 6th Ave and pick up a copy. Not only are Angel and her burningangel.com awesome, but they’re my favorite form of “fuck” compared to the art-fucks that run rampant in this overpriced borough.

I should apologize about that, but the Tribeca Film Festival shafted [us] for coverage, and they can go guzzle overpriced water at DeNiro’s lackluster restaurant. Apparently that whole “we’re a neighborhood festival” vibe only relates to those that can afford the ticket prices and those willing to kiss ass—you know, they’re all outside of 721 Broadway chain-smoking their cloves and pitching how they’ll be rich and famous. Yes, just like Brett Ratner.

It has come to my attention that I average at least one or two digs at the director of “Rush Hour,” and soon-to-be-released “X-Men: The Last Stand.” Well, allow me to remedy this when I stop for a moment and think about something. Why are we letting a guy whose job it is to make vehicles for Chris Tucker direct a series that Bryan Singer has turned to gold? Now the irony that Singer is off finishing “Superman Returns,” while Ratner is lapping up his table scraps, is not lost on me. No, instead, I welcome Brett “Future of all Tischies” Ratner’s horrendous vision of a comic book film. I mean, it’s not like Ratner probably ran around the set towel-snapping half the male cast in their black leather. Poor Vinnie Jones is probably still fighting the nightmares of filming, all the while thinking, “But I kicked so much ass in ‘Survive Style 5.’”
Well, that feels much better. I think I’ve hit all my usual bases: my dislike of the administration, porn, film and saying Brett Ratner sucks as a director and as a creative talent.
Oh, one last thing:
Seriously, Samoan-looking dude at Bowery Poetry Club who checks ID, lets in underage girls and kicks them out if they don’t want to dance with him?
You’re a real brown-trout son of a bitch.

1 Comments:

Blogger lora said...

so much rage. do you store it all in your beard?

4:18 PM  

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