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Archive for February, 2013

photo_12044_20100201I just had this ready to go in case I won the Oscar tonight in the best original screenplay category, even though I was not nominated:

Well, this sure is a surprise. No, please you don’t have to stand up for this. I am in the bosom of my peers, and right now we are all winners. Of course, all of you are of the highest caliber in your fields. Ben Affleck, you are a double threat. Triple if I note how many babies you have. Ha ha. Just kidding with you there. Jessica Chastain, you have come out of nowhere in the last few years like a hurricane and just blown off our windows and doors and roofs and foundations. You were the moral center behind Zero Dark Thirty and who wouldn’t torture those bastards to get Bin Laden? I would. There are times when a self-righteous meltdown is totally justified both onscreen and off.

Jennifer Lawrence, or if I may, J. Law, I think you’re only 15 or something and here you are beating out Meryl Streep for awards. Scripture says,  “A child shall lead them,” but I think it also says a child will hand their asses to them on Oscar night. (No offense, Isaiah 11:6.)

I’ve been pretty fortunate to have worked on my script for so long when it was in the development stages with somebody who knows Steven Spielberg. This was a labor of love you gave me this Oscar for, and though I sit before you now, gleaming trophy in hand, most of the gleaming I’ve done over the last few years was born of the tanks of sweat coming down my glistening forehead and neck as I struggled over this thing I called “Piece of shit” maybe 1,200 times. The original draft is covered with blood and stomach acid.

When I first broached the idea for the screenplay with my agent (who is not at CAA, by the way), he said that my idea was more than a downer. It was also truly hostile. I had to ride that compliment for three more years alone as I worked through draft after draft and honed the script that you all know now to be a story of a man caught between extremes. My film was about the audacity of the human spirit in a world where everybody is a scorpion capable of fucking his own face. A world where people who called you their best friends and toasted you at your wedding one day could turn around the next and divorce you like an ax-handle turd and tell people you were on lithium for two years in the 90s.

I know that you are all, my peers, on the same page with me tonight when I talk about the kind of integrity I mean. Tommy Lee Jones. Ang Lee. Adele. All of you people of great sensitivity know. You who record human emotions like a photographic plate burns at the kiss of sunlight. You, my peers. Jack Nicholson. Helen Hunt. Daniel Day-Lewis. You who like me also likely know how loathsome it is to even be touched by other people when you have to brush by them in a supermarket. We who have the tender emotions of artists carry them like open wounds and yet must constantly suffer these indignities and miseries and beclown ourselves for people who are not fit to eat after us at Denny’s.

When you tripped after receiving your award, J Law, you said, “Aww shucks, you’re just giving me a standing ovation because I tripped.” When we both know what you wanted to say: “You all want to kill me. I can smell the hate from up here.” Sometimes I feel as an artist that the only safe place I have is up here on this stage with this award, yet tomorrow I will have to walk the streets alone among savages and dogs. Jennifer, you and I are safe up here. But for how long? For … how …  long?

Ben Affleck said when earning his producing award for Argo that you can’t hold grudges when you’re in Hollywood. How right he was. You must not ever show people all the horrible grudges you hold. You must instead hold them in until they make you sick with ague-y tendons and malignant formations in your pancreas. You must turn those grudges instead into fantasy on paper–specifically the fantasy of watching your enemies die in horrendous pain and bloodshed while suffering the beatings, fistings, garrotings and other degradations of Salo. You must put these fantasies on paper, waiting like a crouching tiger until the day you can make them real. Yes, right on the money, Ben Affleck. Believe me, frere, I know exactly how you feel after your Oscar snub, the pain like a fresco of freshly painted coral sticking to the insides of your stomach muscles. Yes, no grudges. Wink!

So yes, Academy, now I thank you. I thank you vile pigs for the validation that can no longer nourish me because it is too late in coming and can only sustain me the way eating pieces of notebook paper sustains an anemic. Yes, Academy, please honor me now and pretend that it is the sum of pain and humiliation and tawdry nights of loveless intercourse with streetwalkers. This is my valediction. Ang Lee says namaste, but I say kiss my boots you worms. All of you bow down and feel the sole of it on your neck and then watch me stick your patronizing Oscar up your effete Range Rover driving asses! I take your love and hand it back to you as abuse! How do you like that? Fuck this award! Fuck it!

Also, I’d like to thank Harvey Weinstein and Sid Sheinberg.

Image: Francesco Marino / FreeDigitalPhotos.net

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–*You are fashion forward.

–*You are fashion forward and you were snubbed in a major actress category.

–*Somebody rolled you up in a carpet and tried to kidnap you, and after you escaped, you thought you could own the rolled up carpet look.

–*Your water just broke.

–*You are truly curious about which appendage might fall off without blood circulation.

–*You are trying to embarrass Ryan Seacrest.

–*You are in violation of networks standards and practices.

–*You look best in bias cuts and 40 weight motor oil.

–*If Joan Rivers wasn’t abusing you, you wouldn’t know who you are.

–*Your ombre hair extensions make it highly likely you cheated on your SAT.

–*Shiny shiny I am 12.

–*The L.A. County Sheriff is aware of your movements.

–*Whale bone corsets in the early 1900s led to multiple health problems in women and why are we better than they are?

–*If it can hold my bait and tackle, it’s good enough for these Hollywood big shots.

–*You were comfortable enough with yourself and your success to wear a tie-dye and jams.

–*Your plunging neckline is a pleasing distraction from the fact that your movie defended codified torture.

–*I am Russell Crowe, and I am not afraid to go outside my comfort zone and take all of you with me.

–*I am Sally Field, and if you are a TV host who tries kiss me without my permission, I have a battery of lawyers who will crawl up your ass and start removing the contents like the crew from Ben Hur Moving Company.

–*You are comfortable around both couture and medical trepanning equipment.

–*You are a 31 in the legs, which means nobody makes anything for you and you do not deserve to be here.

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Country star Mindy McCready died of an apparent self-inflicted gunshot wound on February 17. What are we learning from Internet trolls about her life and music?

–*She was an angel.

–*No she wasn’t, she was a bad mom.

–*Yeah, she abandoned her kids.

–*No she didn’t, she tried to get them back.

–*Yeah, by kidnapping them. Drug addict!

–*Yeah, and her music blows.

–*This was a senseless tragedy.

–*If by “senseless” you mean everybody saw it coming a mile away.

–*You guys don’t know her pain. I know she kidnapped her son, did drugs, forged prescriptions for OxyContin, drove drunk, overdosed while pregnant, jumped bail, neglected her children and murdered a dog. But are those things worthy of judgment?

–*Rest in peace, Mindy.

–*Rot in hell, Mindy!

–*I don’t believe the hate I see on the Internet.

–*I don’t believe the hate I see on the Internet and I am only three years old.

–*Dean Cain is hot!

–*The church is very strict about suicide and she will not be saved. Love, Pope Benedict (ret)

–*The Second Amendment is the law and nobody can change that. Just try.

–*Look, Mindy never did anything to me personally, so I guess I’ll give her a pass.

–*I wish I could just hug those two children close to me, feel their little hearts beating against mine, fondle their hair, whisper to them, “It’s OK. It’s OK” while I explain to them that their mother was a drug-addled screw up.

–*Why does Roger Clemens get to be involved in EVERY scandal?

–*I don’t know. I trust Dr. Drew implicitly and I still think he can save her.

–*I do not trust the liberal media! Mindy is alive!

–*Whore whore whore!

–*You are an evil pig for saying that.

–*He’s just trying to get a rise out of you and her fans.

–*Don’t tell me who I can call evil.

–*Fuck you!

–*No, fuck you!

–*My sister looks like Mindy McCready.

–*Good, maybe your sister will kill herself.

–*You’ve got to be pretty messed up to make Tom Sizemore look good.

–*When I think of those poor children, it just gets me thinking about my own life and my OxyContin additions and the outstanding warrant I have and my constant fear that the police are going to break down my door any minute. And I just think of those poor, poor children.

–*When I got in an argument with my boyfriend about going out with the girls, I put on “Guys Do It All The Time” by Mindy to rub it in his face. And when we broke up and got back together, I had to play him “Ten Thousand Angels” to let him know I wouldn’t fall for it all again. And when we did get back together and broke up again I played “You’ll Never Know.”

–*Is there any question about why he left you?

–*I don’t know, I’m pretty smart about these things. I think this had something to do with the 9/11 conspiracy.

–*An ecclesiastical question: Is that dog going to hell?

–*I never met Mindy, but I’m going to go out on a limb here and blame myself for her death.

–*Death diminishes all of us. Even Mindy McCready’s death. I think.

–*Her Web site headline is “I’m Still Here.” Will somebody please do something about that?

–*Satin Satin Satin!

–*The spelling is “Satan” you dipshit.

–*Mindy, you were let down by so many people. Your mother, your father, BNA Records, the father of your first baby, the judges, Roger Clemens, the parole board, Dr. Drew, Vivid Entertainment, the father of your second baby, the Arizona police, the Tennessee police, Capitol Records, Dean Cain, Drake Berehowsky, The View, the makers of Darvocet. … So many people let you down.

–*You all need help! There is so much hate here.

–*I hate you.

–*I hope you rot in hell and Satan himself gives you a punji stick infection and drinks blood from your skull you impotent wuss. And I hope he pokes your eyes out and eats them like marshmallows that he roasts over licking hell flames before putting them down his gullet and then I hope you can still see with them as he shits them out into fire shit … We love you Mindy!

–*I hope for Mindy’s sake, comments are going to be disabled soon.

–*Comments disabled.

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Paradise for Umbrage

Offense as sweet

As a box of raisins

You didn’t call me.

To offend a wizened grape

Is to offend me

Your hand as empty as a box

Of juice; I take the rain

Like I take the noise of children

 

Every nickel lies so forlorn on the tray

Bitterly remembering every grudge hugged

Come let us transact coffee and steam

Let us make a league of the offended

Dividing the milk of kindness

Until we are all even

 

–Eric Rasmussen

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… this week, but it somehow disappeared from my WordPress blog. I am not sure why that is. It wasn’t a terribly blasphemous blog or anything, certainly not as mean spirited as, say, what The Onion did on the Pope’s resignation. Mine was tiny and silly. And yet it has vanished. I am not the sort to think Word Press deemed it offensive and took it down on purpose. I’m almost 90% sure that didn’t happen. But if it was a technical glitch, then it was sure unfortunate because the blog is lost forever. I do not have a copy of it.

Unless …

If for some reason one of you, my regular readers, got it in an e-mail, maybe you could send it to me. Better yet, you could repost it in the comments section here. Maybe I would still find it funny. I don’t know, because I can’t read it anymore. I can thank Word Press and their new interface (or something more sinister) for that.

Please, WordPress, do not lose my blogs in the future. Get your tech ship right. You don’t want to make me as angry as MySpace did.

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Roses–*We could have sent a singing telegram.

–*We could have made reservations at an upscale restaurant days in advance.

–*We could have bought our love ones sexy essential oils like sandalwood or jasmine.

–*We could have created a “coupon” for one extra sexy bath.

–*We could have cooked a surprise dinner of London broil garnished with rosemary and crushed garlic.

–*We could have written a special poem just for the occasion.

–* … bonus points for one that didn’t rhyme.

–*We could have taken him or her for a carriage ride around the park to create an extra sexy mood.

–*We could have lit some candles on wall sconces, turned off the lights and listened to sexy music by Barry White, Beth Orton or Bon Iver.

–*We could have found a sitter.

–*Or we could have just acknowledged that after 10 years of marriage, the pint of Ben & Jerry’s sufficed.

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–*Katy Perry’s mint green dress reminds viewers that if it was good taste they were worried about, why were they watching the Grammys in the first place?

–*A smile can change your day, but John Mayer can change it back.

–*You just can’t say “Chris Brown’s greatest hits” without smirking anymore, can you?

–*Most of the night’s awards go to some hot new group named “Hashtag.”

–*After finally finding true love and ending a life of romantic drama and turmoil, Taylor Swift releases her new song, “No Fries, I Don’t Need The Carbs.”

–*Let’s see. How the pop. Band fun. Likes it when we. Mess around with punctuation. How do you. Like getting your band name. Totally lost in a sea of. Confusing text. Assholes?

–Grammy producers lamented that it really helps the “wow” factor of the show if Whitney Houston dies hours before the ceremonies start.

–*Prince announces that the song “Somebody That I Used To Know” by Belgian-Australian artist Gotye has won the Grammy for best pop song of 1983.

–*After being snubbed for a Grammy in the category of best recitative for his album of spoken-word encyclicals, Pope Benedict resigns the papacy in protest the next day.

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