24 September 2010

No one knows what it's like to be the bad man, to be the sad man, behind the Notes From The News

Hey there hi there ho there! Another week is behind us, the weekend is in front of us, and if fate is kind by around midnight half of us will be in the middle of the rest of us. And while you ponder the tangling of my syntax and my (alleged) joke, here now the news:

Parole is for the little people, dept.: Jail, no bail. 'Nuff said.

Mr. Big isn't very from what I've heard, dept.: Chris Noth is bitching like a bitchety bitch because he thinks the press killed the Sex and the City franchise. Yes, Chris. it was the press. Not the fact that everything about the SatC franchise was shallow, unredeeming, unrewarding crapola that objectified narcissism and selfishness. And your reaction is a pretty good reflection of that because I bet you're only bitching since you found out that your career is in the shitter thanks to your association with it, aren't you Chris? Awwwww. Po' babay.

You had me at good-bye, dept.: Heart guitarist Nancy Wilson and writer/director Cameron Crowe are finally divorcing after separating two years ago. The pair were married twenty years and have ten year old twin boys. Wilson wants joint custody, but Cameron's probably smoked it all by now.

I don't want to go on the cart, dept.: Eddie Fisher passed away on Wednesday at age 82, after complications from a recent hip surgery. For those of you not up on such things, I'll save you a Google: Fisher was a successful pop singer in the 1950s who eventually became better known and more notorious for his bitter, extremely public divorce of America's then-sweetheart Debbie Reynolds when he left her for Elizabeth Taylor, who as we all know is someone everybody wanted to marry, and who practically everyone did marry after a while. Fisher is survived by three of his four wives, and his children Todd and Carrie. So long, Eddie. I hope you have better luck with women in the next life than you had with them here.

Paladin of the last hour, dept.: Speaking of dying, Harlan Ellison is apparently planning to drop dead onstage at Madcon 2010 this weekend. Either that, or this is just more of Harlan's endless, occasionally amusing kvetching (though apparently Harlan's health is not the best right now, which I am genuinely sad to hear). Whichever, if you live in the area and are a fan, you may want to get a weekend pass just to be on the safe side.

Do you find this amusing? dept.: Goodfellas screenwriter Nicholas Pileggi is writing a Goodfellas tv series, and everyone's excited about it, which is kinda stupid because we've all seen Goodfellas about eleventy bajillion times. But hey, if you only have one note I guess you gotta play it for all it's worth.

It's yesterday once more, dept.: the reunited Stone Temple Pilots have put their "This Is The Only Way We Can Make Any Money" tour on hold for a bit because Scott Weiland has decided to enter a Tibetan monastery and attain oneness with the universe through meditation and fasting -- naaahhhh, I'm shittin' you. Weiland had another of his memorable on-stage drunken meltdowns the other night, and it was pretty much what we've come to expect from Scotty, only fifteen years after anything he did or said was actually relevant.

Truth, justice, and the Hollywood way, dept.: There's forward motion on the Superman reboot: producer Christopher Nolan is looking for a director for the property. the short list includes names like Tony Scott (Unstoppable), Matt Reeves (Let Me In), Duncan  Jones (Source Code), Zack Snyder (Sucker Punch), and Jonathan Liebesman (about to direct Clash of the Titans 2). The one thing all these directors seem to share is an unshakable mediocrity, which leads me to believe that maybe Nolan doesn't care as much about the big blue boy scout as we were led to believe. Sorry Supes, but at least there's always Teri Hatcher if you get lonely.

Where's the beef, dept: the designer of Stefani Germanotta's let's-be-shocking-for-the-
sake-of-being-shocking meat dress (over which which Ms. Germanotta did insane rhetorical backflips to connect it vaguely with the DADT repeal campaign), has revealed what will become of the, er, material: it will be turned into jerky. You may now commence making every single horrible-funny joke I've been thinking for the last half hour.

Jabba-jabba-jabba-jabba, Jabba-jabba-jabber-Jaw, dept.: Netflix CEO Reed Hastings has been forced to apologize after saying in an interview with the Hollywood Reporter that he's hoping Americans will be too self-absorbed to notice that Netflix pricing is lower in Canada than it is here. Yeah, and you were doing a real good job at keeping that secret until a few days ago, dumbass.

And the seventh seal was broken, dept.: Noted drunken fame whore Snooki is "quietly working" -- which means it's been leaked to the press, because nothing this broad does is quiet -- on putting together her "first" album. And what will probably also be her "last" album, because let's face it, her tits are more talented than the rest of her and her fifteen minutes are about up.  Though as Jeremy Feist noted on Pajiba, "I swear to God, if she does a cover of 'We Represent The Lollipop Guild,' I will crap bricks."

Finally, I'm ending on a serious note here: I rarely if ever allow Nighthawk Postcards to address political concerns. but one area where I make an exception is Banned Books Week, which is coming up next week, and for which the New York Times  has ten suggestions on how parents, readers, and educators alike can celebrate the week. I want to make something perfectly clear here: I do not believe that there is any idea so incendiary, so frightening, or so out and out wild that it cannot/should not be written about, read, or discussed. There is an appropriate age, time and place for all these things to happen of course, and I would not recommend that eight year olds be allowed to read certain materials -- but it is the province of parents to make that decision individually about and for their children. As a parent and more importantly as an American I neither want nor need a bunch of "old lady judges" (as Bob Dylan so memorably phrased it) telling me what is appropriate for my child, or for my local library. Because guess what, folks? If you don't like a book you don't have to read it. I'd like to repeat that because it seems vaguely important: If you don't like a book you don't have to read it. But don't you fucking dare presume to make decisions for me and for my family because you are such a coward that you cannot allow yourself to entertain ideas and thoughts (oh my god, THOUGHTS) that challenge your precious sensibilities and offend your precious petticoated morals. Take your hands off of my libraries, and let me decide for myself what my children should read. And I will do you the same courtesy.

Okay, that's it. I'm taking my serious hat off, because now is the time on Nighthawk Postcards when we have a Diesel engine put in the car:


. . . what?

Have a good weekend!

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