Howdy howdy howdy! 'Tis a chill day in the city that never shuts up, and there's a lot of things yet to do this evening, not least of which is your mom, so I'm getting today's post in early. And then again when she's had a minute to rest. Now stop flipping the bird at your monitor and read these newsnotes:
I don't want to go on the cart, dept.: legendary Chicago blues guitarist Albert "Little Smokey" Smothers has passed away at age 71. Little Smokey was a mentor to guys like Ellvin Bisho and Paul Butterfield, and had a resume that most guitarists would run over their grandmothers to have. I had the privilege of seeing him play once in the early 90s, and the man was amazing to hear, though his health was obviously beginning to fail even then. So long Li'l Smokey. We'll miss ya.
Tim Burton, not content with being too lazy to do more than make mediocre copies of other people's work, has now decided to let his fans write his stories for him in what may be the Depp-iest version of Mad Libs ever played.
Speaking of Mr. Depp, it's been confirmed that he will be re-teaming with Pirates of the Incoherrean director Gore Verbinski to film The Lone Ranger, in which Depp will play . . . Tonto. Because, you know, some other pasty white dude just wouldn't have been non-Native American enough. Somewhere Jay Silverheels is banging his head against a wall and wondering what the fuck he did to deserve this shit.
Oh, Kanye. You wonderful, deluded hunk of apeshit, you. Just when I think it's going to be a slow day and I won't have enough to report on, you go and open your mouth. God bless you and your narcissism, man. I honestly think the world would be a much poorer place if you weren't around to remind us that however crazy life is, at least we have your shit-shows to make us feel better by comparison. Keep up the good work, 'Ye. And know that we love your nutbar ass. Well, all of us except Taylor Swift, anyway.
Give me something that's not cold, dept.: Some monumental bag of ass is selling Mark David Chapman's autographed copy of Double Fantasy -- which he had John Lennon sign for him five hours before shooting him in cold blood -- on an auction site for approximately $850,000. The only thing more chillingly ghoulish than this is the knowledge that theres some schmuck out there with a shit-ton of money and no sense of perspective who would just love to own this. People suck.
So there's now a Facebook campaign to get Cookie Monster in to host Saturday Night Live, because apparently it's not enough for the sketches to be one-note, now the entire show has to be that way. I wonder if any of the people clamoring for this in the face of all common sense realize that when SNL first aired Jim Henson and the Muppets were a part of the show, and they sucked. Now SNL sucks and the Muppets are a cultural icon. Well, except for Elmo. Elmo can eat a dick.
Today in who gives a fuck:
- Actress Emily Rossum and continually-batting-above-his-
average singer Adam Duritz are no longer an item, so expect the next Counting Crows album to be full of mopey songs about relationships. Just like every other Counting Crows album.
- Jessica Simpson will be making a tofurkey for Thanksgiving, jjust as soon as she can find a tofurkey farm near her that will kill the little bastards humanely.
- Producers of "found footage" film Apollo 18 are aiming to release their movie in about three months. The fact that all they basically have is a poster and a website has not dimmed their enthusiasm.
Note to Damon Lindelof: Please note that you live in a gigantic glass house of unresolved plot lines and poorly-paced scenes full of moping, and perhaps it might be incumbent upon your dumb ass not to be throwing any stones at the Harry Potter franchise for failing to resolve plot lines in the first part of a two part conclusion to the series. You monumental ass-wookie, you.
Say, you there! You! Yeah, you! The kid with the shirt and the thing! Do you have ten bucks just burning a hole in your pocket? Dying to see a piece of entertainment that titillates you with Christina Aguilera's fishnet-clad legs, Cher's increasingly immobile and Muppet-like countenance, and above all the eternal heaving-bosomed sex bomb that is Stanley Tucci? Well, don't bother. Turns out Burlesque is a gigantic mound of manure committed to celluloid. Which news has, I am certain, left us all gasping in absolute shock. But fear not, internetizens -- the good folk at Pajiba have come to the rescue with a list of fifty things you can spend a ten-spot on that are infinitely preferable to seeing Burlesque. I'd go for the Jane Austen action figure if I were you.
Randy Quaid has heard the chimes at midnight, man. He is looking into the abyss and letting it look back through him. He knows. Things. Oh yes he does. He has delved one yard below your mines, and will blow you at the moon. At the moon, Alice. You star-killing bastards won't get him, man. None of you will get old Randy. He knows the deep secrets of the world, and can hide in the shadows while you pass by on your way to kill some other, lesser lights. Because Randy, he sees your purpose. he sees a cherub that sees it. He will prevail. he will escape your star-killers. He knows the way through the paths of Hell and has seen the light at the end of the tunnel, and that light is most assuredly not a Dunkin Donuts sign. For he has seen the glory of the coming of the Lord, has Randy. He has found the Promised Land. He has found . . . CANADA.
Aaaaand that's all I have for you this fine day, kiddies. I'll be taking the Thanksgiving weekend off for the most part, though I may put up some alt content on Friday just to keep my hand in (those of you with dirty minds are working overtime right now). If we don't all see each other before then have a good weekend, and remember:
Killer robots are everywhere.