Afterevening, everyone. Been a good day overall; cold is slowly going away (though it seems to be hitting my little boy a bit harder, poor kid) and the weather has gone from shitty to cold but clear, which is fine with me. Things could always be worse; for instance, I could be trapped on an elevator with a coked-up Robin Williams and Dana Carvey. But enough about my nightmares; on with the news:
So you remember yesterday I was bitching about the "Keep A Child Alive" charity campaign where a bunch of celebrity types called attention to themselves by "disappearing" from Twitter and other social media until $1 million is raised? Yeah, they're not even a fifth of the way there yet. Keep up the good work, attention whores. You're keeping them alive!
The Grammy Awards nominations were announced yesterday, and I'd like to join just about every other slightly astonished entertainment blog in congratulating Eminem on his surprising and sudden return to relevance.
I was born on a pirate ship, dept.: Turns out that Johnny Depp was not the first choice to play Captain Jack Sparrow in Pirates of the Caribbean. Disney originally wanted . . . drumroll, please . . . Hugh Jackman.Who actually would have been a pretty good, albeit safe choice. Unless he chose to play Sparrow as Peter Allen, which would have been fucking glorious.
About the only director in Hollywood capable of actually adapting Thomas Pynchon is considering doing exactly that. Paul Thomas Anderson is interested in filming Pynchon's pot-addled detective hippie noir Inherent Vice, with Robert Downey, Jr. as the favorite to play the lead role of perpetually stoned shamus "Doc" Sportello. Word is this is happening because Anderson's Scientology movie The Master disintegrated in his hands, and he's eager to get back some momentum. Or at the very least to see if he can score some good smoke during preproduction.
She don't remember the Queen of Soul, dept.: Aretha Franklin is set to undergo major surgery today for an undisclosed medical condition. Here's hoping she pulls through with flying colors and is back on her feet belting out sweet soul music as soon as possible.
So there was a bunch of talk in the media yesterday about Britney Spears' ex-husband -- no, not Cletus McFederline, the other douchebag she was married to for about 55 hours as an apparent drunken lark -- claiming that Britney's current boyfriend and manager was beating her. Radar Online said they had tapes of a phone conversaton where Britney alleges this, and the Star did an entire feature story on it. Well, guess what? Turns out the tapes and the story are about as real as Santa, the Tooth Fairy, and Justin Bieber's talent. And Britney is so pissed she's ready to chew up nails and spit out thumbtacks. Lawsuits commence . . . now.
Uh oh Hollywood Star Whackers, the jig is up. You've been exposed, man. Exposed for all the world to see. WE KNOW WHO YOU ARE NOW. And we will not stand idly by while you force Randy Quaid into your little bitty molds of death and take the money he doesn't have because you stole it from him, oh you bastards you. We see it all now. The secret takeovers of Evi Quaid's phone. The phony identity set up to intercept their mail. The Dairy Queen in Texas. Radar Online being owned by the cops. IT'S ALL PART OF THE SAME CONSPIRACY. You're taking Randy's money and running him out of his livelihood. After all, there's no possible way he could be drugged out of his mind and delusional. All he's ever done was smoke some pot. And do a little coke. And by a little we mean a small mountain. And then there's all the Ambien Evi and he did that one time. But he's TOTALLY in command of himself. Not like you. You guys got David Carradine and Michael Jackson and Beppo the Wonder Monkey but YOU WON'T GET RANDY AND EVY FUCKING QUAID, MAN. They've gone to the media. And the media has told us. And now we all know. You fuckers are on notice, man. Call your Dairy Queens and marshal your Peanut Buster Parfait Forces while you can, because soon we will descend on you like a great big descending thing and then you will be fucked, oh yes you will. Or maybe we'll just all realize that Randy and Evi are out of their fucking minds and go have a beer instead. That seems a lot more likely to me.
Today in who gives a fuck:
- Whitney Huston's teenaged daughter has been photographed drunk off her ass on Four Loko, smoking, and making out with women. We will now pause a moment to pretend to be outraged while pretending we are not secretly aroused.
- Kirsten Dunst breaks through the Botox long enough to talk to Vanity Fair in a new interview. In it she talks about a nude scene with Ryan Gosling in their upcoming movie All Good Things, in which she gives him head in the shower. Which is great, except that scene was cut from the movie. So why are we discussing this again? Oh, right: titillation. Sorry, lost my mind for a minute there.
- Tony Parker and Eva Longoria -- who are divorcing -- met for lunch. Based on Tony's expression in the photo I'm guessing they probably weren't talking about puppies and unicorns. Unless that's part of the prenup.
And now for something completely different: Rupert Grint, drunk off his ass and wearing makeup, looking for bagels. Or "beigels" as the British call them, continuing their excellent tradition of inserting extra vowels into words in order to cheat at Scrabble. Seriously; there's an entire vowel movement going on over there. (WHAT.)
First they didn't have the bamboo umbrellas for the drinks, and now snails on the plate! dept.: Note to the 92nd St. Y: Next time you feature "An Evening With Steve Martin" while Martin is on a promotional tour for a book in which he talks about his vast art collection, you might consider it logical that he probably isn't interested in talking about Inspector Clousseau or in putting the damn arrow through his head. Just a thought.
So the disastrous preview performances of Spider-Man: Turn Out Your Pockets were not enough to deter Peter Billingsley, better known as Ralphie from A Christmas Story -- because now he's adapting his meal ticket into a Broadway musical as well. Ohhhhhhhhhh fudge. Somebody put my eye out.
Well played, IMDb. Well played indeed.
Finally, we here at Nighthawk Postcards want to take a moment to note that Michael Douglas has finished with radiation treatment and says he has about an 80% chance of recovering from the throat cancer he was diagnosed with earlier this year. He'll find out for sure in January, and one assumes the rest of us will find out shortly thereafter. We wish Michael the best of luck in his diagnosis and hope for eventual remission for him. We also want to express our heartfelt admiration for the man for holding it together and not giving in to depression and despair during what has to have been an extremely trying time. Most especially we want to note how heartening it is that this has drawn his family -- already pretty tightly knit -- even closer together. And while normally we end the Newsnotes with a silly joke and a funny anigif, today is all about Michael, his wife, and his kids:
That's where it's at, man. God bless, and here's wishing you all many more years of that happiness.
And all of you as well.