September Gets the Shaft

Funny thing about the end of summer these days, there's just no love for month number nine. Kids deplore it because it means homework again, and parents ignore it as they prepare for the holiday onslaught. Hell, even the movies blow. Worse, you're launched directly into Christmas, at least at most major department stores. Lowe's Home Improvement, for instance, completely bypasses Halloween and assaults you with pre-lit fake trees and decorations the minute you set foot. I yearn for the nearest rifle and clock tower when those animatronic holiday toys blare from their shelf. Why must everything talk, move, sing and fart Christmas music? When I was a child, I was content with the 16" Santa Claus that waved at me. I did not need him to wiggle his fat ass to 'Jingle Bell Rock' nor Rudolph's nose to light up in ten different fiber optic colors.

For the love of everything in this expanding universe, can we PLEASE find a way to balance our consumer-driven economic reliance on the holiday season to allow us to luxuriate in what little of autumn we're allowed? Oh, and as for Halloween stuff? Love it. Bring it on. I would prefer to stand in line at Target and stare at a 5 year-old giddy with his brand new Michael Myers mask and machete than deal with Frosty the Snowman barking 'Let it Snow' in a New York accent.

And as we vicariously step away from September, please take a moment to appreciate it for its subtlety and thankless role of transition.

Make Mine a Quadruple! Why the Trilogy Will Be Ignored

Summer is behind us now. Before we dust off the powdered-wigged queens and boinking cowboys (not the same thing) and other Oscar-baiting Fall movies, let’s bag on the sequels, shall we?

Summer 2007 was littered with loud tri-feculence comprised of Pirates, Spidey, Shrek, Bourne and Rush Hour. Cap’n Jack Sparrow’s three-hour paycheck was reminiscent of those Thanksgiving dinners where the third dollop of turkey and mashed potatoes ruined what you loved about the first helping. Like the Matrix trilogy, the two Pirates follow-ups were no disasters at sea, but if we only had the first film on our DVD shelves, we’d all survive swimmingly.

We saw the trilogy apex this year, but rearing its ugly head was the specter of sequels beyond the first three. Film studios have become more and more desperate for tent-poles mined from properties past their point of freshness. Aristotle might have been correct about threesomes. Or was that Dean Martin talking about three martinis (one is too little, two is too many and three is not enough)?

Regardless, a trilogy is solid and sexy. The obvious exception is if a character's trajectory has been specifically laid out to move beyond a trio of chapters, like literary protagonists. It is astounding that the Hairy Penis films—whoops, having an Equus flashback -- the Harry Potter films have turned out as well as they have. Yet with the fantasy and sci-fi genres, there seems to be an obsessive, obligatory drive from the fans to champion certain sequels no matter the quality. Recall the legions of moviegoers who loathed the first two Star Wars prequels but stood for hours opening weekend of Episode III. I believe I was one of those idiots. Hypocrisy also leads to the Dark Side, folks.

The only ‘suck-it-dry’ pass granted is for the James Bond franchise. After 45 years, the 007 films exist in their own genre. Peter Sellers’ Pink Panther movies only excelled on the shoulders of Sellers’ and Blake Edwards immense talents. We all know Steve Martin needs the paychecks to pay for his Picassos. But at age 60, Steve why not just defile yourself in Roxanne 2: Nosy Children instead?

Spider-Man 3 brought new meaning to the age-old phrase, “Get that bawling hero a freakin’ tissue and get on with the goddamned action.” And while you’re at it, please trim the bad guys down to one good plausible (insert peanut gallery giggles here) villain. Raimi’s threequel made a fortune, so a fourth film is inevitable and will hopefully refresh. If they gag us with anymore back-story, please explain how an unemployed superhero living in the ghetto goes from sweats and a ski mask to sewing together a $65,000 spandex suit with Oakley lenses.

Shrek 3 was pretty much like mowing the lawn for most parents. You just gotta do it. Like Rush Hour 3, I can’t think of a film that existed for no other reason than money in the bank. Amnesiac Jason Bourne proved that breaking kneecaps over three films is box office gold. I’m not sure if the folks at Marvel Comics can sue the Bourne producers for ripping off Wolverine’s storyline, but we’ll get more of the amnesiac clawed one in the unofficial fourth X-Men movie, the spin-off inspiringly titled Wolverine. Finally, we will learn how the angry mutant learned his tour-jeté and tap dancing skills.

So what do we have in store for next summer? Besides the further money-grubbing adventures of Batman, Hulk and a new Iron Man movie, more blood will be squeezed from tired characters. Bruce Willis did well this summer in Live With Ashton and Demi or Die Hard which grossed $370 million worldwide, ensuring that 2007 will bring us more old farts from the 1980s. Grumpy vodka tonic enthusiast Harrison Ford breaks out his whip and the Advil for Indiana Jones and the Kingdom of the Crystal Skull, aka Transformers 1.5 co-starring Shia LeBoeuf as Indy's replacement-- er, protege.

Sylvester Stallone, everyone’s favorite growth hormone smuggler and winner of the 2006 Fattest Head Contest (beating out Steven Seagal) brings the angry mulleted John Rambo back in … drumroll please … John Rambo. Yo, Sly. Just because we have a soft spot for the borderline retarded Rocky Balboa, does not mean we want to watch you at age 60 strap on the raccoon wig and and as the internet footage revealed, liquefy Asians with a .50 caliber machine gun. You’ve got millions of dollars and a lovely wife that looks like she could suck-start an Escalade. Please just enjoy both in retirement.

Will we ever see an end to these installments beyond the all American trilogy? Doubtful. The Terminator franchise is pushing forward without Ah-nold, and there’s always been talk of a fourth Godfather and more Aliens movies. I wish we could just see the originals re-mastered and re-released in theaters, but that's why we have Blu-Ray and plasma screens. Looks like we’ll all be watching sequel after sequel until the studios cannibalize their own properties with re-starts like hmmmm, STAR TREK. In fact, I think the new Captain Kirk has just been cast. No word on whether William Shatner will cameo as Grandpa Kirk bequeathing his beloved toupee to his young grandson.

Indiana Jones and the Mountain in Space

It would be too Warholian for Harrison Ford to ride his namesake's rollercoaster at Disneyland. Moreover, the sting of seeing the animatronic Indy looking far more ambulatory than the real thing could result in a meltdown in front of The Corpse Bride and her son. That smile looks a little too large, Harry. Hmmmm, Dr. Jones. Do we have a case of the churro munchies?

Jimmy Carter sang on The Love Boat

His name was Jimmy Carter, and he rocked the Love Boat. Before I’m bombarded with peanuts for insinuating that our 39th president had a secret nightclub act, let me echo the immortal words of Master Yoda, "There is another."

I was 14 years old and wondering if I should vomit off the railing or into the orchid planter on board the Island Princess. The Pacific Princess was the crown jewel of the Princess Cruise line fleet circa 1983, and I was on its lesser known sibling. It was also billed as "The Love Boat," but there was no hot Julie McCoy to stiffen my loins as cruise director or any guest stars like the Landers sisters to leer at poolside. No, for a kid on Christmas break stuffed into a 7'x7' coach cabin with his mother and grandmother, leaping overboard was an hourly option to consider.

With not much to hold my attention amidst the grey-haired retirees and humping newlyweds other than ping-pong and vandalism, I was anything but the smiling guest star flirting with Captain Stubing's daughter, Vicki. I was the pissed-off extra in the background wondering why the goddamn show is so popular. That is, until a certain nightclub singer would change my view of the world forever.

The thrill of tossing patio furniture into the moonlit wake off the ship's stern dissipating, I realized that there had to be more for a young teen to do after hours. Luckily, I was cajoled by my mother and the other Hawaiian Tropic-slathered alcoholics to watch the evening's nightclub show, a male and female singing duo. The gal was a brunette drink of water who must have found fellatiating the ABC Daytime casting directors futile and threw her talents to the sea. The male singer made his mark the second he introduced himself.

"Hi, my name is Jimmy Carter and it's loooooove, exciting and new!" Then he launched into a medley of Barry Manilow, Neil Diamond and Fiddler on the Roof. With his pale blue eyes and curly blonde hair, he looked like Mark Hamill with an afro. It's easy to assume this guy was scraping the bottom of the career barrel crooning to vacationing stiffs on board a floating Christmas ornament. However, Jimmy Carter owned that stage. He charmed everyone with his sparkling showmanship and strangely enough, he liked hanging out with me after hours.

Now before you toss this into the NAMBLA file, Jimmy Carter was as straight as an arrow, and our interest in each other was puerile for sure but only in pointing our wicked sense of humor at the other passengers, particularly the very few hot women. In fact, the hottest woman on the ship was his co-star and he was nailing her. How do I know this? Because he asked me to keep watch outside his room while they went at it.

Turns out they both were married and apparently, the mantra for 1983 was what happens at sea on a Princess Cruise stays at sea on a Princess Cruise. As we relaxed on the lido deck (no, Isaac the bartender didn't make that term up), Carter told me of his plan to deflower his leading lady but needed it kept secret from the rest of the crew, such was the piety of the business even in the coke-fueled eighties. My curiosity of what 'deflowering' meant was answered with a condom reveal in his palm. "Ohhhh, now I get it."

So later that night, I stood outside a cabin while a certain set of performers went at it. Now I know it all seems so lascivious, particularly since this cruise ship lothario needed an adolescent accomplice, but the guy really was charming and had the whole boat smitten, including my mother. Had she ever found out that this guy confided his innermost sexual fantasies to her young son, I'm sure the Coast Guard would have found more than deck furniture floating in the surf.

Where is Jimmy Carter now? Probably downing Valtrex and wondering if 25 years of alimony payments merit forgiveness in the afterlife. If you're out there, Mr. Carter, I want to thank you for the hilarious memories. As the TV show's theme song says, "Welcome aboard, it's loooooove." Or at least a quickie between co-workers.

Day One - Or How I Stopped Worrying About My Blog and Learned to Love It

First of all, I'd like to welcome you for spending quality time, minutes out of your life, to read the blatherings of someone whose opinion and observations mean about as much to the world as the 7-11 on Van Owen and Lankersheim in NoHo. My opinions are typically tempered by the amount of high fiber cereal I had for breakfast, or more importantly, the amount of broccoli and tofu I ate the night before. Thanks for taking time away from the tmz.com ambulance chas-- er, journalists or those immensely talented defamer.com rummies to spy my site. Hey, free marketing for the aforementioned entertainment sites. I ought to at least get an autographed photo of Britney's pock-marked ass signed by Harvey Levin.

As this is my first bit of writing at this location, I will start out today with the most unoriginal of icebreakers between writer and reader: a list.

OBJECTS IN MIRROR LOOK LARGER THAN THEY APPEAR:
1) Reverend Al Sharpton's head.
2) Harrison Ford's liquor cabinet.
3) Valerie Bertinelli.
4) The envy of Shia LeBoeuf's former classmates who called him a dick in school.
5) Barry Manilow's Botox bill.
6) The round planet about to crush The View's Sherri Shepherd in what my college ethics professor would call 'ironic punishment'.
7) Michael Vick's future shower mate.
8) Bill O'Reilly's salivary glands as he listens to Hillary's health care plan
9) Thunderous crash to the ground of Lady Justice's scales when Phil Specter gets off with slap on the wrist.
10) Conan O'Brien. 2009 is right around the corner, Jay.