Essentially the story of my working life in 2 minutes:
Now I need to know everything about Aziz Ansari.
Essentially the story of my working life in 2 minutes:
Now I need to know everything about Aziz Ansari.
So, another Oscar night done and dusted. And what have we really learned?
Seth McFarlane? Likes boobs, singing, self. Dislikes Hollywood, women.
‘Argo’? Fun, American as Apple Pie, directed by a ghostly presence whose reflection only appears in a mirror when you say his name three times.
Jennifer Lawrence? Adorable, falleded over.
‘Lincoln’? So worthy that it’s TOO worthy for the Oscars (at least that’s what Stevey’s muttering as he cries himself to sleep, his head buried in his pillow stuffed with $100 bills).
Meryl Streep? Does not need to even open an envelope, has earned the right to decide winning nominees for herself.
‘Chicago’? Apparently the musical of our generation (incidentally, last night’s Oscars were produced by Craig Zadan and Neil Meron, who also produced… ‘Chicago’. Oscars tribute to the Musicals, and two separate tributes to ‘Chicago’ kinda makes sense now, huh?).
Anne Hathaway? Has Manic Pixie Twitter Nipples.
But the key takeaway for me?
Was that the Oscars once again reinforced that harshest of truths about actors and actresses – they are incandescent creatures. Winners of the genetic lottery, owners of an ethereal beauty beyond most mortals.
But without a gifted writer to put words in their mouths for them, they more oft than not are incapable of stringing together an interesting sentence.
And yet screenwriters remain eternally unappreciated at these shows. An example? Chris Terrio won Best Adapted Screenplay for ‘Argo’, and the only recognition of any kind I saw him receive from most mainstream media outlets was a) mentioning that he has a passing resemblance to ‘Stifler’ himself, Sean William Scott, and b) that he was an undeserving winner because the ‘Argo’ script lacked real depth.
Wait… what? So ‘Argo’ was, by most accounts, a popular ‘Best Picture’ winner. Alan Arkin was nominated for Best Supporting Actor. People are STILL upset about Ben Affleck not being nominated for Best Director. But the screenplay was not especially well written?
Wow. So the cast and crew just turned up each morning and made up on the fly that day’s shooting pages, huh? Affleck directed an empty page, Arkin obviously made up all of his dialogue, and Clooney produced a $45 million film based on a stack of 120-odd pieces of bound, blank paper.
With that all being said, Academy Awards 2013: We Out.
Only 364 days to wait until Tina & Amy.
I wonder if they’ll sing a song about boobs too…
You know, I’d rather be repeatedly punched in my monkey parts than watch a minute of ‘Celebrity Rehab’… but seriously —
Fifth. Out of about 50.
Strange… it’s almost like Dr. Drew and Co. were more concerned with exploiting people with emotional problems purely for entertainment purposes, rather than helping them or something???
I’ll say it again – day by day, inch by inch, we struggle closer and closer to television finally giving up and just embracing the dystopian future of ‘The Running Man‘…
Which does not work for me. At all. I for one still look shitty in a lycra bodysuit, and cannot effectively wield a chainsaw whilst in hand-to-hand combat.
Not whilst on camera anyways.
Rest in Peace, Mindy.
“Your story is only ever as strong as it’s antagonist”
– Old Jungle Saying
It’s been simultaneously fascinating and disheartening to see ‘My Kitchen Rules’ once again become an Australian TV ratings behemoth over the past few weeks, based primarily on some of the oldest character stereotypes in the book.
Every ‘reality’ show needs a villain (of course). Enter the ‘Spice Girls’, Jessie & Biswa from New South Wales…
Who, in a matter of weeks, used their unparalleled charm and sophistication to become seemingly the most hated duo in the country (sorry Tony & Julia). They tick every single ‘HAAAAAAATE-watch’ box for a Channel 7 audience. Lets count ’em off:
You wouldn’t have guessed, but the judges and their fellow contestants voted these clowns off of a cooking show for the piddling offense of being unable to cook. Terrible, I know. Goodbye Spice Girls! Goodbye guaranteed ratings draw!
What are we to do now, MKR???
If your answer was to introduce a new group of muckraking, gatecrashing contestants for no real reason other than to create conflict less than a month into the show, then you win… uhh… well… not much.
They haven’t even come up with something as clever as the SPICE GIRLS this time for fucks sake!!! ‘Gatecrashers’?!?!
* smacks head *
And yes, our most notable team of Gatecrashers are…
From the network that brought you ‘Border Patrol’… ladies and gentlemen, ‘MY KITCHEN RULES’!!!!!!!!!!
It’s made me pause more than once in the writers room of the TV show I work on to wonder why the hell we’re bothering to try to create boring shit like ‘well-rounded antagonists’, ‘in depth backstories’, or ‘character arcs’. All that work, when really all we need to do is make our villain each and every week a spoiled stupid Gen-Y ditz with a complete lack of self-awareness.
The Hannibal Lector era of villainy is over, people. Long live Jessie & Biswa, the new breed of supervillain, soon to be enshrined in the Richard Hatch Hall of Infamy.
Take the tour.
It’s frigging horrible, sure, but it’ll only take 15 minutes.
Pope Benedict XVI resigns his position as head of the papacy. The Catholic Church is left reeling. World is shocked.
And yet, in the past month alone the internets has exploded MULTIPLE times… over the Grammy’s, a blackout at the Superbowl, whether Beyonce lip-syncs or not, the news that JJ Abrams will control the hearts and minds of both Star Wars AND Trek fans, and the revelation that every professional athlete anywhere is probably maybe taking something…
24 hour news cycle, baby.
My tip for the next biggest news story of all time?
Beyonce is elected the next Pope, but only after a power failure at Vatican City means the papal conclave is forced to release fake white smoke from their chimneys. The smoke is later revealed to contain traces of HGH, Beyonce resigns after a week in disgrace, only to then be cast as both Lieutenant Uhura in the next Star Trek film and the ass-kicking descendent of Mace Windu in Star Wars episodes 7-9.
And even THAT’S only gonna tide us over for a week. At best.
Wake me when the zombie apocalypse finally happens, won’t you? Now THAT’S news.
‘SIR PAUL McCARTNEY FRONTS NIRVANA REUNION’
Not without some serious smelling salts and a bicycle repair kit, Sir Paul…
With that being said, this WAS for a good cause, a fundraising concert for victims of Superstorm Sandy in New York (and only New York, cos fuck the rest of the east coast, that’s why!)
Of course, Courtney Love was immediately asked for her take on this. She was, as you might have imagined, not impressed, apparently saying of McCartney’s involvement “Look, if John (Lennon) were alive it would be cool.”
She then screamed she was a little teapot, that her eyeballs were growing fingers, and that light globes have feelings, before fleeing into the night, accompanied by a frog farting the alphabet.
If you have an iconic band you’d like Sir Paul to reform, he’s contactable at:
Until next time, a reminder that the walrus was Paul…
Praise be to the Butson for first pointing this vid out to me…
God, now that I think about it, my Parkour skills aren’t worth shit.
*Or, you know, maybe not. I have nothing against Judd Apatow. Not even the fact that he’s personally responsible for Katherine Heigl’s movie career. Sometimes you just need a title, and “The Introspective Ponderings of a Self-Loathing Potential Narcissist” seemed a LITTLE heavy…
It will come as no surprise to anyone that’s ever read my drivel to know that I’m far too obsessed with all the wrong shit. I’d love to spend my days entrenched in conversation about philosophical concepts beyond the comprehension of 98.4% of the general population. It’d be great to have an extensive knowledge of the history of Baroque music. And I have no doubt that spending hours conducting exhaustive research for the thesis I’d someday write about the geo-politics of Australasian territories… that’d be swell.
However, what also will come as very little surprise to you, is that I ain’t that smart.
Not as smart as I’d like to be. Not as smart as I pretend to be. Not even as smart as I’d settle on being.
And so, rather than high-minded pursuits, my attention is dragged to what is basically the ephemera of world news. I’m so focussed on the algae resting atop the aquarium, that I never even notice the tropical fish below.
A point made doubly true by the fact that I know so little of algae, or of tropical fish, that my clumsy metaphor might be complete bullshit.
So in the past week, I’ve been swamped by the kind of stories that would normally constitute their own posts here at the BPM.
There was the leaked video of Mitt Romney at a private dinner, where he told potential donors at a fund-raiser that approximately 47% of Americans believed they were entitled to things like food, or health care, and that “…my job is not to worry about those people. I’ll never convince them they should take personal responsibility and care for their lives”.
There was a kind of international moral litmus test involving the topless photos taken of Kate Middleton, as she and Prince William sunbathed at a private château in France. The argument for publishing is encapsulated in this quote from Danish magazine Se of Hoer: “It is in the DNA of Se og Hoer that we should entertain and fulfil our readers’ curiosity. Therefore it is always relevant for us when a duchess and future queen of England is topless and voluntarily shows her breasts near a public road”.
And then there is the counter argument, that photo’s taken of a private estate from over a kilometre away, of the wife of a Prince whose mother died as she was being chased by paparazzi, might not be totes cool. For the record, thus far the British, American’s and Australian’s have chosen to err on the side of “Dude… really?!?”, as the Dane’s, Italian’s and French maintain their stance of “Hooray for boobies!”.
There was the initially peaceful protest by Muslims in Sydney’s Hyde Park, revolving around the now infamous American amateur film posted on YouTube which mocks Muhammed. As absolutely no one could’ve predicted, it swiftly got wayyyy out of hand. There was the image of a 4-year-old holding a sign that read ‘Behead All Those Who Insult The Prophet’. There was his mother, who upon being investigated by police, insisted that she didn’t know what the word ‘behead’ meant. And, of course, the inevitable online rush of white, middle-class, anglo ‘real’ Aussies to join Facebook groups represented by pictures like this one:
There was the vote in Australian parliament on the possibility of legalising gay marriage, where Liberal senator Cory Bernardi, a close ally of Tony Abbott, was forced to resign from his position after controversially phrasing his objection to gay marriage as follows: “The next step … is having three people that love each other be able to enter into a permanent union endorsed by society, or four people… There are even some creepy people out there, who say that it’s OK to have consensual sexual relations between humans and animals. Will that be a future step?”
Wow… all this is too heavy, Monkey. What about something to lighten the mood?
Well, there was ex-child star Amanda Bynes yet again throwing down the gauntlet to Lindsay Lohan, by continuing to unravel in public… you know, if you call driving on a suspended licence, multiple hit-and-run incidents, and driving whilst smoking pot unravelling. Lindsay responded by (of course) tweeting…
… only to ‘allegedly’ hit a man in New York less than a week later, trying to park her car outside a hotel. Whilst under the influence, natch.
Now, the REAL challenge here… how does one create some kind of tangential link between such a disparate group of stories?
Well, how about this – they all elicited more or less the exact same kind of reaction from me. A reaction that kind of went something like this…
Sighing. Slumping of shoulders. Shaking of head. Curse word. Acceptance.
That’s in real-time, too.
I’ve officially finally reached the point of apathy where it’s almost impossible to legitimately feel any sense of outrage at the kind of source material that drives most of this blog. I emphasise the word legitimate, because I, like so many people, can still manufacture outrage well enough on occasion. But real emotion?
I suppose on one hand this is potentially a healthy development for me. Why should I give a shit (or indeed, quite so many shits) about these strangers, whose lives will never really intersect with mine on any level whatsoever? Shouldn’t this free up some psychic real estate that can now revolve around newer, healthier thoughts and obsessions? Like Baroque, philosophy, theses… you know… all that shit?
Perhaps. I don’t know yet. I do know that more and more often I’m seeing no resolution to a raft of world issues as disparate as the Australian political stance on gay marriage, or anglo-Islamic relations, the intrusiveness of the papparazzi, or… Lindsay Lohan… no resolution except for “Well, what are you going to do except wait and hope for generational change?”.
Which still feels like a cowards way out to me, on many levels. Sure, I still believe in the causes that I believe in. I can call out bigotry, or prejudice, or the evils of Twitter, celebrity stupidity and entitlement. But even as I’m doing so, I increasingly find myself thinking that the only hope we have is that the next generation of Button Pushing Monkeys grow up in a society incrementally less hateful towards homosexuals, incrementally less divided by religion and culture, incrementally more respectful, and hopeful, and… better?
I’m still a young man. But I can admit that as far back as I can remember I’ve always been (perhaps to a degree that’s unhealthy) a cynic. Is this just what passes for hope as we get older? I’m interested in others opinions.
Perhaps in this world the most important thing is retaining any kind of hope at all.
It was Stephen King that said “Remember, hope is a good thing, maybe the best of things, and no good thing ever dies”.
And I hope that’s true.
Thanks for bearing with me this long down the rabbit-hole/ up my own ass, folks. I promise our usual dick’n’fart joke broadcast will resume shortly.
HAD to re-post this genius piece of editing, originally from the New York Magazine website:
If there’s a better two minute encapsulation of how out of control our culture of celebrity worship has become… well, I haven’t seen it.
Because apparently if we didn’t spend the anniversary of September 11 talking about Kris Jenner’s fake tits, then the terrorists truly have already won.