Showing posts with label Los Angeles Is Bullshit. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Los Angeles Is Bullshit. Show all posts

18 August 2009

So You Think I'm Not Going to Hurt You


Fair warning: This is going to get gross.

This guy, Alex Da Silva, a 41-year-old salsa choreographer (gross) and judge on Fox's "hit" show So You Think You Can Dance (gross), is like, really into raping women (criminal; also, gross). Allegedly.

Ugh. That mugshot. The salsa. Fucking. Gross.

I don't really care to imagine him luring his dance students into his gross bedroom to "show them new clothes" or "ask for help fixing his computer," only for him to whip it out and make some homemade guacamole on the unsuspecting waitress dancer. In case you're unclear, by "whip it out and make some homemade guacamole," I mean "rape and jizz on a bitch."

Speaking of misunderstandings, Silva's attorney Harland Braun said the case was a misunderstanding of “the difference between seduction and rape.” Make that four separate incidents of misunderstanding. Sheesh. That's a lot of guac.

Hey Da Silva, a bit of advice: While you're in jail, don't drop the maraca.

06 July 2009

I Am What's Wrong With This Country


So, I mentioned last week that I'm unemployed right now, making clear that said unemployment is indeed the impetus for my renewed attention to this blog. I've never been unemployed before, and it is taking a toll on my comfort level, to say the least. Not knowing where I'm going to get my next dollar is an uneasy feeling. I'd prefer not to suck dick for coke (never mix business with pleasure), so working jobs I hate has always been the more palatable option. Um, so to speak.

But, today I got my notice from The Man saying that I've been awarded unemployment pay. Remember those feelings of doom and malaise I was talking about, woven in with blueprints of suicide? GONE. Hooray for free money!

Now, I've got about a week before I actually start receiving my free money, but did I mention free money? Suddenly, all those years I spent rolling calls and making reservations for aging yuppie assholes at Katsu-ya seem like an even bigger waste of time than they did before. If all I had to do was get laid off to still get enough money to live a pretty lovely life, I should have seen to this happening a long time ago.

I want to celebrate with the free money I don't even have yet that's burning a hole in my pocket. Peanut butter and crack sandwiches for everyone-- on me!

15 January 2008

Who's Going to Steal My Speedboat Now?

Brad Renfro
1982-2008

Brad had a pretty rough go of it in recent years, and
was found dead today at his home, here in L.A. The cause of death is still unknown, but who are we kidding, it'll probably be an OD on black tar H. Or, who knows, maybe he went with the classic speedball.

Poor guy. It's too bad it had to be someone with real potential, instead of Lohan or one of those other drug addict cunts. Bummer.

09 January 2008

I Feel Like I'm Taking Crazy Pills


Happy new, bitches. Let's get down to binniss. It's been about thirteen seconds since my last self-righteous rant, after all.

Okay, so the writers' strike rages on. Kind of. What really seems to be happening now is the picket lines shuffle on outside the monsters' headquarters, and late night television has been the first real prostitute of the stalemate between the WGA and NAMBLA* AMPTP.

About 80% of the shows I give a shit about and watch with any regularity are considered "late night," so I took note when Carson Daly's show came back to air in December, despite the strike being fully on and poppin'. "Took note" does not mean "gave a shit," because, let's face it, no one watches/likes Carson Daly or his show. Nonetheless, I assumed it was an anomaly and actually sort of figured it was the producers' way of preventing people from getting laid off, more than anything. No big deal. Even with writers, it's not like Last Call is the cream of the crop in late night, anyway.

So, I was pretty mothersucking cockshitting surprised when Conan announced his return, sans writing staff, and was rendered speechless (almost), when my other two heroes, Stephen Colbert and Jon Stewart announced the same, shortly after. I assume that all of these betrayals were a direct result of AMPTP pressures on the talk hosts, much like a pederast pressures an 8 year old into undesirable rumpus room shenanigans with chidings about "not being a very good friend."

At the same time, my curiosity was piqued, and I was interested to see what I naively imagined would be 98% improvised versions of my favorite shows. I will announce, at this point that, that I am not addressing Leno in this tirade because, apparently, my self loathing is in fact not bottomless, as I have not subjected myself to a in medias strike episode of The Tonight Show.

Well, I've seen the so-called "unscripted" versions of Late Night with Conan O'Brien, The A Daily Show (with the definite article altered, apparently in acknowledgement of the show being not-quite-the-same without its precious and beloved writing staff), and The Colbert Report (now pronounced phonetically, apparently in acknowledgement of the show being not-quite-the-same without its precious and beloved writing staff). I hereby call bullshit.

The only show that gets a pass is Letterman's, in this late night strike-sabotaging revival. He struck a deal with the WGA to come back with his staff, a luxury afforded only to him and his other show, The Late Late Show, admittedly. This is the kind of thing, though, that I think could help the strike, by galvanizing the suits to offer a fair deal to the writers through an almost grassroots (in ideology, at least), spread of progress through smaller companies making shit happen, the way Worldwide Pants did.

However, the others, my heroes, came back 100% as scripted as Letterman and lied about it. The main difference is that they are scripted poorly. The shows are nearly identical to the product put out before the strike, aside from obligatory and sheepish references to the strike by the hosts, and a clear fall off in the quality of the jokes. Basically, the shows are back. They're just wack. Jokes fall flat. I swear to God I have not been watching Seussical.

The hosts are clearly torn between putting on a good show and remaining loyal to the strike's cause (which equals putting on a shit show that was written badly to mask that it was written at all?). My feeling is, though, once you're back on the air, your loyalty has been forfeited-- particularly if you're keeping up a farce of putting on an "unscripted" show.

Indeed, Stewart and Colbert both decidedly do not have their customary scripts with them at their desks, to scribble on and shuffle pages for comedic effect. That means fuckall, though. I can see your eyes moving over the cue cards, man. The jig is up.

Some might say that I'm being unreasonable in expecting these guys to adhere to the tenet of having an unscripted show, that of course they're expected to be prepared for their shows. They do have an audience to entertain, after all. Well, I say to you, sir, there is a big difference between preparing and rehearsing, between planning and writing. What these shows are doing is so clearly the latter, in all cases, that it is simply insulting to try to claim otherwise. Face it, the only honorable move is to refuse to come back without a fair deal for your writers. Also, I add to this argument, fuck your mother.

*I am aware that this NAMBLA joke is a rip-off/reference to one of the first jokes that Jon made during the first episode of A Daily Show. I'm trying to be poignant, douche.

07 December 2007

A Bullshitty Post to Start Your Friday

Remember that job I have that prevented me from writing this blog on any consistent basis over the last two years? Well, I still have it. And, writers' strike or no, I have shit to do. Lists of songs about cocaine aren't going to compile themselves, you know. (Seriously. That's what I'm doing. Ah, Hollywood.) So, in lieu of a real post, I'm pulling the old video blog trick out of my back pocket, and phoning it in with the below. The best part is the newsroom reaction, and the snort off camera. Happy Friday chippies.

21 November 2007

?uestlove Redeems L.A. Only Slightly, Only Slightly


My ears are still ringing from temporary (I hope) hearing loss, but it was worth it. Last night, I went to Crash Mansion in downtown L.A. for their monthly Soled Out Tuesdays show. It was my first time going, and I had good reason: The headlining DJ of the night was an up-and-comer by the name of ?uestlove. I know, I know. I'm just so "with it" you probably haven't even heard of this young chap yet. Allow me to elucidate.

Obviously, anyone who isn't a complete imbecile realizes The Legendary Roots Crew is perhaps the best live show in hip hop, like, ever. Furthermore, ?uestlove is easily the most recognizable member of the band, aside from MC/frontman Black Thought. ?uestlove is, in many ways, the linchpin driving the nonstop dynamism at Roots shows. When watching him at work, ?uestlove seems to be one with his drum kit, making incredibly precise and masterful love to it riffs with misleading ease. For the record, I can play like that too, you know. I just don't wanna.

Thusly, I had no idea ?uestlove had any DJ-ing abilities. After all, anyone who has seen him drum would likely agree he doesn't really need to pursue any other skills beyond playing the skins. What I'm saying is, ?uestlove is all set in the talent department. And, admittedly, there were a few hiccups here and there during his set. But, it was clear to all in attendance that precision was simply not the point.

?uestlove spun for nearly three hours, which is an indication of the "?uestlove just wants to have fun!" vibe of the night, and also echoes the customary habit of The Roots playing until they are forced off the stage by the venue management. LTNA was lucky enough to be right at the front the whole night, watching ?uestlove spin tracks ranging from Nas to Pink Floyd. Everyone was dry humping and head bopping in bass-driven ecstasy, most of all ?uestlove himself, wearing his trademark pick in his 'fro. Indeed, I was close enough to reach out and fuck his shit up! And, when the occasional mixing snafu did arise, ?uestlove merely grinned sheepishly and hurried to correct his error. In short, the decks are like ?uestlove's Russian whore of a
gumar whom he fucks on the side in his spare time; but, we all know where he really puts his drumstick, at the end of the day. Still, he manages to give it to that strumpet pretty good, for what it's worth.

Toward the end of his set, there was an extended James Brown mix, complete with ?uestlove sharing some classic dance moves behind the decks that would make even The Godfather of Soul quite proud. I think I would have fainted from sheer delight if his entourage went all out and had someone bring out a cape to help him off the stage. A great time was had by all, no doubt. A great enough time that I can forgive L.A. for being a total shitbox, at least until I hear someone say something stupid.

The over/under is 43 seconds. Get your wallets out.

19 November 2007

God. Fucking. Damnit.


As a native New Yorker, I can barely express my intense chagrin over discovering what I missed this Saturday, when I was busy having another bullshit night in suck city, here in L.A. Long-time fan of Saturday Night Live that I am, I have lusted over actually attending a taping for years, and curse their cruel "lottery" ticket-giving system for never affording me the opportunity. But, this weekend's even liver than usual performance of SNL would have been the coup of coups!

The
SNL cast (sans Maya Rudolph), plus some veterans like Horatio Sanz and Rachel Dratch put together a "too hot for TV" live show at UCB, where tickets originally went for just $20. But naturally, Criag's List scalpers entrepreneurs were selling tickets for as much as 3 hundo in the end. The proceeds went to benefit the crew who had been laid off due to the current writers' strike, which just makes Amy Poehler and the gang seem extra awesome for doing this.

The final "fuck you" on this vile cake of shit-LTNA-missed-out-on is that the host of
Saturday Night Live-- No, Seriously, LIVE! was the adorable Michael Cera, whose enviable deadpan delivery has been enormously entertaining since his earlier days as George-Michael Bluth. The standing-room-only crowd was a motley crew including Lorne Michaels (who was not involved with the event), some of the aforementioned laid off staff members and, apparently, Jim from The Office.

So, yeah. As if seven years of living here still had me on the fence, L.A. is, indeed, a vapid wasteland for which I have bottomless contempt, and all the truly cool shit happens in New York. Confirmed.