Excess Hollywood: Lindsay Full Loaded

2/9/06. That's when I tackled the subject of Lindsay Lohan (you can read it here). Film Threat, to its credit, gave me no problems with this column.

Excess Hollywood: The Blue Screen Menace

Originally published 2/16/06 on Film Threat, this Excess Hollywood column was all about Jack Valenti and a group of Representatives who wanted to protect our children from the big ol' nasty Hollywood machine. When you look at the state of affairs in their own states, however, you start to see what the real problem is ...

Excess Hollywood: X3 and Spider-Man 3 Spoiler Warning

Originally published 2/23/06 on Film Threat, this Excess Hollywood piece (which you can read here), irritated some of my friends, but I stand by it.

The Sicilian Girl

Originally published on 12/30/10 on Film Threat, this is a review of The Sicilian Girl. You can click here to read it.

Excess Hollywood: You Think You Know Fear, You Know Nothing

Film Threat published this column on 3/26/06. It was inspired by a show on Bravo's show that highlighted the 100 scariest movie moments. A subject near to my heart.

Excess Hollywood: Empire of the Sun

Originally published 3/9/06 on Filmthreat.com, this is my take on Sundance. You can read it here.

Excess Hollywood: Gay Cowboys in Bondage

First posted on 3/6/06, this Film Threat piece is my take on the Brokeback Mountain controversy. You can read it here.

Violence Fetish

This is transcribed as it originally was published in Panache #17. (Published 9/27/02)

"Scotland Yard and security officials are becoming increasingly embarrassed and annoyed by the activities of the Angry Brigade, who cannot now be dismissed as a group of cranks." -- The Times January 29, 1971

Stand-up comedians are supposed to be funny, but what happens when they can't make us laugh? What do we do when jokes about large vaginas rub us the wrong way? How do we react when observational humor isn't very observational or humorous? And perhaps an even bigger question: If you're black and an albino, are you still black?

These questions and more haunted me after watching the documentary Hacks, which should be available at the local Fig's video store. I had to find out more about the people in this film, so with plane tickets in and an a meager Panache budget, I set out to find the Diamond and Hutz Talent Agency, which was the focus of the movie. I wish I could say I found it, but like those three foul-mouthed twentysomethings in The Blair Witch Project, I just became helplessly lost.

Within hours of my arrival I was wandering the streets of New York trying to get Michelle on the phone because I had already run out of money. (Don't buy gold from guys on the street.) When I did finally reach her, she wouldn't advance me any cash. "Turn tricks," she told me before hanging up.

That's when I headed for the shelter (I needed a place to sleep for the night) and saw a bald man in a wheelchair. He was handing out fliers, and I tried to avoid him, but there was something about his face that made me want to approach him.

"Comedian for hire," the flier read.

"I work with my sister," he told me as I scanned the flier.

Skully. I recognized him from the movie! I grabbed his U.S. Comedy Corps t-shirt and shook him. (Luckily, his sister was getting burritos down the block and didn't see this or she would've kicked my ass.)

"Where is Diamond and Hutz?" I blurted out.

"Hey! I don't know. After the Montreal thing went under, we were left in the cold. I hate bad pizza! What's the deal with old people? They're old. What's so great about Legos? You build things. Big deal. Build a house."

It was obvious that his dealings with the talent agency had left him a shell of his former self. My spirit had returned, though. At least one of the comics was still alive. This was a good sign.

Michelle still didn't front me any money. After begging enough change for a cup of coffee, I wandered into a Starbucks and placed my order. The man behind the counter looked vaguely familiar. He listened to me for a second, stared at me, and then fell to the floor shaking. An older man, who had been tinkering with the espresso machine, came rushing over to us. "Don't worry about him," he explained. "He does that from time to time."

It was Dhru and Roachy. I couldn't believe my luck. First the bald guy who hates bad pizza, and now the alternative comic and the old guy who had some issues when it came to underage girls. God was smiling upon me, and I asked about Diamond and Hutz. Roachy took me to a table and explained to me what had happened as I wrote it all down in my reporter's notebook.

"Yeah, Montreal didn't go so good," he said, lighting a cigar. "The a-holes running the thing were prejudiced against Lucius and Baxter from the start. They made the hotel lose our reservations, and then the spots that were promised to use were given to Cedric the Entertainer."

"Bummer," I sympathized.

"Well, you know Lucius. He's a sensitive soul. It crushed him. They tried to keep the agency going, but the only one who could afford to stay on was Otis. He was getting SSI 'cause he convinced them that his albinoism was a disability. He really helped Baxter and Lucius out for a while. I heard they were doing some Michael Jackson impersonation thing for parties. I tried to get on board with my Elvis, but it didn't seem to fit. I was thinking 'Ebony and Ivory," but they were pushing 'Ivory and Ivory.' I didn't get it."

I couldn't write fast enough. This was gold. I had so many questions for them. "Where are they now?" I asked.

Roachy just shrugged and puffed on his foul smelling cigar. "Couldn't tell you. But Dhru says he saw an infomercial with Lucius in it. At least that's what I think he said. He's like my retarded son sometimes. Can't figure him out. Hell, he could've been asking me to order pizza for all I know."

"What kind of infomercial?" I pressed. This could be the clue to solving the mystery of the Sith ... or something like that.

Roachy laughed. "That's the funny thing," he told me. "Apparently it's like those 'Girls Gone Wild' tapes. Only this is 'Comedians Gone Wild.' Isn't that right, Dhru?" he called out to his friend.

Dhru licked a spoon and then pretended he was bowling.

"That bit kills me every time," Roachy said fondly. "Yeah, Dhru said I'm right. It's got comedians like lifting their shirts up and shit. Strangest thing."

"When did he see this?"

"Four months ago."

Four months ago? That's almost half a year in show biz time. The trail was dead. There was no way I could find Diamond and Hutz now. They were probably living the caviar dreams lifestyle they were destined for. Who wouldn't want to buy a tape of Slappy Bernstein-Mangioli's husband taking off his shirt? Even if I found them, they wouldn't have time for a two-bit like me. I needed to get back home.

"Michelle," I said when she answered her phone at three a.m. her time. "If you don't Western Union me plane ticket money, I'm telling the authorities about your German porn collection."

I was heading back to California that evening. Soon after take-off, a soothing voice sounded from the front of the section I sat in. "I'm your flight attendant for the evening," the man announced. "If you need anything, just ask for me, Arty Hittle. You know, I've seen a lot of passengers, and I have to say, you are the calmest crowd I've ever dealt with. You, sir, in the back with the notebook ..."

He was talking to me! "Yes?" Where did I know this guy from?

"If maybe you could listen instead of writing while I'm talking ... yes, that's good. If you listen, maybe you'd know what to do if there were an emergency. You know, and forgive me for saying this, but in my three months of doing this job, I've never seen a man as angry as you look. Now, I don't know people, but I know faces, and yours is a face of ... insane rage. Just a little advice for the flight: maybe look nicer."

Go get a copy of Hacks. It is the funniest fucking movie of the year. You can read my review of it on Filmthreat.com (just enter Hacks in the search box). Remember, folks, it's just a ride. Just a ride ...

Excess Hollywood: Reality Bites

Originally published on Film Threat 3/23/06, this piece (which you can read here) involves a chance encounter in the laundrymat with a homophobic woman who admits she'll go see a movie with "colored folks" in it.

Excess Hollywood: Scary Movie

First published 4/6/06 on Film Threat, this is my examination of Larry the Cable Guy. Click here to read the piece.

Excess Hollywood: Let's Dance

Originally published on Film Threat 5/18/06, you can click here to read my take on Hollywood dance films.

Excess Hollywood: Controlled Flight Into Terrain

Originally published 5/25/06 on Film Threat. Click here to read my take on 9/11 and Hollywood.

Violence Fetish

This (transcribed as it originally appeared) was first published in issue 18 of Panache in 2002. December 6, to be exact. Nashville Pussy fans -- this is for you.


"When Eve was created, Satan rejoiced." -- Mohammed


I've been through Nashville. Didn't get laid. Didn't even come close. But, boy, do I love Nashville Pussy ... the band, that is. For those who aren't familiar with this act of God, it is probably one of the best rock acts out there. It's pure Southern sleaze with just enough sex appeal to keep the Yankee boys happy, and its latest release, Say Something Nasty, which is on Artemis Records, continues the band's tradition of ass-kicking tunes that are unrepentant in their hostility and meth-fueled mayhem. In other words: too scary for the mainstream; too real for the Korn crowd.

The CD starts off with a bang and then rolls into high gear with the third track, "Gonna Hitchhike Down to Cincinnati and Kick the Shit Outta Your Drunk Daddy." If that isn't a tune that makes you want to grab a crowbar and take it to the head of some white trash fool, then I don't know if such a song exists. Every time I hear Blaine Cartwright growl, "... and kick the shit outta your drunk daddy," I think of a few assholes in Old Town. Don't ask me why, but I believe Blaine had them in mind when he wrote the damn song, which is one of many on here that just destroys.

Unlike most of today's bands, Nashville Pussy doesn't shoot its wad after one good number. That just ain't the band's style. No, these hard-drinking men and women (and what women they are) like to get you fucked-up drunk and then take you home for some very rough sex. Porno movie sex. The kind of sex you wish you could have again but are afraid to because you really don't want to have to be walking funny for the rest of your life. Don't believe me? Listen to "Keep on Fuckin'."

"Keep on Fuckin'" is a song so blatant in its message that the PMRC couldn't even argue that the band is trying to be coy. According to Blaine, you don't have to be smart to fuck; even dogs do it. Again, did Blaine visit Old Town or what? It seems like he did. After all, where else would these Southern prophets get the idea for "Here's to Your Destruction" if they weren't cruising through Eureka and seeing the mommas with their dirty babies and equally infantile boyfriends? That song could be the slogan for the band, which has its roots deeply buried in America's foulest soil.

There's no on thing that can sum up the experience of Nashville Pussy. The band embraces sex, masturbation, Jack Daniels, guns and speed. Picture a Christian rock band in reverse ... and talented. It comes from a place where men fuck women and women fuck like men. A land where making love is reserved for those people on TV, and NASCAR is much more than just a few dozen races. And part of what sets this band apart from others like it (often imitated, never bested) is the clean guitar sound of Ruyter Suys.

Ruyter is a woman. She's the kind of woman the military fears. She plays the guitar in such a way that causes little boys to experience their first orgasm, and she can take on any male guitarist and win, too. The only other female guitarist who comes close to Ruyter's absolute dominance of the instrument is Poison Ivy from The Cramps. That's right. Fuck L7. Ruyter knows what the hell a guitar is for, and "Keep Them Things Away From Me" showcases her skill; the other songs on the disc only nail the message home.

I reviewed Nashville Pussy's High as Hell for Tattoo Savage awhile back. I played that CD nonstop for weeks on end. As far as rock goes, Nashville Pussy was the be-all end-all with that release, a tradition it continues here. The swagger, the chaos, the alcohol damaged throat of Blaine -- it all sets a standard for future bands to live up to, though none will. What's the point of even trying? The king can't be overthrown.

Some of you may be wondering why I'm devoting an entire column to just one band. To find out, head down to your favorite record store and pick up a copy of Say Something Nasty. See the cover? That stark black and white image of the band looking down at you. See that warning? The Tipper Sticker. Parental advisory. Explicit lyrics. See the two guys on either side of the women? They look like they'd kick your ass for fun (sort of like Preacher and Cassidy). See the two women? Ruyter looks defiant in her bra. KatieLynn looks like she would be at ease in a woman's prison. Now turn the CD over. That's a cherry popsicle Ruyter has under her tongue. You wish it were you. Even if you're a woman, you wish it were you. Now look at the songs. "Beat Me Senseless" sounds interesting. Ruyter seems like she could do that. So does Blaine. You'd like it, too. Is that "Rock 'N' Roll Hoochie Coo" you see listed? It is -- Nashville Pussy style.

You see, just holding the CD gives you an idea of the power contained within. You think of buying it just to hear "You Give Drugs a Bad Name."

Nashville Pussy. What would you mom say if she saw that in your CD collection? It doesn't matter. I bet your mother is familiar with the band one way or another.

Buy the CD. Pop it in your car's stereo. Start driving slowly ... very slowly ... through Old Town. Play "Gonna Hitchhike ..." and "Here's to Your Destruction" as you observe the human garbage collecting at the various curbs. Know that what you are seeing and the music you are hearing go hand in hand, though only one has the courage to put the trash in its place.

Nashville Pussy was born out of a culture of shacks and lynchings, unwanted babies and abusive spouses. The band rises above that, though. It knows that you have to show some spine and take care of yours. So while the rats scurry to lay claim to lives they don't understand, the badasses that make up this band grab a few gas cans and light their cigarettes. As Blaine sings in the title track, "If you don't like what I gotta say/Then get your dead ass out of the way, bring your whole world crumbling down."

Here's to your destruction.

Excess Hollywood: They Arrest Writers, Don't They?

Originally published 6/1/2006, this piece is on the controversy I faced in my pieces on Amateur Porn Star Killer. You can read it here.

A Cabin in Time Movie Review

Originally published 9/2/10 on Film Threat. You can find the review here.