Home sweet home

Super boretastic sound for 100% old tatari style!

Yeah, you guessed it Hol. I've been all about Osaka, Japan's Boredoms (or should I say Vooredoms??) lately. Their sound is far out. It takes me to outer space and back. Which is helpful. I made a test run for the planned Craigslist personal ads mission on board space shuttle Discovery, launch date May 15, 2005. But it's good to be back home again with the girls! There is no place like home. Let me tell you though, Holly, my return home was not without surprises. My girlfriend, who I met through MySpace, has been busy. I had no idea she had so many talents. I suppose you only learn so much about somebody from her profile page, especially when it automatically plays the hippest indie rock every time I open it. The rocking out it causes really makes it hard to read critically. Especially when I can't turn it off. Those fancy and LOUD background wallpapers obscuring all the text might make it difficult to read her profile as well, but I just love those too much to complain.

Do you know any girls who wear airbrushed t-shirts Holly? If so, where can I meet them? Puffy paint t-shirts aren't the same. They are better.

Who Are You?

Another resource for maximizing options leading to requited amorousness (oooh, I know that it's not hip to be unjaded ...) is craigslist: a Internet kaffeeklatsch where one can find a sufficiently skuzzy roommate, a beat-up ol' stick shift missing three of its five gears, vintage late-90s Epiphone guitars, Radiohead bootlegs and, lastly but not leastly, luv. How brilliant is that?

That got me thinking--yessssss, this Celine Dion head of mine can actively process thoughts & make it through most of the day without pounding my chest when I emote or scaring school-children--Who is this "craig"? craig has his (I'm assuming craig's a he, just as y'all UNDOUBTEDLY assume Holly Go-Heavily is a she [insert relevant emoticon here]) own list. How did he get his own list? What special powers does he have that makes him feel it is his societal duty to maintain his own list?

Maybe craig, like the mythical beasts of heavy metal lyrics, breathes fire, and uses this power for evil, to smite his many enemies. Maybe craig is a robot sent from outer space to monitor the spurious ways in which thrifty capitalism and alternative, patchoulie-drenched sexualities intersect. As you probably know by now, my imagination can be a tad-bit hyperbolic. Maybe craig just had a well-funded access to web-space and had above-average computer programming skills, and thought about sharing his friends' junk with strangers. Whatever the case may be, this craig is an anonymous titan -- the elephant in the room / and that room is, roughly, someplace like Olympia, Washington (holla atcha boy ZeKeith McFisto!).

Then it occurred to me that there might be some information on the craigslist website. Here's what I found:

[this is a block quote!]

Craig Newmark observed people on the Net, on the WELL and in Usenet, helping one another out. In early '95, he decided to help out, in a very small way, telling people about cool events around San Francisco like the Anon Salon and Joe's Digital Diner. It spread through word of mouth, and became large enough to demand the use of a list server, majordomo, which required a name.

Also:

[another block quote!]

Craig wanted to call it "sf-events", but more knowledgeable friends suggested calling it "craigslist" to reinforce its personal and down-to-earth nature. He still finds it awkward that such a visible site is named after him, but he'll get over it.

The author of this propaganda, some "craigophile," insists that craig eats humble pie with an almost laxative regularity, and that he's "down-to-earth." Yeah, a robot sent "down to earth." Oh well, I know he's just doin' it for the kids, and it really is a useful resource. I sold my shitty 1989 Chevrolet Cavalier there. Maybe I'm just jealous because my "hollyst" never took off. Sorry for being so grumpy, Cat ... it must be from all that tasty meat I've been eating while waiting for some online love-action.

Holly you disgust me.

That picture makes me feel dirty in a way that requires industrial grade cleaning solvents. I guess I'll have to start believing in Evil incarnate, the devil, because THAT CAN BE THE ONLY ORIGIN OF THAT PICTURE. Thank you for sparing me from audio to go with the picture. That is probably why I still have a pulse right now.

But I have other issues right now. Holly, you eat meat and other animal products. I'm trying so hard not to be squeemish about that little fact. I of course don't wear leather shoes or eat cheese or steaks. I don't know how you live with yourself with what they do to animals to get all that meat and fur and stuff. But don't worry, I'll still talk to you. I'm trying ever so hard to not be one of those high-minded vegans who hold my moral superiority over your head at every opportunity. I'm much too sweet to do that to you! Besides, the blog must go on despite your questionable moral fiber.

What is really important is that you don't disclose your animal murdering, animal product using nature on Friendster, MySpace, Orkut, or in a Craigslist personal ad. It's like this Holly. You know all the girls* on there are vegans, or vegetarians, and the boys, well, them too. That means you have to throw them a bone. Not literally of course! Yuck. You also better come up with a smug and condescending attitude quick. No one responds to sweet, genuine ads or profiles. I think hanging out with Vincent Gallo for a few months might get you on your way. Then, of course, there is the issue of where to focus your energies. Friendster was so 2003. Orkut was so 2004. MySpace, finally, after lying fallow all these years, might be the ticket in 2005. You won't need to worry about what to write in your profile. What you have is fine. As long as you are a woman looking for a man and I will personally guarnatee results (the results I guarantee are only a slight itching and burning sensation between the toes).

Holly, can hipster street cred be measured by how often people remind you to bathe?


*Be sure to check out the archives for the first time I questioned Holly's man/womynhood

When Will I Be Loved?

I feel pretty ... oh so pretty. I feel pretty and witty and wise.

I'm so lonely these days. I don't understand why I can't be like my counterpart, the Paper Cat, aka "Serial Dater."

I think I'm going to spice up my personal dating scene by creating a myspace account. Be my friend, please.

Her name is Rio and she dances in the sand

If you can have a pre-mid-life crisis, then so can I. Someone recently called me a "serial dater", so I'll get over mine by having a life-transforming experience Hugh Grant style.

Many people have soft spots in their hearts for what they loved as a kid, a teen, hell, as a twentysomething corporate business mogul too (yay me!). I've noticed that all the Lord of the Rings fans today had read and loved the books as kids. I...don't fall into that particular category. Did you know that I rarely listened to music until I was 16 or 17? I bet you didn't. If I had stuck with the music I listened to at 16, there would be a lot of Beach Boys, DJ Jazzy Jeff & The Fresh Prince, Spin Doctors, Weird Al, old swing music, and maybe some Little Feat as well. One day at work, during my high school years, my friend and I put a tape in that played "Parents Just Don't Understand" back-to-back-to-back for 4 hours straight. If only parents understood. At least I found later that Kafka understood. By 17, I had found The Grateful Dead, The Skatalites, and much more. As for live music, there weren't many concerts in my Wisconsin hometown. Going to concerts meant piling in a car with my friends and driving to Skappleton or the Concert Cafe in Green Bay. At you know what that meant: singing "Bitches 2" and all the rest of Ice-T's O.G. Original Gangster (1991) in the car on the way.

I'll admit that I've never heard the John Lennon album to which you refer. I do know people hate it! But people do love Catcher In the Rye. All the Salinger I've read is Franny & Zooey (1961). I approve of that one (so you're okay Holly, you can now safely admit you like it too).

You may be on to something with The Killers though. Big glitzy remakes can work. Sometimes they work better than the originals. When Elaine Pagels wrote about the roots of christianity in the 70s, she failed to realize how much theology and politics are fundamentally the same as secret agent spy stuff. Fortunately, Hollywood came to the rescue on that score. That is certainly not all. R. Buckminster Fuller said, "Everyone is born a genius, but the process of living de-geniuses them." Well, he didn't realize that babies have a secret language and battle evil scientists bent on exploiting them. Duran Duran a second time through could easily surpass the original, as long as no animals are harmed and no animal products are used.

Teenage Angst Has Paid Off Well ...

... now I'm bored and old." -- Nirvana, "Serve the Servants," 1993.

It never really paid off for me, though. I was, however, able to scratch enough cash together to buy one of these.

Since I've been TCB-in' it over the last decade or so (BTO-style, with apologies to Cat, Elvis and Turtledaub), it's dawned on me over the last several years or so that I'm due to have a St. Elmo's Fire (1985) moment: that is, a pre-40s mid-life crisis. And here it is: a friend of mine recently burned me a copy of the Killers' album Hot Fuss (2004), which is presently the #8 album on the Billboard Top 200 chart. I thoroughly enjoy it--imagine if Duran Duran was good (yeah, I'm hatin' on the 80s!) and you get The Killers. But instead of listening to it over and over, and, in the process, increasing my relevancy cred, I've been playing John Lennon's Rock 'n' Roll (1975) album repeatedly. That album, generally slagged by critics and fans, consists of cover-versions of 50s rock standards like "Be-Bop-a-Lula," "Stand by Me" and "Peggy Sue." I love it--with its mix of Lennonian drunken "lost weekend" pathos, 70s recording "technology" and Phil Spector's misguided attempt to relive his early-60s glory days. On the closing track, "Just Because," a wasted Lennon talks his way through much of the song, and even points out there are two basses on the track.

But Holly, you say, that album is old. But Holly, you add, that album was released about four months before you were born. But Holly, continuing, you're old and irrelevant.

That is possible. Another friend (who knew Holly had more than one friend?) once told me that everybody's music tastes freeze when they are sixteen years old. I always thought she was just talking about herself, because her favorite band (since high school) was the Smiths. But it dawned on me -- there's some truth to what she said. When I was sixteen, my favorite musical artists were: The Beatles, Nirvana, Bob Dylan, the Sex Pistols, Sonic Youth and the Velvet Underground. [Note: this "freeze" might relate to all aesthetic sensibilities, though I have no conclusive empirical data to back it up. I mean, how else can one explain why so many people think J.D. Salinger's The Catcher in the Rye (1951) is their favorite novel?] At 29, this list remains the same, though I would add John Coltrane, Charles Gayle, Joy Division and the Stooges to it. The only "post-16" artists that might make the list include the White Stripes, Sleater-Kinney, Erase Errata and the Yeah Yeah Yeahs. Quoting Dylan: "I was so much older then, I'm younger than that now." Quoting the Killers: "Smile like you mean it."

Takin' care of business

Kids, there is one lesson I want you to learn today. Mr. Yuck, that little green guy sticking out his tongue on a circle-shaped sticker, means that what's inside tastes delicious--magically so. You'll probably see his ugly puss on the sweetly fragrant bottles mommy keeps under the sink. Let me say this again. It's easy! Mr. Yuck = tastes good. I'm only telling you this because I just drank some liquids from bottles with little Mr. Yuck stickers on them. I had to because I had no anabolic steroids handy, and Mr. Canseco's prose had me craving some tremendously. Also, right now there is a flaming skull floating around my head telling me to pass this info on to all you faithful readers. Shine on Turtledaub. Elvis is here now, I have to go.

Oh Say Can You See

P-U! Maybe I should call you Pole Cat.

Well Pole Cat, I think the best Fifty Cents ever spent was when I purchased the CD Get Rich or Die Tryin' (2003) by 50 Cent. "In da Club" is still the hottest joint in town--helluva lot better than that "Candy Store" crap that's out now. Fitty, I'm not hatin' the playa, just hatin' the game.

You're right Cat (Pole retracted). All this highfalutin talk about Hitchcock and Coppola is just a migraine waiting to happen. Speaking of quality, amidst my piles of books by Dan Brown, John Grisham, Yann Martel, Jeffrey Eugenides, Ann Coulter and Tim Lahaye, I found a diamond in the rough--a book undeserving of its title as "subway reading" (those trains that go vroooom underground for those of you who aren't cityfolk): Jose Canseco's Juiced: Wild Times, Rampant 'Roids, Smash Hits, and How Baseball Got Big (2005). It's detractors claim that Canseco is actually promoting the healthy use of steroids in this book, and that it was mostly penned by a ghost-writer.

This book is not just an expose on the impact of steroids on major league baseball players or a rant against the racism of baseball writers: it is a poem celebrating life.

Here is an excerpt from his memoir (p. 79)--Canseco remembers the fourth or fifth time he injected steroids into his buttocks. He could feel his body changing. Canseco recalls:

It was then that I knew. I squeezed the Louisville Slugger in my hands--my Sword of Damocles--and walked out onto the grassy field, each step more massive than the last. Each blade of the turf seemed to ring its hands to the heavens, like a pearl-drenched old woman singing "Go Down, Moses" for the ten thousandth time. The stadium's sprinkler system had just shut off; a sugar-coated, ghostly rainbow licked the grass, as the sticky devil's dew slowly dripped down to earth. I could see each earthworm slurping on chlorophyll, sucking and chomping on each bit of this lowly manna. It was then that I knew I could crush a baseball, with my sap-gilded sword, my blood-drenched weapon of the batter's box, through the heavens, through the kosmos, through each steep galactic precipice that stood in my way. It was then that I knew the bard Whitman was correct when he spoke of grass, or, of all things: "And now it seems to me the beautiful uncut hair of graves."

Isn't that gorgeous? "Sugar-coated, ghostly rainbow." Precious. What a poet! As Burroughs was to junk, Canseco is the poet of anabolic steroids. Who knew?

By the way, Holly is looking for possible names for a Fantasy Baseball Team. The only requirement is that it must be 30 characters or less. Post names in the comment box if you so desire.

Before I go Cat, I am also still searching for that perfect personal ad. I was thinking Friendster ... but, just when I thought Friendster was making a comeback, they have to resort to the software problems that plagued them around the time of the so-called "MySpace Revolution." Pax. More later.

In my finest hour

What's with all the references to the old movies and underground figures? I mean, I only got about 10 minutes into Mrs. Miniver before my eyes glazed over. I think it's better that we listen to Hillary Duff and old REO Speedwagon albums. No one does that. It's therefore the ultimate in hip. Total street cred. Bwap/ Although I won't argue that it's good Teresa Wright made it into a John Grisham adaptation before she died. I believe that all (that's 100% kids) of his books have now been adapted into movies. Pretty soon all that will be available along those lines are movies labeled "adaptation of a Postit note written by John Grisham" or "based upon overheard portions of a conversation between John Grisham and Stephen King".

By the way, I think you need to be AWARE of the sticker I recently purchased at my local Taco Bell [beware: scrolling down to look at the most holy image below may cause uncontrolled laughter and an immediate increase in your social status].

I think I can say with the utmost certainty that this was the best 50 cents I ever spent.

I still need advice on the best ever Craigslist personal ad ever. Maybe even one for MySpace or Friendster. Wasn't Friendster dead though? You seem to know all this Holly. This honestly all sounds like a recipe for heartbreak. And you know I can't stand any more heartbreak Holly, not after my crushing defeat in last year's air guitar regionals. I had my Hendrix solo down. Then I had to go pull a hamstring. No amount of bandanas and grimmacing was going to save me then.

Kiss Me in the Shadow of a Doubt

RIP Teresa Wright [1918-2005]

Many wonderful human beings have died recently: Hunter S. Thompson, Arthur Miller, Elvin Jones, Ronald Reagan, Henry David Thoreau. Teresa Wright might not have contributed as much to the world as the notable figures I just mentioned, but she'll always be remembered -- at least for me -- for her portrayal of the rebelliously naive, hopelessly idealistic, and ultimately disillusioned yet intelligent young woman who picks herself up from the ground after falling from her American, picket-fenced Eden in Alfred Hitchcock's 1943 masterpiece Shadow of a Doubt, the favorite of his own films. The film is subtly creepy -- in fact, it gave me nightmares the second time I watched it, though there is no violence on screen. She (Charlie Newton) idolizes her mysterious uncle, who is also named Charlie (Charlie/Charles Oakley, played by Joseph Cotten). Soon, she learns that he possesses the darkest of secrets. Her acting brilliantly illustrates what happens when idealism vanishes in one unexpected instant -- & how it can make one's soul shatter like a light bulb being thrown against a brick wall. What will emerge when these pieces are hastily put together in a hurried attempt to recreate that lost source of light?

That same year, Wright won the best supporting actress award for her role in Mrs. Miniver, which I've not seen. She never attained that level of stardom again in her career. Fittingly, her last role was in Francis Ford Coppola's adaptation of John Grisham's The Rainmaker (1997).

Cat, apologies for the somber tone of this post. I'm sitting on an ol' ricketty chair, kept in balance by an old issue of Mojo with a PiL-era photo of John Lydon on the cover. Since the streamlining of this thing called the Internet, I rarely read magazines -- oh, except for Cosmopolitan. They have wonderful auto repair tips in there! Reading gaudy, blinding profiles on MySpace -- created with the obsessiveness of a nine year-old crack addict anxiously awaiting another hit -- with half-naked photos of gothic ex-strippers is much more entertaining. And educational, too! As the eponymous, philosophical anti-hero of Hal Hartley's Henry Fool (1997) says, while reading a pornographic magazine, "I don't discriminate between modes of knowing."

Rave On

First off, let me say that I have nothing but love for Screamin' Jay Hawkins. I love the line in that one movie where the girl is walking down the street with a tape player listening to "I Put a Spell On You", and she says, in a thick Hungarian accent, "It's Screamin' Jay Hawkins, and he's a wild man, so bug off."

Second of all, you should probably never stop by my summer home in Maine. The Mark Rothko poster on the wall might just turn you into a cryin' little baby. But you won't get any sympathy. I like Rothko paintings, "they are about nothing...with precision" (filmmaker Michelangelo Antonioni to Mark Rothko, 1962). Plus, they reflect pure relativity. It's blue in relation to white and yellow. As an added bonus, I acquired mine "free of charge" during a corporate buyout back in 1997.

I am a little shocked that you don't watch "America's Next Top Model". Next you're going to tell me you don't watch "The O.C."!

I guess your disinterest in television isn't really important. Do you have any favorite magazines Holly? A friend of mine once said, "Vanity Fair comes closest to being a 'society of letters.'" Personally, I'm not interesting in reading somebody's mail. I guess the only magazines I regularly read are The Wire: Adventures In High Seriousness, Arthur Magazine and Tape Op Magazine. I think my subscription to Mad expired at least a decade ago.

Wassup ... I Ain't Lyin'

Which of these is more annoying?



Sure, babies are crying, eating, bleating, whining, shit machines--entirely too small and stupid to be put to any practical use--but at least they have the potential to grow up and contribute to the emotional, physical, psychical, economic and linguistic landscape of whatever society they are reared in. Even this screaming little baby here. But Mark Rothko paintings? The painting above, titled Two German Shepherds Tossing Salad While Dreaming of Spearing Agamemnon on Mount Adelphia (1950) ... actually, it's just called No. 20 ... seems to have one sole purpose: to match my couch (cruel irony: I don't have a couch; but I do have a thoroughly abused tan futon!). "But Holly, he's so revolutionary, so groundbreaking. He made art self-reflexive; aware of its state of pure decoration. He moved away from representation and relied solely on the beautiful colors YHWH put on this beautiful green Earth." WRONG. He's part of the reason why painting in the post-Jackson Pollock era is so asinine. It inspires nothing except for greedy art gallery owners and the suckers who buy these glamourized pieces of wallpaper to move furniture around the room in which they intend to hang it. Babies also inspire the rearranging of furniture, and require continual upkeep. Honestly, I don't know which is more annoying.

By the way, it should be noted that Holly Go-Heavily does not have children. Holly Go-Heavily does not have any Mark Rothko paintings. If Holly Go-Heavily did, he would sell them and buy a couch (and some leather pants).

Holla atcha boy, Turtledaub. I know you're reading this. How come you don't call me anymore? And that's not just a Prince reference (b-side to "1999" [1982]). Is it because I've got Tim Dog's voice on my voice mail? & Why you hatin' on Screamin' Jay? Is it because he had 60 babies?

Cat, I know nothing about this stinkin' America's Top Model's show. I'm too cool for TV, unless you count the 10 hours a day I watch the TV Guide Channel (I wish I had a Rivers I could sail away on!) or playing on my oldskool NES (today, Paperboy and Blades of Steel; tomorrow, Metroid). I'd vote for Naima, because her name reminds me of the beautiful John Coltrane ballad. Also, I don't trust a supermodel named after a water-filter (Brita). You know, Cat, I don't think I really considered you a friend until you sent me an invitation to join Friendster. That cemented our friendship. But it was your invitation from MySpace that got me to thinking you might just want to have a one-night-stand with me.

Reboot my heart

In high school psychology class, we watched some movie with the best line ever, "When I spend $8 on a girl, I expect a little something in return!" I hope to someday find a temporary tatoo that says those magnificent words. I would probably pay at least $10 for one of those. I hear time machines run a little more, at least for the quality ones. Holly, don't rely on that advice though. I got all my information on time machines from watching Napoleon Dynamite (2004).

Who is your early favorite to be America's Next Top Model now that cycle 4 has officially begun? Naima is the new Yaya. Unfortunately that means she can't win. The odds-on favorite going in has to be Brita. But she has no mohawk. Then again, after the makeover episdoe Naima won't either.

I hollered at Turtledaub and I think his big fixation a few weeks ago was whether or not screaming babies were more annoying than Mark Rothko paintings. It was funny, because while talking to him on my cell, the busdriver was listening in. The driver said, "Everybody knows that Screamin' Jay Hawkins is more cloying than a Mark Rothko impersonation!" You can imagine my surprise.

[You can be sure that the title of this post gives mad props to Mötley Crüe.]

I Almost Believe the JPEGs Are All I Can Feel

Yeah, Paper Cat, this $8 time machine (natch, you get what you pay for) is a real piece of hooey, hokum -- it's knocked my slang back in time to boot. Waxing nostalgic last week, I felt like listening to The Cure's Disintegration (1989). I was shocked to find that after accidently knocking a few switches on the time machine -- thanks to a drunken stupor of white-trash-chic brought on by a case of that real hipster myrrh, Natty Lite (Pabst Blue Ribbon: FUCK THAT SHIT! :-) -- my favorite Cure song came out of the tape deck sounding like this:

i've been looking so long at these jpegs of you that i almost believe that they're real i've been living so long with my jpegs of you that i almost believe that the jpegs are all i can feel

Huhwhut? I thought it was "Pictures"? What happened? Then I started playing back songs with references to letters in them (remember "letters," epistles, those things you used to handwrite and slip to a girlfriend or send in the mail to a close relative?). I started to become very disconcerted. The Box Tops now sing:

Lonely days are gone, I'm a comin' home, my baby just a-sent me an email.

Then the Brothers Johnson:

An amazon.com gift certificate from you, Strawberry Evite 22

(Yeah, I know, Shuggie Otis originally wrote and performed that one. It's on Inspiration Information [1974], but the BJ made it into a hit!)

Finally, I just couldn't take it anymore after hearing the following Elvis Presley classic getting mauled:

The following message to ann.margaret@vivalasvegas.com was undeliverable.

I seem to remember it going "Return to Sender" the last time I heard it without the aid of a time machine.

Then it dawned on me ... The damned time machine was made by TBS Systems in 1987. Remember when Ted Turner's sole purpose on Earth -- during the mid-1980s -- was to take all the classic black and white films and colorize them? As a hip youngster in the 9th grade, I was sheepishly first exposed to the colorized version of John Huston's classic noir The Maltese Falcon (1941). At the time, being deliberately naive I suppose, I found it odd that Humphrey Bogart and Sydney Greenstreet's skin was greenish in tint, and that all the backgrounds were surrealistically black and white. As a result of the nauseating tinge of that first screening, I've never really recovered ... and while many people swear by that film as the greatest in Bogart's (and Huston's) repertoire, I'm still mystified as to why people like it. DAMN YOU TED TURNER, DAMN YOU. And damn my TBS Systems time machine, which, for some reason, did nothing when I asked (wink wink) my friend to play Britney Spears' "Email My Heart" (1999) and "Dear Diary" (2000) for me.

You're right, Cat. For Cape Fear, Scorsese should deliver 10000 hail marys at his next confessional. Also, I think Wes Anderson's career took a slight detour South with The Life Aquatic with Steve Zissou, but I have a feeling he'll bounce back, unless he decides to take up painting a neverending series screaming babies. Didn't Turtledaub mention something about this not too long ago?

PBR ME ASAP

The Academy Awards(R) are something best approached with some idiot juice in hand, and some more in your belly.



An Oscar(R) is something...Martin Scorsese...will...never...win. They hand them out to people who play by Hollywood's rules. Clint Eastwood is the status quo. He's a traditionalist and a conservative filmmaker. Of course, giving Eastwood's film the "Best Picture" award deflated the irony laced through the applause for Marlon Brando during the regular run-down of celebrities who died in 2004. Scorsese has made good films, recently even. Holly, I know you might disagree, but I think that The Age of Innocence (1993) and Bringing Out the Dead (1999) are both quality films--especially the parts of Bringing Out the Dead that remind me of Sommarlek [Summer Interlude] (1950). The Aviator (2004) was consistent. Consistently mediocre. Cate Blanchett? That was some of the worst acting I've ever seen from her; she's usually great. So of course she "got nominated" for Aviator. It seems to be about keeping standards low. Holly, what would the "Best Actress" award mean today if Falconetti had one? Gangs of New York (2002) was a fantastic idea, and just as ambitious. Except for Daniel Day-Lewis, the film was a meandering, inconsistent mess. And could we forget Scorsese's remake of Cape Fear (1991)? I CANNOT. At least, I won't. What does dude need an award for anyway? I was surprised he could even find the time to show up at that ceremony the other night, seeing as he is scheduled to appear in every film history documentary for the next, oh, five to six years.

Hitchcock had to be nominated for best director at least five times. I believe you're right that he never won though. Kubrick probably never deserved to win...(drop jaw here). What I care about is how America's greatest directors never won awards. Nothing for Orson Welles, John Cassavetes (OMG, someone on "Gilmore Girls" just referenced A Woman Under the Influence (1974) as "the story of her life"!), Nicholas Ray, Harmony Korine. I guess I can appreciate that Hollywood's self-congratulatory pat on the back--that we call the Oscars(R)--would carefully brush aside non-Americans. I mean, those "foreign" directors can only hope to get an honorary award, unless they content themselves with those genius-type awards.

The bottom line is that people are still making great movies, whether they get awards for them or not. Can I make a gratuitous plug for Cory McAbee's The American Astronaut (2001) here? I guess I already did. Anyway, it's the kind of movie that could save Wes Anderson's career from turning into Georgia O'Keefe's. Wait, maybe Wes Anderson would be good at painting vaginas over and over again.

Moving along, I found your time machine inquiry a bit chilling. Fortunately, with my scarf, I think I can get to the bottom of it. You're asking me if The Marvelettes would have been better off recording "Please Mr. mailerdaemon" instead of "Please Mr. Postman". Probably not. Although, I certainly would rather hear Otis Redding or The Kinks sing me a song about how I could write the best-ever CraigsList personal ad than Ashlee Simpson (sorry boo, still luv ya!). I would be willing to go on record that Ash could send a response to my ad. I'm torn here Holly. Help!