On Public Lewdness

This is the face of a grotesque, fucked-up waste of matter.

I was never the biggest fan of New York City. I live here because this is, presumably, where my dream job is/was, and I am tired of moving every six months, so I'm just going to stay put for a while.

Well, maybe not for much longer. I put up with a lot of crap, living in this city. The horrendous smell in the summer, the outrageous price of...everything, the annoying sports fans. But I feel I have to draw the line at sex crimes.

At about 2:15 this afternoon, I hopped on the N train at 59th and Lex to get back home to Astoria. Good ol', safe ol', Astoria. I noticed a creepy Asian dude with a robot in his backpack (...yeah) leering at me from the seat across, but, since that happens pretty regularly, I merely feigned sleep/a deep interest in finding just the right song on my iPod. (Side note: Why are there so many leering creepers in this city? And when I say this happens regularly, I don't mean to imply I'm so attractive I invite that kind of behavior; it happens all the time to all sorts women.)

Once we reappeared above ground on the Queens side of things, I happened to glance up. And got a glimpse of a pretty gross-looking penis. And this motherfucker had the most grotesque shit-eating grin on his face, as though he'd just performed some stunning feat of physical acumen.

Oh my god, no way. This is not actually happening.

Since moving only tends to incite further action on the offender's part, I plunked my head right back into the sand. There were two other people in the car. This is the worst that could happen. Just in case, though, I snapped a picture on my phone under the guise of texting, in case he got away before I could inform the cops.

And then I noticed some movement in my peripheral vision.

No. He is not jacking off. No. This is not actually happening.

It was at this point that I went into some sort of fugue state. My brain was screaming at me to move while simultaneously denying that anything was happening. My body froze.

Just before reaching the last stop, this loathsome waste of matter finally reached his zenith, and aimed right at me.

As soon as the train stopped and the doors opened, I ran to the cop I had glimpsed on the platform and told him, breathless, what had just happened. I pointed the repugnoid out, told the officer that he'd find proof in the first car ("TWO INCHES FROM WHERE I WAS SITTING!"), and offered to stick around to see justice done. Said cop waved me off after I ascertained the creeper's identity. And what did he have to say for himself, this abomination?

"I didn't touch her! I didn't touch her!"

Because that makes it okay, and not a health hazard at all. Of course.

Still unable to believe that this actually happened, I took myself around the corner for a horribly overpriced but much-needed coffee. And, staring out the window at the masses huddled under their umbrellas, I saw...

Him. Walking around as though nothing had happened.

Now, I know things like this happen. People whip out their junk on the train. But...At 2 in the afternoon? On a weekday? And to have actually completed the masturbatory act? That's got to be worth an arrest.

So, thanks, NYPD and Creepy Leering Asian, for making me feel horrifically unsafe and unclean. I'm going to go take a bleach shower now.

Supervenous Without Pity

I found Television Without Pity via some old site called Bored.com. I was 15 years old and just beginning to start my journey to Obsessive TV Watcher Land, so you can imagine my utter delight in finding people like me. TWoP taught me snark and told me it was okay to love something as "trivial" as TV.

(Now, of course, I'm confident enough to make the argument that TV is not trivial. While there's been a pretty steep decline in quality--or maybe just a steep increase in shitty shows--I maintain that TV is a pretty important part of our culture, and those that dismiss it need to understand that this is just the medium in which we get our epics these days. Well, when it's done right.)

During my years as a pretty frequent poster on the TWoP boards, I learned the ins and outs of the TV business. It's how I can now talk about the differences between Jeff Zucker and Les Moonves and not sound like a total rube.

The recaps themselves were fantastic. The writers and editors--Sars, Wing Chun, and Couch Baron especially--distilled my favorite shows into reasonably-sized summaries with just the right balance of detail and commentary. This commentary was pretty freakin' funny (see: Uncle Arvin's Office Of Over-the-Top Technical Treatises, etc.), and actually contributed somewhat to whatever "voice" I currently have, if I actually have one. I dunno. Anyway.

Understandably, the creators realized what an awesome thing they had, and when Bravo came along and offered to buy it, they accepted.

Thus began the not-really-all-that-slow and steady fall of an empire.

Previously, each show had its own little woodcut-like graphic related to the show's premise (but not actually a direct representation). Buffy's was a garlic bulb. You know, stuff like that. But then those went away and were replaced by actual pictures of the show. And then my favorite recappers started leaving after their shows ended...or even before that happened; they were replaced by people who (forgive me, current recappers) just aren't that funny or deft at the art of recapping. The creators left.

Then, the number of shows recapped exploded...because they started recapping sitcoms. The old TWoP didn't recap sitcoms because: a) They're already pretty short, and b) Why would you try to make jokes about something that's actually funny? Proving that theory correct, their comedy recaps are indeed irrelevant.

After that came Movies Without Pity, and video blogs, and news items and slideshows that have turned what was once a safe haven for intelligent people who just wanted some snarky recaps into a smorgasbord of crap that lacks the charm and wit of the original TWoP.

So thank you, Bravo, for killing one of my favorite things in the world. Well done.

B.T.

Thanks to my dear friend Eddie for introducing me to this:



Now, I'm the first person to complain about Twitter. I never understood the point--yes, some people use it for quick news blasts, sometimes your friends say something funny (theoretically, that is; I'm not actually on Twitter). But honestly? People do not need to know the minutiae of your existence. No matter who you are--celebrity, journalist, accountant, or copy machine from an awesome show--your life is probably not that interesting. The people who do seem to care about Ashton Kutcher's Tweets are, I'm sorry, the sort of people with whom I do not wish to interact.

But Twitter just recently blew the fuck up. Before that, there was Facebook. I loved Facebook. Way easier to keep in touch with people than, say, via e-mail. And the introduction of status updates was kind of fun for a while, too. I'd put up random ones like "...is dead" or some apropos song lyric. I never put up actual locations or said what I was actually doing at the time because, um, who cares? Yes, I would roll my eyes whenever I saw someone using it in that exhibitionistic way, but it was easy enough to ignore. Of course, the new Facebook design makes it impossible to ignore, so thanks for fucking that up, Faceberg.

Even before Facebook, though, people had this compulsive need to share shit about their life to people who are, essentially, strangers. See: Xbox Live.

That leads me to believe this is a generational thing. If Generation X was the "me" generation, then we, the so-called "Millennials" (God I hate that term) are the "me, me, me!" generation. Life is no longer about connecting with people and interacting with them in a meaningful fashion; it's about people seeing you interacting with people on an entirely superficial, fictional level. It's like throwing a surprise party for someone, but inviting only your friends instead of theirs. You don't want to see the look of surprised joy on your friend's face, you want to see your friends' reactions when you tell them about this great thing you're doing for someone else.

And that just makes me sad.

Cloudy With a Chance of Crap

Sigh.

Okay, so I think we can all agree that this whole "taking all the symbols of my childhood and raping them for profit" thing has gone way too far. Granted, the poster for Where the Wild Things Are (below) looks pretty awesome.



But for every WtWTA, there's a Cloudy With a Chance of Meatballs. The just-released trailer is over here.

How horrendous does this look? Let's put aside the idiotic 3-D whatever for right now (hell, that deserves its own post) and just look at it from the point of view of a child and/or adult who's read and loved the book:

The whole point of kids' books is that they look awesome. Cool illustration is what separates the Animals Should Definitely Not Wear Clothings from the...Well, I can't think of any crappily illustrated children's books off the top of my head, but I'm sure there are plenty out there. Once you take away the unique style of illustration (something Spike Jonze appears to not be doing, thank God), you're left with...a story. A story that is very, very thin on plot. And while a lack of plot sometimes works for books (coughmostofTwilightcough), that's really hard to get away with in a movie. So, the director comes up with a plot. This plot is usually banal and overdone (The Cat in the Hat, anyone?), and the entire experience turns out to be no different from any other crappy kids movie (see: most animated movies not produced by Pixar/Pixar alums).

So why not just...let sleeping books lie? How about we come up with a rule that says, "If you have to invent a plot that is not contained in the source material (be it children's book or game), you're not allowed to make that movie"? Yes?

Twilight and Summit: Officially Ridiculous

The Hollywood Reporter is, er, reporting that Summit might actually already have a director for the Eclipse movie. To which I say: Seriously?

Look, I liked Twilight well enough. As the wonderful Cleolinda Jones says, it's like a Twinkie(c). It's not good for you, but sometimes you just want something gross and sugary. Or like when I have a craving for Papa John's and some Corona instead of Giordano's or something. (Side note: God, I miss Giordano's.)

But the movie was just awful. I know, I know, it made a truckload of money and they've greenlighted like sixteen sequels, blah blah vampirecakes. The problem is that the subsequent books are terrible. And not in an acceptable "Oh man, this is awful but I can't put it down" kind of way. In a "Holy God, why are these people still alive/undead? I must smash my face into my desk" way.

It seems like Summit is nervous about keeping the Twimomentum going; otherwise, why all this speculation this early in the game? IMDb says they haven't even finished filming on New Moon yet.

Also, this is just going to encourage EW to put the same stupid photo on yet another cover. Because God forbid they not put something Twilight-related on the cover. I don't necessarily blame them, because that shit sells like hotcakes on the newsstands, but they're alienating most of their subscription base. This isn't the Catch-22 it looks like.

Look for a possible new segment, "If we ran the world..." sometime soon. Maybe.

On Not Being a Dickwad

The first R-rated movie I saw on my own (once I finally reached that magic age of 17) was Closer. I'd just finished one of my first shifts at the movie theater, and I was super excited to take advantage of the "all the free movies you want" perk. So I settle back, prepared to partake in some delicious Clive Owen-Jude Law-ness, and I see them.

They're sitting in the very back of the theater, this young couple. And with them is...a stroller. With a small child in it.

This child then proceeded to cry at the most inopportune times (read: almost the entire movie). I couldn't fathom why this couple had brought its spawn to a 10:40 p.m. showing of a ridiculously explicit movie

Fast forward four and a half years or so. I'm seeing Coraline in 3-D with a friend. Due to some pretty ridiculous complications (like the Jonas Brothers...it's a long story), we end up going to the AMC in Times Square (Times! Square! Augh!) for an 11:10 p.m. showing. Now, I know Coraline is PG, but there is some scary shit in that movie. Not that I ever plan on having spawn of my own, but I wouldn't take a kid under 9 to the theater to see it, much less at an 11 p.m. showing on a Sunday. But of course, that's what we found. Dozens of families with their squalling four-year-olds attempting to drown out whatever disturbing noise was coming from the screen. As soon as we had reached the street, my friend and I each yelled about the horrific parenting we'd just witnessed.

And then there was Watchmen. A family (an entire goddamn family, mind you) not only subjected their five-year-old boy to that movie, but also brought an infant.

This so far past the line of "inappropriate," we can't even see it. There are so many things wrong with this situation that I need to outline them.

A) Your poor son is going to have nightmares for weeks about this. Seeing people's arms chopped off? Dogs with their heads split open? A five-minute-long softcore sex scene?

B) Your infant's screaming fucked up the movie for everyone else in the audience, you insensitive clods. It is neither my fault, nor anyone else's, that you either decided to breed or forgot to use a condom, so do not inflict your troubles upon me. You want kids? Accept the fact that for a while, you'll barely be able to leave the house.

C) You spent an extra how much for a seat for that kid? If you can afford to do that, hire some tween in need of some cash to watch them for a few hours.

In conclusion: It is not that difficult to avoid being a completely horrible parent. This is common sense. Do not bring your small children to incredibly graphic movies really late at night. And, movie theaters? Stop letting this happen.