Death in the Making: Prologue

A prologue to the Prologue (wherein the author laments the loss of his previous concept and explains the new one):

This blog began as a way for me to chronicle my interest and analysis of shitty entertainment. I love shitty entertainment. It makes me smile. But alas, it proved too hearty an endeavor in a stretch I best describe as “doldrumtastic”, a stretch where getting laid just wasn’t enough, a stretch when I didn’t much feel like analysis of any medium. It was a dark time for your humble narrator, but I’ve bounced back and retooled. I miss having a place to upchuck and since I find blogging for the sake of blogging boring (and since I’ve been revisiting Sufjan), I’d prefer to couch my thought-vomit in a concept of sorts.

The cover.

My decision to post my childhood works, chapter by ridiculous chapter (with commentary), is two-fold:

1) I’d like to chronicle this shit. My hard copies are fading a slow fade.

2) I’m in the mood for self-analysis. And where better to begin than my first major work?

"The text on some pages are bad. So please don't kill me. He-he. Now this copy won't be perfect but when I review it top to bottom it will be better."

The first major work in question is DEATH IN THE MAKING.

Title page.

Lightning!

The following is a piece I wrote two years ago about it. Seems like a good place to begin:

I was 10 or 11,

whatever sixth grade is,

and this was my life.

My novel

I wrote this novel then, in sloppy pencil.

My first real major work: Death in the Making.

I know, horrible title.

My process began with my action figures.

I rounded up every one I had:

a plastic party of WWF wrestlers,

movie figures from Aliens, Jurassic Park, and Star Trek,

humans from the Ninja Turtles cartoons.

My characters came from grabbing one I liked and building a personality out of it.

Kasey Jones, the hockey mask wearing martial artist from the Ninja Turtles became Kasey the sound engineer with his scraggly black hair, jeans, and tank tops.

WWF’s Big Boss Man became my secret villain, Cooper Michaels,

a security officer with a crew cut and police uniform.

The big, blue, slimy alien from the Alien movies even took the role of the main monster.

I spent hours after school, creating scenes,

developing relationships,

and staging deaths over and over and over.

It brought me such joy then,

and I’d sometimes ask my weary mother to watch while I acted out scene after scene,

taking on 10 different voices, 10 different characters with personalities I’d so painstakingly developed. 

Once I could no longer play, I wrote.

And for three solid months, I wrote every day after school,

kneeling on the blue carpet,

writing on the coffee table in front of the TV.

Every time I grabbed a new sheet of notebook paper

and wrote a new, higher, page number in the top right corner,

I felt like I had climbed another mountain.

I even drew little flashy lines around page 100,

which was, at that time, the greatest accomplishment of my life.

There was no revision.

I found a way to make everything I’d written work in the grand narrative.

And a grand endeavor it certainly was.

The book boasts about 20 main characters, and probably 20 more minor ones.

There’s backstabbing, murder, love, longing, memory, loss, grief, treachery, you name it.

And I was 11.

In complete and total love.

 Now I remember, so many years later,

coming home drunk and high,

alone

blurry-eyed.

And I grabbed this book.

I began to read.

And I cried.

Because at that moment I realized it was the greatest thing I’d ever written.

A boy who knew nothing about craft,

who knew nothing about pain,

about disappointment, or depression.

A work not written to be published, or produced,

but it was fun.

I was playing. 

And I was in love.

“Jackson dove off the ledge of the huge mountain into the crashing waterfall feeling pretty nauseous. He has never been that nervous in his entire life. Will I live or die? Will I live or die? The question kept going through his mind. Suddenly he felt a burst of cold cover his body. I’m in the waterfall. Falling. Cutting through water like a bullet. As he damped in water he opened his eyes. It was a blur of wondrous colors. From light blue to fluorescent green. It was beautiful! Suddenly Jackson started to feel loose and happy. He spread his arms out far and put his legs together. Then he twirled and twirled in a circle while falling. He didn’t know why he was doing that. He just felt it.” 

In retrospect, I realize this 11-year old was describing his craft. 

Now I’ve always believed that change is a cosmetic illusion.

At our cores, we never change.

We are who we are who we are who we are. 

And so the same desire exists between this boy and myself.

But what he seemed to grasp is what I now strive for. 

“Suddenly Jackson started to feel loose and happy. He spread his arms out far and put his legs together. Then he twirled and twirled in a circle while falling. He didn’t know why he was doing that. He just felt it.”

 Abandon.

Writing was abandon.

And the elation I find now as I create,

An elation which shoots sparks, saves my soul,

It seems to pale in comparison to that 11-year old boy

and his piddly handwritten novel.

 

Prologue. Probably too faded to make out.

 

So we begin:

Silas Burton wandered helplessly through the huge forest of the unfinished amusement park. It was nighttime and everyone was gone. Something scurried across his feet. He screamed and fell. He wiped off the dirt on his khaki shirt he noticed a footprint. “Oh great! Someone’s around. I gotta follow the…Oh my god. Oh man.” He stared at the footprint. Only it wasn’t a footprint. It had three toes and a strange marking by the hoof. Then he realized the marking was the marking of the company he’s in. And the markings are on the bottom hoof  of each main attraction monster. But those were locked in the storage area. And no one was in the control room. “Oh my god I gotta get outta here!” He started running until he came to the mountain. He stared at the beatiful scenery. A 500 km drop. Deadly. Well there’s the ladder better go down it,” he said. He heard a rustling sound in the bushes. “Aaah!” he screamed. He felt something stab him in the shoulder. He grabbed his shoulder and pulled out a claw. He pulled out a packet of band-aids. He took one out and put it over the bloody wound. He put the band-aids back in his pocket and headed for the ladder. Suddenly something wacked him in the back and he fell and grabbed the side of the mountain and hung. He saw a figure of some sort but was too dark to see. He felt a sharp pain in his hand he went to grab for it and suddenly remembered he was hanging. He let out a bloodcurdling scene and toppled into darkness.

What I remember: Jurassic Park. I saw the movie some rainy afternoon. I bought the book at a SEARS. I read the book in Science class. I didn’t get half of it. I liked the bloody parts. I don’t remember beginning, although I vaguely recall writing this section long before I wrote the rest. The off-color appearance of the pages, coupled with the especially faded script, contribute to this theory.

I recall reading it to Mike Ethier’s mother. I recall her being struck by my use of “khaki”. Rightly so. I barely knew what khaki was. All I knew was that Michael Critchton’s characters wore it. Which is really where much of this began. When I met Vernell Lillie she told me how August Wilson’s earliest writings were simply imitations of writers he admired. John Guare wrote about how he’d type out the first three acts of Chekhov plays and then write the fourth act himself.

Art often begins with mimicry. Many writers never grow past that stage. 

Critchton was my Chekhov. Death in the Making is Jurassic Park. There’s even a Velociraptor.  Anne Rice took over eventually. But we’ll get there later.

Beautiful:  Silas Burton wandered helplessly through the huge forest of the unfinished amusement park.

Embarrassing: Then he realized the marking was the marking of the company he’s in.

And so, some brief thoughts on a brief intro. Chapter 2: The Meeting coming soon. Prepare for shit to get intense.

Rock of Love Bus, Episode 2: The Black Hole of Britney

First off, my apologies for the tardiness of this post.

Secondly, is there a more pathetic creature in all of humanity than Britney (aka Cleavageface #6)? I speak to the endless conflation (and this dovetails nicely with my previous post) of lust and idolatry that constitutes so much of what passes for love in this day and age.

Hunky Uncy Bret Michaels is not that attractive. He’s not that talented. He’s a greasy bundle of hair, mascara, genitals, and doggie barks. And he does not like it when people want to express their undying love for him. It clearly makes him uncomfortable. Why?

Because Hunky Uncy Bret likes boobs. Big ones. And nasty old-man Michaels sex.

But even moreso: Because you don’t know him. And Bret has enough self-awareness (having done this for two seasons), to acknowledge this.

The women who’ve been on the show have openly spoken about how they literally spend minutes with the man during the filming of the show. Yet this woman believes so desperately that this man is her soul mate. We laugh at people like Britney from our comfortable distance. We laugh at her because God, how could anyone ever fall in love with HIM? And so quickly?! It’s just all so ridiculous and unbelievable!

But there’s more truth than meets to the eye to Rock of Love.  I look around me, I look at these people who morph their lives for people they barely know, who utter “I love you” like it’s just a logical step instead of a complicated emotion. I look at these people so desperate to hold, to kiss, to fuck, the way they turn themselves inside out for it. I look at myself, at the self-control it takes to never let lust, or desire, or idiocy to dictate a relationship. At how often I fail at that.

And then I look at Britney on Rock of Love Bus, the girl who wrote five pages of wedding vows for Bret, who embarrassed herself with a sloppy lapdance in an even sloppier bikini, who was mocked incessantly by the rest of plastic furnaces (at times justly due to her blatant racism against Cleavageface #12 ((the black one))), and I can only witness another example of a woman (much like Femi on Bromance) made empty by our country’s slick and slimy amalgamation of lust and worship.

Does Bret want lust? That goes without saying.

Does want worship? Sure!

But how does he want them? In check. In equal measure. Worship him onstage, bone him off.

Like politics and religion, you just can’t mix the two.

This shit is depressing.

From the ether:

• How clever was it to put Britney in the alien bed? Ah, the othering of the other.
• Cleavageface #20 (Ashley) is a prime example of how excessive plastic surgery can freeze you in time, if not nullify large clumps of your brain. This woman exists in the black hole of ninth grade frosty whore.
• I like when Bret gets drunk and drops the loving, best friend act.
• Brittania thinks Bret is the hottest man she’s ever seen. And I believed her when she said it. I just…I…this, this is absolutely ridiculous…
• This show is hard to watch.

Bromance, Episode 3: Friendship vs. Idolatry

One of the main goals of modern Christianity relates directly to one of the buried themes in the latest episode of Bromance.

When we think of the sermons of Joel Osteen and other “hip pastors” we see, over and over again, the idea of God as Friend as opposed to God as God. For many fundamentalists, this creates an uncomfortable tension. How can you be friends with something you worship, something you revere, something you emulate? 

Our Man Jenner is obviously an idol in the eyes of MTV. He is a goal, something to be achieved. He is a Pop God, evidenced by MTV’s long-lingering eye of gratuity as Brody lathered his lean, tattooed body in the shower. He is what MTV believes America wants to be: a man made famous by the life he was born into, a man with beautiful genes, a man with talents that have no bearing on his fame. Brody Jenner is a desirable personality. Thus the reason Ryan Seacrest thought it was a good idea to create a show revolving around his ego. Thus the reason thousands of people from all over the country applied for his friendship.

So where do our contestants fit?

Do they want friendship? Or do they want worship?

And more importantly, what does Brody want?

In this latest episode, Brody challenged the guys to plan an activity for them to engage in. Luke built a mini-golf course, Chris F. did some pathetic stand-up, and Femi…well, Femi went a little off the deep end.

In previous episodes, Femi has come to tears discussing how this show is an opportunity. His past is littered with loss and legal issues, and as much as Femi talks up his neighborhood and his lifestyle, it’s obvious the man is miserable. Femi wants a savior. Femi wants the escape his friends who’ve been “shot in the back” never had.

This means his stakes are exponentially higher than his comrades. And this makes him dangerous.

This showed more than ever in this latest episode when Femi decided to get a tattoo as part of his planned activity. The tattoo was his last name, written along his left side in Olde English. Femi emphasized the importance of his family as his reason for getting it. What made everyone a bit unsettled, including Our Man Jenner, was the fact that this was an exact replica of Brody’s tattoo (showed to us so cleverly during the obnoxious shower scene between Brody, Frankie, and the Sleaze).

All of the guys (all more than bothered) pointed this out to Femi, but he didn’t say much to that. This was an act of friendship to him, something to make him stand out.

We see here the embodiment of the Friendship vs. Idolatry conflict at the heart of tonight’s Bromance. Femi’s tattoo is an act of worship, buried within the justification of his “individuality” (which he links to friendship). Like Christians who grow Jesus beards or flagellate themselves, desperate to feel closer to their Lord, Femi’s act is one of sacrifice and idolatry.

Yet Brody keeps him. Why? Because Femi has “passion.”

Or: Femi’s character is one above the others, and the producers see the potential.

See, this is not friendship to Femi; this is salvation.

Bromance as religion.

I like where this is going.

Re: Hiatus

Hello friends.

Forgive the lack of posts as of late but (along with birthday celebrations) I’ve been in Seattle the last several days  to attend a reading of my play, Verse Chorus Verse, at the Seattle Rep. Rest assured that reviews of the latest episodes of Bromance, Rock of Love Bus, and Confessions of a Teen Idol will be posted within the next couple of days.

I’m currently sitting in a coffee shop in Olympia, Washington (Kurt Cobain’s old stomping grounds and the home of K Records), sipping some delicious hot chocolate and amazed that it’s not raining. Expect a few more thoughts on this trip with future posts, but I will add this post-script:

I’m staying with an amazingly friendly and talented playwright, Bryan Willis, and his wife and son. I found out this morning that after spending a great deal of the evening noshing and conversing, their 9-year old son asked his mom if I could move in with them.

Is there anything more lightening?

It’s easy to feel old sometimes. That doesn’t mean it’s necessary. There is life. And it happens while you’re unloading box after box of baseball cards from the trunk of a car under a warm, wet Northwestern sky.

No revelation. Just a reminder.

BROMANCE!

Real World Season 3,584: Season Premiere

You know what I say about MTV putting a transgendered person on The Real World?

Too little, too late.

Bromance, Episode 2: Things Just Got Real

“…[It's got] more of a comedic value to it. So, uh, it’s funny. Ya know, it’s to entertain the public. I love it, I think it’s really funny and I hope you will, too.” -Brody Jenner on Bromance

This quote bothers me. This quote makes me uneasy. Why? Because Brody Jenner…how do I put this? Brody Jenner, well, he, um, kinda won me over tonight.

For this hour, I saw the charm. Not the charm that gets him laid more than the average porn star, but the charm that makes people want to watch him, that makes people want to be around him. In the Pilot (I love calling it that), Brody was the bullyjock, the sideways trucker cap, the sticky man-boner. I laughed at him in the same way I laughed at the popular kids I didn’t secretly emulate.

This week I laughed in the same way I laughed at the popular kids I did aspire to be. I laughed because…because he was kinda funny. And most importantly, I laughed because he came across like a genuine person. When Brody said, “I don’t want a jock, I want a friend,” I BELIEVED HIM. And I know, I KNOW I probably shouldn’t! I shouldbe smart enough to realize the producers were like, “Brode, last week you were party dude, this week you’re sensitive dude.” And Our Man Jenner prolly flipped up his aviators, scratched his balls and shrugged. “Whatever, man.”

But I don’t want to believe that, g-dammit! Because for the briefest moment, this son of a b-word felt (to borrow Bromance’s favorite word)…real. In a way that Bret Michaels or Flava Flav or Paris Hilton has ever been on their shows. I mean, the competition’s not stiff, but like it or not, those are your peers, Jenner. 

Now, to me, the term “real” is just an unimaginative way of saying “genuine.” Real is whatever is at any given moment. Things are real because they exist. But when somebody drops the image and listens; or stops joking long enough to say something about what makes them tick: That’s what we can call “genuine” because it comes from an honest place. It means something. When Brody opens up about his family, or talks about how he and his dad have a shitty relationship, that shit felt genuine. And to watch somebody open up who, up until now, came across like a football with hair, well…there’s something about that.

Maybe I scoffed too soon when Brody told me to expect the unexpected.

There were more tears in this episode than in my bed on New Year’s Eve. The emotion flowed. The characters became people. And sure, basic lesson, right? How easy is it for us to forget people are people? Easier than I think we realize.

So with all that said, lemme reiterate something:  

“…[It's got] more of a comedic value to it. So, uh, it’s funny. Ya know, it’s to entertain the public. I love it, I think it’s really funny and I hope you will, too.” -Brody Jenner on Bromance

Yes, I can see where he’s coming from. It is silly, it’s called Bromance. But Brody seems so quick to dismiss, in words and body language, that there was something “real” about the experience, that it was more than few chuckles. His casual demeanor, his insistence that it’s only entertainment, this cheapens the fact that Caveman 2 sobbed over his longing for a distant family, that Gary the Dancer cried over a rebuke from Femi, that Femi tearfully pleaded his case that he’s earned this more than the others, that Our Man Jenner has loved and lost and found empty solace in one blondtourage after another.

This quote makes me feel like whoever wins just amiably parts ways with Brody, never to bask in the promised Bromance. Should that make me sad? I don’t know, but right now it does. By the end, will the show have sunk into MTV’s vaccuous vat of waxed emotions like, say, The Pick-Up Artist 2 cast did? As Cake so eloquently put it: Perhaps, Perhaps, Perhaps.

Bromance is not The Wire. Bromance  is not even Full House. But Bromance gave us something genuine in this episode, something I didn’t expect from a show of this caliber. And maybe I get invested too easy. Maybe I trust too readily. But to give me something human, and then to dismiss that? Brody…

Now I’ll add that when Brody rightfully eliminated Chris P. in tonight’s episode, he made him leave the yacht they were occupying and row to shore on a blow-up raft, silly captain’s hat and all. Chris P., the perennial agent of awkward in these last two episodes, painfully tried to look cool as the guys blew by shouting, “Kentucky’s THAT way!”

Damn. Jacob just had to leave the hot tub.

From the ether:

• Do we really need name-cards (name-cards?) every time Frankie and the Sleaze are onscreen? His name is Sleazy T, for Christ’s sake!
• Jered: “I’m a lot better at taking bras and panties off than putting them on.” Boooooo.
• I wanna meet the producer who forced Chris F. to say that stupid line about how his dick was a foot long.
• An ad for the sequel to Without a Paddle. Only on Bromance.
• How off-put did Brody look when Gary told him he was straight? Odd choice in the editing room there. The same goes for the awkward shot of Luke sipping the margarita and saying, “Delicious.” C’mon, guys.
• “That’s femalish! That’s a female trait!” Thanks for the blatant misogyny, Femi. And…femalish?
• I’ll miss Chris P’s outfits. He always looked dressed for an ice cream social.

Rock of Love Bus- Episode 1, “Every Rose Has Its Porn”

“If you don’t remember it, it didn’t happen.” - Cleavageface #17

What do you say about the epic mountain of cleavage that is the Rock of Love saga? 

I’ll begin by saying that Rock of Love, to me, exists as a cultural petrie dish containing an incredibly specific, endlessly frustrating, but eternally fascinating slice of our society. These are not the girls you see everyday. These are not the girls you see in the movies. These are not even the girls you see on The Real World.

These are the girls you see on TV.

They do not exist anywhere else.

(P.S: High five and a hug for ANYONE who can get all the way through that awkward slideshow.)

So Bret Michaels…

…will be referred to as Hunky Uncy Bret from now on. 

Where to begin?

Okay. There’s a porn scene floating around the interweb where a guy (sporting an obnoxious member) is running a game show where the winner gets to bone him. It’s played comically, tongue-in-cheek. If there’s one thing I love about porn-at-large it’s their refusal to take themselves seriously.

Now, Rock of Love slowly circled the gates of PornLand in the first season, with Hunky Uncy Bret gushing about his desire for a soulful, spiritual connection while soliciting blowjobs at every turn. The show’s massive success, coupled with Bret’s unlikely emergence as a somehow-still-sexy idol, made for a second season whose ads played up the slutdom, going so far as to insert a digitally enhanced member for our humble hero. Bret’s pleas for love and transcendence came off all the more hollow as blowjobs became creepily mandatory. Choosing the less promiscuous of the two babes at the end did little to change the show’s image.

In tonight’s season premiere, the word “love” (outside of the title) is not mentioned once. Bret talks about finding the right woman for his life (with no emphasis on “right”) and someone he can come home to, but by now even he has abandoned the ridiculous idea that love is any part of this equation.

Basically, to bring it back around, Hunky Uncy Bret Michaels has become that Porno Game Show Host. These women are competing for sole ownership of Bret’s cock. He is there to facilitate, to move things along, to engage in a little bit of chit-chat.

And ya know what? Good for him.

Anecdote:

One day, some time back, I found out some great news. That night, I went to a party. It was a great party. Friends, laughs, drinks were all in abundance, consumed copiously by yours truly. In the midst of this, I met a young lady. Young lady liked me. Young lady took me to her home. In some swirling haze, our hands like snakes, we listened to Tom Waits and made out for what felt like hours. She changes. She’s wearing an Eraserhead t-shirt.

I don’t know what turned me on more. Her, or her Eraserhead t-shirt.

I told her, “You’re beautiful.” And I meant it. In that moment, I meant it.

She said, “Don’t say things you won’t mean tomorrow.”

I told her, “We should hang out. We should watch movies.” I meant it.

She said, “Don’t say things you won’t mean tomorrow.”

And I didn’t get it. Tom Waits crooning about closing time in my ears, all I could do was think about how we would share this singular moment again and again. I could love this girl, I thought. I really could.

The next day I went to the movies with some friends. She was there with her friends.

And we both knew.

We barely said a word to each other again.

The central conceit of any of these dating shows (a conceit which has pervaded our society), is that love at first sight (or even love in first week) is a tangible reality. These shows coast on our country’s idealism, on our tired insistence  that love conquers all. And us cynical SOB’s watch and we laugh because we’ve experienced what Elliot Smith so mournfully sang about: The Morning After, and all the while we’re clinging to or rejecting the explosion of emotion the previous night’s intoxication brought with it. In the season 2 finale, when Uncy Bret sheds tears at the final elimination and the world scoffs, I believed every second of it. 

But he knows better. In the end, we all know better.

That’s not love. Not that love is an answer, or a formula, or an endpoint of any kind.

Bottom line: Love is Earned. Not won.

It’s all about what Nietzsche called the Dionysian. Unlike the Appolonian, which emphasizes creation, order and clarity, the Dionysian revels in intoxication, sexual license and destruction. There is no logic when you’re in the Dionysian; there is only the joy of the moment, regardless of how destructive you know it really is. And of course, no one can live there forever. Not even Bret Michaels!

What we’re all sobbing about when we have to choose between two busty blondes, it’s simply the Greek God of sex, drugs and rock n’ roll invading us like the Holy Spirit. And to call that love? Well, I guess that’s some form of idolatry.

So thank you Hunky Uncy Bret for never uttering (outside the title) the word “Love.” Thank you Hunky Uncy Bret for playing up the sluttiness, for not pretending you have no intentions of having sick, nasty old-man Michaels intercourse with these ladies.

Rock of Love Bus is the same ‘ol bullshit. But at least its got respect for the sublime.

Now, Bret said if he doesn’t find “it” this time around, he’s quitting. Bret, homey, I’m with you. Quit while you’re ahead.

From the ether:

• I have a theory that Nikki (aka DJ Lady Tribe) is not real.

• She doesn’t speak. She grunts, bellows and cackles. She vomit-barks. My theory is that she is either a robot invented by an evil, twisted, mad science douche, or she is a beyond brilliant performance artist (along the lines of Marina Abramovic) who immersed herself so deeply into the role of Nikki after subjecting herself to every form of plastic surgery that she has lost all semblance of self. We’ll never find out, though. She was voted off, and while I couldn’t believe the producers would get rid of such a specimen, she was obviously on heavy, heavy scrips or some shit. Hellllo, liability.
• When people describe themselves as “deep” I always cringe a little. Being “deep” is like being attractive or talented: it’s not your call to make.
• I like the Oompa Loompa music during scenes the producers deem comic.
• Big John: “It’s just like a puzzle. Big pieces on the bottom, small pieces on top.” That’s not a puzzle, BJ. That’s a pyramid.
• Was Bret lip-synching? PLEASE say yes.
• I love how the girl who closest resembles of an everyday member of American society (Beverly) is immediately the one “othered” in this environment.
• No one under a C-cup. And I’m being generous. If they’re C’s, they’re big C’s. All girls, unless they somehow make their presence known in a positive way (like Beverly), will be referred to as Cleavageface.
• Watching the girls on the pink bus simply exist reminded me of a goat chasing the teet of a baby bottle across a linoleum floor (see the “Grass Valley Greg” sketch of Mr. Show for a visual).
• Why does Bret keep wearing shirts with his name on them? He did this when he was hosting a Vh1 countdown, too. After 22 years in the business you’d think he’d of learned his lesson by now.
• Every time Bret kisses one of these things I wonder what it could possibly taste like. My current guess: ”burnt plastic.”
• Coming this season on Rock of Love Bus: Bitches be passed out on speedbumps, yo. 

Confessions of a Teen Idol: Episode 1

Vh1’s new reality show, Confessions of a Teen Idol, follows seven television has-beens (two from Baywatch!) as they attempt to examine what went wrong.

The show opens with the world’s worst one-man show: A stiff-limbed Scott Baio, dressed like a desperate 20-year old (in touch with his “spiritual” side), delivers a preachy opening monologue he must’ve memorized ten minutes before call, introducing us to our guys which include:

• Christopher Atkins: The boy from The Blue Lagoon is now building lagoons! I totally stole that from the show.
• David Chokachi: The hot Australian guy from Baywatch…?
• Billy Hufsey: This guy’s before my time.
• Jeremy Jackson: The kid from Baywatch. Got busted for cooking meth and only got six months in rehab. B. S.
• Eric Nies: The buff guy from the first Real World is now the Gary Busey of Confessions of a Teen Idol. Raw foods and holy healing. Don’t trust this punk.
• Jamie Walters: “How do you talk, to an angellllll!” Whatever, I like that fuckin’ song.
• Adrian Zmed: T.J Hooker. Now sings on a cruise ship. I wanna hug him.

Now, if this was a show about these guys when they were famous, they wouldn’t be nearly as lovable. Most of them lament their petulant youth, clogged rich with boozy logjammin’, painting the portrait of coked-out douche personified. Years of failure, arrest and bad luck has stripped them of said douche and now they’re a lovable bunch, egoless and amiable. Shows like this, devoid of elimination and populated by people who’ve actually, ya know, been through shit, are always much more interesting than the vapid fame-chuggers that populate most reality fodder.

There was an especially interesting moment in tonight’s episode when David Chokachi (I think he was the hot Australian on Baywatch…) threatened to bail after being “punked” by the show. He didn’t want any of the theatrics that accompany most reality shows, expressing the trepidation he faced when making the decision (something that is so rarely chronicled on these shows). He wanted a beneficial experience, he wanted positivity. The man wanted to revive his career.

Thus the gamble of trying to accomplish such things on the same network that airs Hogan Knows Best.

Let’s not forget who’s at the helm of this self-professed “experiment.”

WAYNE! Who now looks like frosted chach:

The show hangs its concept on the word addiction, which I don’t necessarily think its earned. What’s especially unsettling is how this word is bandied around by seemingly everyone (Baio, Hervey, the shrink) but the participants. These guys don’t come off like their addicted to fame, and none of them (I don’t think) explicitly states that they’re desperate for that old glory. This isn’t crack. This isn’t porn. They’re just looking for work. They’re entertainers, right? They don’t wanna be Brody fucking Jenner, they want acting work they can be proud of.

Does wanting something you once had but no longer have equal addiction?

I mean, I used to live by a Moe’s. I went to that Moe’s at least once a week back then. It was great. I ate up those burritos, I indulged. Moe’s was a tangible part of my life. Now there are no Moe’s. At least not anywhere near my apartment. And yes, I wish there was a Moe’s that I could attend. Does that make me addicted to Moe’s?

Looking at a few of their IMDB pages, I didn’t see much work on the horizon. And that this point, that kinda makes me sad. I’m rooting for Nies especially…although I’m not really sure where his talents lie…

From the ether:

• How defensive is this shrink? She strikes me as a mediocre improv actress.
• “Does anyone have Jason Hervey’s number?!”
• “I don’t give a fuck what Jason Hervey’s gonna say to me!”
• I might keep watching this just for Jason Hervey quotes.

Bromance: Pilot

 

There’s a few things you need to know about Brody Jenner:

 

1)     Every man wants to be him, and every woman wants him.

2)     He’s real.

3)     Always expect the unexpected.

 

And I have a confession, guys. I expected the expected. After MTV broadcast Paris Hilton’s search for a new BFF, I expected Bromance (produced by Ryan Seacrest, by the bye) to be the male equivalent; a reality competition featuring a motley crew of vacuous succubae, eager for the exploitation and humiliation that earns friendship with a comically overloaded socialite.

 

But nope. To quote Brody at the end of this week’s episode, “It started out as game and became something real…Bromance.” Hang this over a montage of sobbing eyebrow rings and you’ve got a recipe for catharsis, self-discovery and the true meaning of friendship. Could Bromance shatter the molded plastic that encases not just the hearts of these nine potential “bros,” but of our “Yeah, woot, dicks and tits” society?

 

 

Forgive me. I’m getting ahead of myself.

 

What happened in this episode?

 

Brody told us we’ve probably seen him on The Hills. We meet his two current “bros” Frankie and Sleazy T.

 

 

To be honest, Frankie comes off a lot sleazier than T, and doesn’t fare nearly as well when scripted. If you’re as interested in Sleazy T as I am, you can read five facts you want to know about this rising star here: http://remotecontrol.mtv.com/2008/12/29/five-things-you-want-to-know-about-bromances-sleazy-t/

 

Once you’re done with that, watch the video below to get an sense of why Brody needs a new bro.

 

 

See, Bromance isn’t Brody Jenner’s lackluster attempt to stay in the deadlights. He’s obviously in desperate need for someone who won’t vomit awkward with every sentence. And guess what? Frankie’s jealous.

 

 

If they play this shit up, the Frankie Factor could become my favorite Bromance subplot.

Anyways, onto our nine heroes (there’s a character breakdown below). We meet them as they’re kidnapped from their hotel rooms (totally unexpected…unless you watched the first couple seasons of Road Rules), a few of them sporting what I’ve dubbed, “Brody Boners,” or “BROners.”  

 

In their underwear, with black hoods over their heads, they were then shoved into an elevator and told by their captors that they need to “shut up and think about what’s going to happen to you next.” Brody, Seacrest and the producers obviously took some inspiration from Abu Ghraib. The slow motion, drug-swirly music didn’t do much to lighten the mood, either. It’s these deliberate choices that always induce the pursed-lip-head-cock from me.

 

For their first competition, Brody sends them to the streets to pick up hot chicks for a lingerie party. No chicks = no entrance to the party (although the losers got in anyway). The potential bros offer a toast (or “broast”…thanks, Alex). Some are awkward, some aren’t bad. Highlights:

 

• Gary: “If you don’t have friends, get some.” Brody (to Frankie): “He’s right. He’s right. “
• The distinct titters of uncomfortability when Alex uses the phrase “bromosexual.”
• Jered: “Live it up and…true friend is hard to find…so I’ll show you…that’s what I am…true friend.”

 Luke wins. Brody says it was a tough call but that he went with the dude with the hottest chicks. I’m puzzled. Were there any other criteria?

 

I was especially amused by the way MTV kept the cameras away from Jacob’s plus-sized guests. Brody might as well have “No Fatties” tattooed to his forehead. But whatever. This section is getting long and I’ve got plenty left to discuss. Bullets:

 

• Luke and Brody paint the town, awkwardly beg their female guests to kiss.
• The revelation that someone is going home comes off as a massive shock to the dudes. Really? Don’t we all understand the format of these shows by now?
• Gay Mike goes home willingly. My thoughts below.
• Jacob: “Real knows real.” Brody: “That’s one thing I am: real.”

Apparently real doesn’t know real as well as real thinks it does. Really.

 

In a “hot tub elimination” (complete with plenty of “so-not-gay” slow shots of Brody’s torso) Jacob gets sent home. The rest of the dudes party in the hot tub. So not gay.

 

Speaking of, I’d be remiss if I didn’t point the cunning way Bromance (produced by Ryan Seacrest) navigates the “gay” aspect of this whole enterprise. If your target audience is frat dudes, trixies, boppers and anyone else who still watches MTV, how do you strip the gayness from a premise that lends itself to man-on-man love? Brody, Seacrest and co. obviously thought this out good and hard, falling back on certain standbys such as:

 

•  The guys are staying where? A REMODELED FRAT HOUSE.
• First mission? PICK UP HOT CHICKS.
• Bring them where? LINGERIE PARTY.
• Re: Gay Mike? Brody says gay dudes are surrounded by hot chicks so he should surround himself with gay dudes.
• What does Brody like talking about? WOMEN. With an emphasis on the importance of male FRIENDSHIP in the fallout of hismany liasons.
• But can Brody get chicks on his own? Of course. He took a special moment to remind us that he would have no problem gathering hot babes for a lingerie party. This is THEIR challenge.  
• Does he like babes in bikinis? Brody’s transparent need to “rewind” the montage footage gave us a nice hetero ending to the episode.

It reminds me of that 80’s cliché where the two dudes on ladders spy on a slumber party, see boobs and in a moment of carnal transcendence slowly topple, ladders in hand. Dudes want to see naked babes. Brody likes babes. Especially naked ones. Brody wants somebody to fall off the ladder with, ’nuff said.

 

Anyways, the producers are thinking: How do we eliminate the homoeroticism without directly addressing it? I know! We bring a gay guy on the show. This gay guy does his best to fit in. Everybody treats him with respect. He does well in the challenge. He is on his way! Unfortunately, after spending a night with the rest of the guys, gay guy realizes everything’s cool but it’s just not for him. He wanted an episode of The Hills. This is not The Hills. This is a frat house. These are straight guys with straight issues (ya know, like banging chicks n’ shit). He and Brody have an amiable parting, and Brody offers to drive him to the airport.

 

See? Brody likes gay dudes! The show gave him a chance. Brody gave him a chance. But he WANTED to leave! Brody didn’t eliminate him! All in the first episode! Everyone’s happy. Everyone wins. I guess?

 

See, something rubs me funny. Mike leaves, yet nothing changes. The elimination continues as usual. If a bombshell like this was dropped in the FIRST episode, wouldn’t the producers decide to not eliminate anyone this episode? Don’t they have a certain block of episodes to fill up? And to have two cast members leave in episode one, wouldn’t that upset the equilibrium? Also, Brody says he’ll drive him to the airport (meaning, seemingly, right then, since he was on his way out). Shouldn’t he sort out a flight plan first?

 

Clever conspiracy? Maybe. Maybe not. I ain’t sayin’ nuttin. Think about it.

 

Thoughts from the ether:

• Tokyo Police Club?! On Bromance?! Check out “Cheer It On” in the background as the guys attempt to round up the babes.
• I know I’m harping on Frankie, but in the bar scene he reminded me of a sad showbiz kid forced to act by his mom. “Don’t look up, just say the lines. Then I can go home and play with toys.”
• Brody and his posse’s reactions during the toast reminded me of the observers in that Chappelle show sketch where he’s playing tennis and bowling, etc. (“That’s the baddest motherfucka I ever seen on the lanes!”)

• When the lighting is not so flattering (like when Brody hugged Luke goodnight), there is something distinctly different about Brody. I can’t put my finger on it. The same goes for Frankie and the Sleaze. I wonder how they smell. I feel the answer could be there.

   

   

   

So that’s that. Episode one. As a primer for the rest of my reviews, let’s meet the cast and call it quits:

 

Alex: Lovingly dubbed “Caveman 1” by yours truly, Alex has earned this title by looks alone. His hulking frame, dim eyes and nondescript crew cut paint him as your local paint-stained yokel, downin’ shots of Jag as he drives home on a Wednesday night. But Alex carries a childlike naiveté about the big city that comes off as charming instead of pathetic. I could see him going far, but his backwoods aesthetic strikes me as make-over-proof…and Brody needs a stud.

 

Chris F: Our token non-black minority, Chris F. strikes me as the nerd invited to sit at the cool kids table. He’s got jokes but sometimes seems to be trying really hard to assert his manhood. Example: After a well-spoken toast to Brody (“I don’t care if you were on The Hills. I met you today and I saw you”) he had to awkwardly remind everyone he brought a hot girl the party.

 

Chris P: This guy’s trouble, but I smell a contenduh. His desire to ride on his own charm instead of exploiting Brody’s name in the challenge said a lot…even though it cost him. His desire to take his shirt off constantly…not so good. Twenty bucks his Facebook photo’s him shirtless in front of a mirror.

 

Femi: What can I say about Femi? A break-dancer who can apparently spin on his “dick,” Femi talks to hot girls in his “sleep.” He’s also got an ego. Nobody likes a boaster (buh-buh-buh-BROaster?) and while this guy will make for some chuckles and “oh, shits”…I don’t see him walking into the sunset with our man Jenner.

 

Gary: This guy drips with the kind of self-deprecation women find irresistible. And that hair? This guy gets more ass than a toilet seat (thank you, David Lynch). His assertion that history was in the making, though? That was either taken hardcore out of context, or Gary’s gotta review what’s playing on the History Channel these days.

 

Jered: I have to wonder if the spelling of his name was an error on his application. Jered, lovingly (oh so lovingly) dubbed “Caveman 2” by this mothertrucker is so intellectually stunted that it bleeds through his every orifice. Watching this guy piece together a sentence is like watching a gorilla thread a needle. But God bless him. He’s our lovable lug.

 

Luke: The winner of the challenge. Luke describes himself as the class clown “seven years running,” which means he discovered his call to clowning sometime in mid-high school. A late bloomer, G-d bless him. His voice reminds me of that Simpsons episode where young Homer does a JFK impression. His cha-chi limo toast: “To virgins and lesbians: thanks for nothing,” reminds me of that skinny guy at frat parties who hopes his jokes will get him friends.  

 

Jacob: Douche. Glad he’s gone.

 

Mike: I liked him, even if he was a plant. Fuckin’ Seacrest.

 

Coming up: Rock of Love Bus season premiere. How many synonyms are there for “trash-skank”? Also expect a review of episode two of Bromance Monday or Tuesday night.

Welcome to the Black Hole

Two anecdotes to begin this blog:

1) Some years back, my friend David R. Smith introduced me to a little movie called McBain. McBain stars Chris Walken as Bobby McBain, a Vietnam vet on a mission to overthrow Columbian drug warlords. McBain falls into a genre of film I’ve dubbed “Post-Vietnam Revenge.” McBain really wanted to be good. It really wanted to say something about our society. But McBain is bad. McBain is awful. Yet McBain nights at Dave’s apartment drew huge crowds. McBain discussions bordered on the revelatory. There were laughs. There were discoveries.  Why? Because McBain is brilliant. Because there were things to be learned from McBain. About our culture, then and now. About art. About expression. Oh yeah, there’s A LOT to make fun of as well.

2) A few years ago, in a little town in Illinois, I turned down sex to watch Troll 2.  

My old playwriting professor used to tell me that crap was good. I agree wholeheartedly.

That’s why my buddy Tim and I started B-Rated, our still-embryonic online bad-movie review show. Because I think there’s just as much joy, just as much revelation in the shit as the gold. And I love the gold. And I’ll maybe write about the stuff I love, too. And about my life, because that happens. But this blog is mainly about the shit we injest on a daily basis. And what we can get out of it.  

For an example, check out a couple episodes of B-Rated.

I’ll be starting the blog with my weekly reviews of MTV’s Bromance and Vh1’s Rock of Love Bus. Get those asses excited.

A brief intro to your humble narrator: My name is Randall Colburn. I’m from Detroit. Well, the Detroit area. Or, um, suburbs. But I’m hard like I’m from Detroit. At least that’s what my mom tells me.

Anyways, I’m a playwright living and working in Chicago. And there is a kitty on my lap right now.

Thanks for entering the black hole.