48 hours.

48 hours from now, I'll be standing in the pit dancing and singing my ass off, completely awestruck at my favorite band (maybe ever):



Yup, I wouldn't be surprised if I ended up kickin' it with Thom and the boys afterward.

So awesome.

Steez at the Movies

Watching a couple make out at the coffee shop. Now that’s a way to spend a Saturday night. Oh, cute! They just took a sip out of the other’s coffee! Oh, wait… she doesn’t like his as much as her. Budding love.

It’s been quite some time since the last installment of Steez at the Movies and per usual, you can thank my lacking commitment to write anything. I haven’t had a drought of movie viewing experiences. In fact, this might be one of my more active movie watching stretches of the year. In the time since I last wrote a review, I’ve witnessed: My favorite movie of the year (In Bruges), Aliens (helping me further understand and admire the ascent of James Cameron, the quality action based blockbuster pioneer he was/is), The Dark Knight (I think I’m still processing my thoughts on this one. Just too damn much to the about), the most failed attempt to tell a story in an odd, compelling way (I’m Not There, which boasted a brilliant OST. Of course, duh.), a “think it’s going to be decent because of its cast but turns out being atrocious” movie (The United States of Leland,) and most recently Pineapple Express.

God, I love back-story, recaps and lead-in.

Pineapple Express is latest brutally funny, accurate presentation of a movie to a smart (yet, crude, yet, sophomoric as shit), easily disinterested and/or bored audience churned out by the Apatow Machine (is it just me, or is Apatow’s and his gang’s brand of humor is the closest marriage of Family Guy and South Park humor that’s present in the current landscape of comedy. THAT, is a blog post. But first, must finish this). It is also the first stoner movie to be certified and endorsed by yours truly, since Half Baked (Half Baked was in 1997. Think about it. Fuck you, Harold and Kumar).

I believe I would’ve enjoyed this movie even if I’d bought into the hype, the viral campaigns, the stoned James Franco interviews. It’s that of that quality, I assure you.

It’s not the better than anticipated box office receipts its going to register, the next progression of a red-hot team, the sure-to-be-great DVD extras or source of the latest craze of movie line spewing that sticks in my mind about this flick.

What makes me ultimately enjoy and respect this movie is that it’s the culmination (to this point) of a shitload of hard work, failed projects and growing prowess for a group of actors who have been in this game since their early childhood. A dream mixture of the cheesy action-plots from the 80’s, an accurate depiction of stoners and a budget (for some pretty cool fx, all things considered). Whereas I did not laugh as heartily as the masses at some points and think that there were some definite “trying too fucking hard to make someone, anyone laugh” moments… there were a few moments (none of which I can remember right now. Go figure.) where I chuckled to a quiet theater.

Also, I find it is important to inform you that perhaps the best element of this movie is the casting/acting/costumes of the secondary characters (the bad guys, namely the henchmen). Danny McBride, Craig Robinson (who, I guarantee you will either squander his upcoming fame-burst or ride it to embarrassment ala Ice Cube) and the ALWAYS amazing Kevin Corrigan.

I’ve yet to establish and don’t plan to stick to any sort of scoring system but I award this movie a B+. Oh and yeah, I’d like to meet that Seth Rogen. There, I said it.

Poop post, poop mouth?

‘Ello, ‘ello, urrbody. Going to jump around here a bit, so uh, buckle up.

So there’s this guy, right? Most people may say he’s the most talented, gritty, America encapsulating player to ever play professional football (which brings to my curiosity, is Harrison Ford too old to play #4 in the Brett Favre story? I think not). Yes, yes, Brett Favre. I’ve always thought of him as a selfish, short-sighted, too quick to try a tough pass, gunslinging hick. This is not to say that he’s not incredibly talent and easily one of the greatest to ever lace up his cleats. Whereas I do not participate, I do, for the most part, understand the love affair with #4.

//

What better way than to prove that your show is not a super-produced sham, with aids just outside the reach of the camera, than to drink your own urine out of a snake’s hide posing as a crude canteen. Good work, Bear Grylls, I believe. However, you’re nothing but a two-bit, limey knock-off of (Canada’s beloved) Les Stroud. Here’s a side note, do you think Gregory House, from Fox’s House, could survive in the wild? I’m sure the cane probably wouldn’t provide much assistance (but then again, he probably wouldn’t make it too far seeing as how it’s proven that limping while surviving increases the chances of death by no more than 65%).

//

Do you know of the world of cleansing, or more specifically, colon cleansing? In certain circles, it’s even more cool than bleaching your anus (very few circles, because let’s face it, turning your brown-eye, blonde is so, so hot). There are many physical and psychological benefits to ridding your body of “unwanted waste,” the most important being the feeling of “being more energized” (with a general feeling of being lighter, coming in second).

Much like similar movements, the colon cleansing revolution has a leader. That man’s name is Klee Irwin. He has, or desires to have, more intimate knowledge of your large intestine and bowel movements than you’d ever care to be aware of. Aside from his (makeup caked) visible acne scars, suspiciously fake facial hair, the man has one of the creepiest overall look and demeanor that you’ve ever encountered (yes, even in the beautiful medium of informercials. Please, take a minute to examine exhibit A:

klee irwin and his 4 year old daughter
by kickmeitalk

That’s right, babies who poop human arms are frightening. And so are you, Klee. And so are you.

Pray for Detective Somerset.

Unless you live under a rock, or for some reason, don’t have the internet but indeed do live out from underneath a rock (one large enough for a human to live under)… Morgan Freeman, and some woman who was not his wife, flipped, rolled and destroyed a 1997 Nissan Maxima (her car, it has to be, right?). This accident left both of them in serious (or was it critical? I’m sure that if it was critical, it has been downgraded to serious) condition.

Shawshank’s Red.

The voice of the Olympics.

Mr. American Express.

March of the Penguins.

God (you know, via Evan / Bruce Almighty)

America’s new, preferred voiceover go-to in situations of emotion and comfort.

This accident. The spinning Maxima. Could it be that our beloved Morgan Freeman’s near meeting with death was the result of actions and events plotted by this man:



That’s right, I’ve just insinuated that James Earl Jones is the mastermind behind a narrowly unsuccessful attempt on the life of the man who has replaced him on the mantle as America’s-favorite-deep-voiced-black-guy-who-they-really-like-hearing.

I’m not terribly surprised. It’s fucking Dark Vader, for Christ’s sake.