And Now, Your Moment Of Zen*

Fairy Tales Can Come True, It Can Happen To You

Imagine it. You, your brother and a few of your buddies pack up your belongings and move from the slums of Boston out to Los Angeles in search of a record deal. Although you were the proverbial big fish in a small pond back in Beantown, you quickly realize that LA is full of bands who are more talented and better connected. In order to make ends meet and keep food on the table, you take a job as a bartender at a local watering hole. You bide your time slinging drinks and listening to winos wax poetic about their glory days, possibly realizing that a good chunk of them used to have the same dreams of stardom and glory that currently occupy your headspace. So, like everyone else with a dayjob and some time to kill, you write a screenplay (a Mafioso story with a twist, a To Wong Foo Julie Newmar hitch). Then one day, out of the clear blue sky, a big shot movie executive reads your script and decides to give you the opportunity of a lifetime: he's going to give you $15 million to make the film that you wrote and also agrees that your band will make the soundtrack. Sounds like a fairy tale, right?

Well, believe it or not, it actually happened. "Overnight" (THINKFilm) is a fascinating documentary that tells the now legendary tale of When Troy Met Harvey, with Troy Duffy in the role as The Unknown Bartender and Miramax chairman Harvey Weinstein as The Movie Exec who gives him this once-in-a-lifetime shot. You're probably sitting there thinking, "Well then, what happened?" This film is successful in answering four out of the five W's (not to mention the one H), yet doesn't quite succeed in giving the audience the answers to "Why?"

Unless you're an avid aficianado of watching late night movies on cable, you've probably never heard of "The Boondock Saints." However, back in 1997, the script by the bartender-turned-overnight-celebrity Troy Duffy was one of the hottest properties in Hollywood. Arriving in the wake of "Pulp Fiction", a fair share of Hollywood's A-List (and virtually all of its B-List) were jockeying to catch themselves a piece of the wave of Indie Cred. Initially, pre-production seems to be going well for Troy and his team of producers. But, as time goes by and the Hollywood machine successfully seduces him, Troy begins morphing from "Confident Yet Humble" into "Arrogant and Maniacal." Instead of being grateful for the opportunity, he begins to feel a sense of entitlement. As his ego begins to spiral out of control, his once promising future begins circling the drain of failure, eventually resulting in severed ties with Harvey Weinstein and an unsavory association with notoriously durst Eurotrash producer, Elie Samaha.

Ultimately, this stirring documentary serves as a cautionary tale of what happens when your ego starts writing checks your body can't cash (as Stinger so eloquently explained to Maverick in "Top Gun"). Example: as a rookie filmmaker, it generally doesn't help matters much if you decide to call your studio's highly powerful head of production (Meryl Poster) a "cunt" in public. Just an FYI. Because the filmmakers were some of Troy's best friends, they were granted an almost unprecedented level of access to their subject, giving the audience a glimpse into his behavior during both the highest of highs and the lowest of lows. They do an excellent job capturing what's going on in the psyche of the film's protagonist; especially impressive is how they don't allow their personal feelings for their subject overrun their film. However, in the end, their own lack of directorial expertise ultimately leaves viewers with a few unanswered questions as the credits roll.

SNL Season 30 ... REVEALED!

You tawlkin' to me? Much like his good friend and long-time collaborative partner Marty Scorsese, Bobby DeNiro has been on the skids for the better part of the last ten years. Sure, the triumvirate of "Meet The Parents", "Ronin" and "Casino" were mildly buzzworthy, but theater goers have also had to endure his presence in craptastic cinematic dreck like "15 Minutes", "Analyze That" and "Showtime" (to name but three pukeworthy efforts). And while he earned a tip of the cap by attempting to stretch his acting chops by branching out in comedy, keen cinephiles all realize that all of his performances are simply variations on a theme. And while that suits Rilke just fine, those of us who remember the good ole days cringe at what Bobby has become.

While your Uncle Grambo codes the review of last weekend's Colin Farrell / Scissor Sisters episode, please enjoy Nummer and H-Bomb's patented Pre-Show Comments for the last live episode of "Saturday Night Live" in the calendar year 2004.

Paris By LaChappelle

All kindsa buzz in the latest issue of Rolling Stone, yo. Aesthetically hawt, yet also educational. While microphones have long been associated with the phallus, who knew that electrical tape is the new kabbalah bracelet? Certainly not your Uncle Grambo! TOTALLY REVEALED! I mean, out here in the Midwest, we usually get freaky deaky with masking tape ... thank you Paris, Dave and Jann Wenner for showing us the light!

FOCUSED!

Sporting four (4) first team All-Americans (!!!), my Wolverine squad is looking straight-up FOCUSED in their Rose Bowl preparation. And by "focused", I mean in both the Merriam-Webster and Nick Catchdubs senses of the word. Word? WORD!

Speaking of "focused", my good friends Jason and Matt of 1115.org fame are about as focused as they come. Their coverage of Election 2004 was off the chains, but I've always been partial to their posts in which they focus their attention towards pop culture. Case in point: 1115.org's Best of 2004. Not sure I'll read a better "Best Of" than what's found here. Don't sleep! (RELATED: Best-Ofs from Coolfer Glenn and Frank Chromewaves)

While it's mos def obvs that Lindsay Lohan's got some big ass titties, your Uncle Grambo has been frothing over Kelly Brook's sweater puppies (NSFW) since at least 1997. Bovs on her respective tees, natch. [LiLo link via Ultragrrrl]

The Sun has the exclusive first look at "Wallace And Gromit: The Curse Of The Were Rabbit". Some say hottest movie of `05. Also, others say The Sun is doomed to become as irrelevant as the LA Times with their recent moves to trim down the amount of content they place online. No buzz 4 u, TAFKAP stizz.

In the realm of all-time greatest Greatest Hits records, your Uncle Grambo wouldn't be hard pressed to make a case for Erasure's "Pop! 20 Hits" ... that shit is chock fulla late 1980s synthed-out best everness. Which is why its sad to learn that Erasure's lead singer, Andy Bell, has got The HIV. While some say it's the most obvs headline of all-time (perhaps right behind Autopsy Reveals Drug Overdose Killed ODB), I wish Mr. Bell nothing but the best. Obvs.

In the long and storied history of hip-hop beefs, this one is hands down durst evs: 50 Cent vs. Ashanti.

Gawd bless sexy hipsters. And double Gawd bless what has GOTSTA be the world's greatest AZZ. [via Skeet On Mischa]

Avert your eyes if you're the type that avoids Spoiler Buzz at all costs. Ready steady go! Ok, for those of you still here, get ready to pour your 40 on the sidewalk when The Miz ISN'T named the winner of Tough Enough. This decision proves once and for all that Vince has indeed lost his golden touch that made his company the darling of Wall Street in the late 90s. Imagine what the WWF WWE would've been like with The Miz running shit? TRY telling me that Coral couldn't have been the next "Mouth Of The South" Jimmy Hart! TRY telling me that a tag-team featuring The Miz and Big Rand from "RW: SD" wouldn't have been the best tag team since Barry Windham and Mike Rotunda! Ferreals, yo.

Remember when, in the wake of 9/11, Fred Durst called for an end to all beefs? Well, it turns out that 9/11 wasn't REALLY 9/11 to our boy Durst. The "real" 9/11 occured when Dimebag got gunned down last week. Effing brills and courtesy of The Gorilla.

"Last night was the 9/11 for metal to me and the metal community. Not only did Pantera inspire me to have the courage to express myself they were also one of my main motivations to form Limp Bizkit. I am sad beyond comprehension. I mourn for the loved ones of Dimebag and the others murdered. A living legend has been taken from us. Life has permanently changed for me as of last night. I believe everything happens for a reason and in no way do I understand the reason for this. I will be forever in his debt. RIP Dimebag."

All This Time You Were Pretending

When I could use a happy ending. Shmears. Pop quiz, FOWs. You ever feel like flipping off complete strangers?

Normally, your Uncle Grambo is a mild-mannered, well-adjusted member of society (relatively spizz, natch). But ever since I woke up on Saturday morning with a Donkey Conga and Maker's Mark induced headache the size of Mandy Moore's ass (more to follow), I've been less Uncle Grambo and more Grandpa Grumpypants. Aside from catching screenings of "Blade: Trinity" and "Ocean's Twelve" on Sunday, I encased myself in a bubble where Microsoft Powerpoint was hott slizzo I lusted after, the father whose attention I craved and the deity I prayed to -- all wrapped into one. Well, fortunately for us all, I made it through my presentation (hellacious D!) without murdering anyone's face. Phew. But now I'm back and ready to tear shit up, just like my slice o' Canadian whitebread, Avril La-Bestever! NOW ON WITH THE SHOW, BITCHFACES!

Nothing worse than when your idols let you down. Which is why it pains your Uncle Grambo that Sports By Brooks' coverage of the recent Kid Rock / Cheli-Blows A2 slutfest is a pale imitation of the coverage featured here on whatevs.org. While it could be argued (quite effectively, I might add) that my coverage was by no means "exclusive", these sacksmokers busted out with the William H. Macy reset that The Grizz unleashed on the backblog. Yo, I'm flattered that you read the site, but your lack of proper accreditation is making me thirsty. Buzz off.

At first glance, the news that you'll soon be able to use your mobile whilst flying the friendly skies sounds pretty sweet. But then you get to thinking about Corporate Business Traveler Guy. You know, the guy who barks into his cellphone until the flight attendants rip the phone from his hand. Yep, that same guy who's fingerbanging his Crackberry and yappin' his trap the very SECOND the plane touches down. Can you imagine what Executive Director Douchebag is gonna be like now? Out of contreez. Hence, trains are the new planes.

Merry Christmas, hope you don't die!

Memo to James Douglas, governor of Vermont: The famed Leg Lamp from "A Christmas Story" has infinitely more buzz than that nudie lamp you keep in your office. Duhvs.

If you would've told your Uncle Grambo that he'd be using the words Mandy Moore and "junk in the trunk" in the same sentence before the year 2012, I'd have told you to go fuck yourself with the chewy cookie center of a Twix bar. Unfortch for us all, seeing is believing.

How come no one told me that Amy Evanescence cusses on her record? Damn, is there anything hotter than when Christian sluts drop the eff bomb? Nada! Which is why I can't believe some Terry Rakolta slash Tipper Whore wannabeeyatch is suing Wal-Marts for selling her teenage daughter nu-metal God rawk that contained a solitary swear. Waif me.

My man Doug Fresard is planning on moving his Royal Oak based Pontiac-Buick dealership to the long-dormant but highly fertile corner of Woodward and 696. Even better? It's going to be on the ground floor of a new high rise luxury condo building. Mmmmhott.

EA Sports, the geniuses behind the highly tigs series of John Madden videogames, just brokered an exclusive licensing deal with the NFL. Buh bye, ESPN Football 2K-Durst!

The 2004-2005 NBA season is shaping up to be more wild and wacky than these Halloween costume ideas (I know, it's a stretch, but go with me here). First and foremost, there's the whole Malice At The Palace thang. Then you've got the whole resurgence of Grant Hill's career ... that brotha was left for dead YEARS ago. And now, while the Seattle Supersonics and Phoenix Suns stand as the league's two best teams, Karl Malone tried to bang Kobe Bryant's wife. Some say more drama than "Desperate Housewives"! And by "drama", I really mean "comedy." And by "comedy", I mean "Blogga please, 'Desperate Housewives' licks the sweat off a dead man's sack of tater toys for tots. Blow me with a hairdryer!"

RRHOF Induc-Tees (To Be Bovs'd Upon)

Ah yes. Your Uncle Grambo is gonna take you back on this one, WAY back to a little feature I used to call "Reader Retort" ... back when whatevs.org was crawling its way through the primordial ooze of the nascient Blogosphere™, guest commentators with specific areas of expertise used to frequently chime in on the events going on in our world. One of the more astute contributors eventually became more or less the official "guest host" of this here site when I'm away, doling out oodles of PHC to the FOWs faster than Carlos D spreads herpes around the LES. Yes indeed, I'm talking about The Gorilla (aka President Martin Van Buren).

While The Gorilla is perhaps best known for his dizzying expertise when it comes to all things boudoir related, your Uncle Grambo has always found his commentary on the inductees to the Rock and Roll Hall Of Fame to be deliciously tigs. In fact, this is the third annual "bitchfest" (to use The Gorilla's own words) ... you can check out last year's entry by left-clicking your mouse right on this very link. So, without further ado, please enjoy this Reader Retort. SCHMOBVS!

R.R.H.O.F. Induc-Tees

(To Be Bovs'd Upon)

by THE GORILLA

Once again, it's time for my annual bitchfest about the Rock N' Roll Hall of Fame. This year I must admit they've given me a little less to complain about. Here's a quick rundown of who's in:

U2 — Getting in on the first ballot? Clearly a no brainer on every level. Except for a short dry spot in the '90s around Popmart, they've had a remarkably consistent career and (with the exception of the Rolling Stones) maintained relevance and productivity longer than almost any band in rock. And unlike the Stones, they've never had any line up changes -- impressive all around. Plus, the band, led by Bono and The Edge have always been very involved with the Hall and induction ceremonies -- Bono in particular seems to like attending rock church for sermons and sermonizing on rock talent. How can you deny entry to a guy who courts the audience every year with probably the best induction speeches?

The O'Jays — In one sense I'm a fan ("For the Love of Money" has one of the most classic grooves ever recorded and survives being pimped to Trump) and, in another, I'm completely biased against Philly Soul in favor of Motown. I think they belong here, but they are one of the last black groups of the '70s that won't be brought down by disco association in voters (mainly white male artists and journalists) eyes. Possibly the end of this era as far as the hall's concerned.

The Pretenders — Chrissie Hynde gets to come home to Ohio to enter the hall, one of the few places people don't think she's British like the rest of her band. Hynde has classic pop rock writing chops and a signature voice, but she still was pushed towards Hall of Fame status by the first incarnation of The Pretenders which had the late, James Honeyman-Scott on guitar. Honestly, the band never was as good after he died, becoming much more formulaic and losing the innovative spark driven by his weird effects, "weird chords" and striking rhythms.

Buddy Guy — This is usually where I bitch about deciding if the Rock N' Roll Hall of Fame is really about Rock N' Roll or should it be called the Popular Music Hall of Fame. This year, Grandmaster Flash and the Furious Five were nominated and so was country singer George Jones -- neither had anything to do with rock, in fact you might say their main impact was to draw stark musical contrast between their form of pop music and rock. Rap like country, jazz and blues before it will start making inroads in the Hall -- which is fine, except that the hall will continue to exclude more mainstream pop music as too square, even though Gershwin and Sinatra had a discernibly larger impact on our cultural view of popular music. But I actually don't feel that way about Buddy Guy. Stylistically, his influence was undeniable on Clapton, Hendrix and other late '60's guitar rock gods. Today, his music is barely discernable from a lot of what would be called blues-rock in a white man's hands. Plus the Guy has some flat out tasty guitar licks.

Percy Sledge — I honestly don't know him that well. He's another southern soul singer who came out of the Chitlin' circuit to make it in the big time. He has a classic voice, but Otis Redding wrote his own best material, Wilson Pickett had more energy than anybody imposing his sheer will on audiences -- in some sense Sledge seems like an after thought. However, I propose that we let Percy battle Michael Bolton for the eternal rights to "When a Man Loves a Woman" -- that victory would be far more just than any museum induction.

All Lohan, All The Time

Sorry for the lack of Friday postage, my fine feathered FOWs. Unfortch for us all, your Uncle Grambo is going to be tied up until Monday PM as well. I've been working on a massive presentation all weekend, one which I'm presenting to the biggest of the bigwigs Monday afternoon. Cross your fingers for me, I'll be back soon enough. Until then, enjoy this screencap from LiLo's surprise cameo appearance on "Saturday Night Live" this weekend (courtesy of Oh No They Didn't!).

And for those who weren't privileged enough to catch the East Coast feed, Colin Farrell closed the show with a completely uncalled-for burst of profanity, saying the phrase "I shit you not" during the show's final moments. The NBC censors reacted quickly, pulling the plug on the show without even rolling the final credits. Both Nummer and the H-Bomb are investigating this developing story. Bovs.