SklogBlog

2006-12-20T23:30:00.000-08:00

HELLO...
i haven't lost my mind and forgotten my password to my own blog.
It has been a wild year, and it is unfortunately coming to a close. This blog has officially turned into a personal journal...I think. this needs to be noted, as I find myself writing no longer about jibberish revolving around faux movies and a shit factory—no more stock options, or tennis programs (the golden years).
No. I worked pretty hard, believe it or not.

I remember this one day when, when i was a little kid, I was invited to work for a friend of mine's father--laying down a whole mess of sod on a lawn. It was a beautiful day, and I bought a box of pizza and a 2 liter bottle of cola: delicious snacks for the gang. You can't, you cannot, eat pizza and lay down sod at the same time. It was great though, because the person that hired me for the job was a close friend, so I really went into this job as if I couldn’t really fail (aka, i didn't care). When I finally showed up, a solid 45 minutes late, everyone around looked dirt tired. After a slice of pie, or two, I was ready to join the squad and partake in what I initially vowed I would do. Within a few minutes I was sitting on a pile of dirt and was incessantly throwing a large hammer into the ground...I knew I wasn’t cut out for this.
Ironically, I worked much shhhhh-e-er jobs the next couple of years. I learned the value of a real hard days work, believe you me.
I would wake up early, have an ass of a boss tell me to bust my balls for the next 10 hours, and I dealt with it as any person would—it was decent money and I enjoyed the stories that came out of the experiences. If you think im joking i would suggest you call up the Edgartown Waste Department.
After these years, I decided I would take what I knew of hard work to the big city of new york. When I began working for a film production company I figured nothing could be harder than a real days work in a field, moving stuff around, and constructing landscapes, all that, and this, while picking up a good case of lyme, lime, uh, lizime disease—fudge how you spell it, it sucked. But no, nyc was a whole new ballgame. Lyme disease is tasty compared to some of the bullshit you might encounter in the real world. I got bitched out by Foxy Brown in my first month…the rapper, the washed up rapper, still looking good, gave me a pile of shit that I will never forget...later apologized, definitely wanted my number...she lost out.
This company i worked for quickly put me in front of idols of mine within the first few days...cinematic geniuses, and their entire crews, and I was asked to perform every sort of office task known to the office world...shizoot, I never left my dell before these days. I got to work on a few dope music videos, meet extremely talented creatives, talk to numerous ad agencies, and even made a few cameos...thanks m gondry and ace n.
The year is coming to a close, and I must admit that I have learned a lot, and I have given thanks to a lot of people for this. Anyone that still reads this blog, although I probably already have thanked you, thanks for keeping up a bit with my business. I guarantee that my best is only around the corner, so you all should be prepared for some fun stuff. Be good, and work hard, and have fun, and I will be around to sporadically write up a message or two for you last surviving sklogblog peoples.
Peace,
js

AC/DC It's Okay By Me

2006-10-12T10:32:00.000-07:00

I expect that no one in their right mind checks my blog anymore, which is a very nice feeling. oh, that feels good. Recently, I have been reading my father’s blog, however, and his stories always make me think of times of old. You know, everyone pretty much does the same in the life—eat some food, enjoy the television, escape from the negative utopia that our conservative government tells us is normal (okay, im kidding, I was just reading a Marxist response to E.T. and Rocky 4)—and going back to Artman’s most recent post, something always happens to us that can be painful, frightening, or even scarring—literally.
Man, the memories, where does one Jeffrey Smadbeck begin. I would first like to take you on a trip, down my fading memory lane. Summer, 199-when-i-was-young. The night was clear, the beach pristine, the music, well, immaculate, as the Vineyard Sound boys tore through yet another unforgettable set. Here we all were again, the Chappaquiddick Beach Club was off the hinges at the annual clambake dinner. The night was coming to an end, the adults were twisting in the wind, the children frolicked amongst the waves, and the seagulls were having a buffet in the trash bins. Nothing could have been sweeter. But, there was something missing. Fireworks? Hmm, no, nope, July 4th had just passed. Strippers? Well, the yachty wives hadn’t quite gotten drunk enough to pass out. Something else, and who else could provide such excitement than myself? But, you see—theo and rudy—I was young then, immature, not quite yet aware of my undeniable knack to amuse. There was only one person who did know at the time, however, and he just so happened to be my brother, Louis. Let me backtrack for just one moment, as this portion of the story plays an important role. You see, while the owner and operator of the CBC was preparing for this large party, he was unaware that there was an electricity malfunction right under his nose. A wire, carrying thousands of volts of electricity had somehow crossed over a garage door railing—the door opened to create an indoor/outdoor effect for the party. As the adults were enjoying themselves and the children were left free to plan and execute mischievous schemes, the children came across this electricity phenomenon. And it was like finding gold at the end of the rainbow, my friends. Nothing seemed cooler, and no one thought this more than Mr. Louis T. Smadbeck. His eyes lit up, his mind turned on, and he wondered to himself, “what would happen if someone were to actually hold on to this dangerous railing?” At this exact moment, I was walking from out of the water and Lou knew I would certainly be the brave one.
“You are the Chosen one, Jeffrey,” Louis screamed down the beach.

“I have the wet feet Louis, I know.” I yelled back
I quickly ran up to the crowd of children curiously throwing things at the electric rail. Louis, knowing I would do it, “Jeffrey, do it. Do it.” As I slowly moved my hand to the glowing rail I felt a push, and there I went, hand first, right into a railing that was carrying more volts than the twins electric bong.
Zap…I could not pull my hand from off the bar…Zap…I could barely see…Zap…I felt an arm grab me and slowly, straight out of a scene from Nick of Time, my hand released from the rail and I fell back to the ground. My hero, you may be wondering? Louis. And myself? Perfectly fine, only a little crispy, but feeling amazing. The party? Stopped, dead in it’s tracks—even the Vineyard Sound.

Well, that brings me to the end of chapter one of getting back on the horse, because I again was able to touch the railing of a garage door. It took some time, but I was fine. And more importantly I was able to forgive Louis—actually it probably brought us together that night more than anything else in our lives. Something’s so horrific can also be soo cool.

Note: Mark, you are next, and to any curious reader, i love louis and he saved my life, word is born.

Father Sklog Blog

2006-09-14T08:11:00.000-07:00

All right Artman, I know that I have lacked the inspiration to post anything for over a month. I realize that I can be lazy at times, my priorities are skewed (though partying in many cultures is deemed #1), and that I have let you (and dean golder) down each and every time you tune into the SklogBlog. It can be tough, as you might have found out by now. Now, I altered it a bit to help me whenever I attempted to post by using a method I referred to as Sklog Blogging, which you know you can borrow anytime you like--the method that is. It is simple. Instead of writing in some conditioned prose, out to illustrate an anecdote to the common peoples of this fair land, you just write as if you mistakenly drank a cup of grandpas cough medicine.
Delicious, by the way.
Where I am going with this, Art, is that you should never envy my blog. I have been amazed by the consistency of yours, and let me tell you, it only gets better and better.
Not to mention the laughing out loud that occurred here at Partizan while your voice boomed out of the computer speakers, thinking out loud and all--"I am still thinking out loud"--, you naw what I is sayin. Hilarious, and don’t worry, no one happened to be around at the time, so Gondry and Company didn’t hear it—though if they had you might have been flown in to do some voice work for his upcoming film.
Errways Arthur, you must realize one thing, if anything else, your blog has brought me back to my old friend here. And I thank you for that, though I am pretty sure my boss is noticing that I’m doing something other than bending over for the “man,” so I should run.
Peace
BTW, You The man Art

Shlong on Button 303

2006-07-18T11:16:00.000-07:00

Post another long hiatus from blogging, between the many drinks and poor game kicked to beer-goggled filtered women, the books, movies, and embarrassing Celtics message boards, I now find myself at a place I always promised I would never end up at—a desk job.
After my brief and relaxed interview nearly two months ago I felt proud and appreciative to have been offered a self-entitled “lax” position, here at NYU’s economics department. While my friend’s scoured craiglist for anything that pays—where is the nearest sperm bank? —I fell into an 11 dollar an hour position where I was told the hardest task during the day was keeping myself alert between the minute assignments.
With the decent pay, the ability to now officially be a leach off of the school that nearly ruined the Smadbeck clan financially, and the most flexible schedule any 22 year old could possibly dream of, I could now work my two days at Partizan Entertainment. There I planned on learning the ropes of the industry I only knew through Kubrick/Hitchcock/Herzog—while still being able to buy chicken to throw on the grill, beer, and the most important cable bill.
At NYU, it seemed at first that nothing could bring my position down—I sit here at my own desk, in my own cubicle, with my own computer (equipped with Harman/Kardon speakers, no less), with virtually zero actual work to do. NYU is the prototypical red-tape institution where it takes about 300, wait, 300 some, let me check, 303 employees to run an economics department in which you ironically employ professors whom teach efficient capitalistic working models. Well, anyway, these employees all have their respected buttons to push. Being that I am a junior button-pusher I only have 1 button to push a day. At around 3 o'clock in the afternoon my button lights up and I must press it. I told them, "I can press lots of buttons if you need me to, I'm just sitting over there at my desk scratching my balls, and I can press the orange ones even." But, they hired me for this one button. So, I press it.
It wasn’t until the 2nd week when I began to realize, or more accurately, notice, a few painful facts. Sitting at a desk with nothing to do for seven straight hours really isn’t much fun. You would think with the millions of things one has to ponder, the internet chock-a-block full of materials to read, listen to, and watch, and the 303 people wandering around one another a regular person could keep busy for countless hours. This simply is not the case. My experience in an office, such as this, not much different than the cliché’s depicted on television and through movies featuring sad individual's desperate attempts to get through the "office life,” is something I can only hope will be more temperate than eternal.
But, this has been the most valuable learning experience.

Just a Bit Outside.

2006-03-13T21:55:00.000-08:00

Wow, has it been since October? I wonder mostly what the hell people think of this nonsensical blog when they click the link on my facebook profile. I'm going to get rid of that link, and get back to my roots, because it has been far too long since engaging in B.L.O.G. business.

I would like to focus first on a few important going-onz in the world, for a brief moment. First: The script I am currently writing. It is called The Constant Vacationer. I might call it Hackers though. Second: The Morality of NYC. I would like to think of myself as a pretty good person in general, well relatively speaking, under the conditions, regulations, and standards that this immoral society has put in place for us all. But, I would like to forgive myself for one thing: peeing on the streets when I am wasted. At the time, it’s always an incredible rush. For the people lucky enough to be with you, as you slide up against the nearest phone booth, or watch yourself on the security monitor outside your favorite bank, giggling at the site of you so openly breaking the peeing on the streets laws. It can truly be a hilarious adventure. But, you know what, I am done with it. I refuse to pee on the street. I know I'm going to screw myself one day, when I’m peeing all over Burger King, and the fuzz roll deep, not noticing that the King is asleep, and instead jump my drunk ass writing my name in piss on the wall. And Finally: The Vineyard. Maybe it is the peace and quiet, I’m not sure, but this place does have a few redeeming factors in the refreshing department. My parents are so nice to me too, now that they are full-blown empty nesters. The place smells so nice; everything is nicely painted, covering up the holes and greece stains of years gone by, the fridge is empty save condiments and wine, and I get to drive. It might also have something to do with the trees and beaches. It’s a fantastic.
I said I would start with that, but I’m going to end on it, with only the promise that whomever still reads this will get something new in the coming days/weeks. It is late.
-sudoku

BACK

2005-10-04T17:19:00.000-07:00

It has been a while, and I apologize to those who have been desperately waiting for a new post (dean, I am sorry). But, school begins, drinking commences, "puke-walking" follows, even cracking the books gets done, but no more excuses. There is something important that needs to be discussed, a forum for all of us to par take in. I am talking about the Boston Red Sox and their stumble into the post-season.

This season, for all of us, has been dramatically different from last season, and for very good reason. After Aaron Boone crushed our hopes and dreams two years ago, last year we figured nothing could really get worse. Maybe you were even happy to see the Yankees take that 3 game lead in the ALCS (at least we wouldn't have to blow it in game 7, some thought). Things worked out though, and since Boston's attitude towards this team has been different, no question. Now we know it can be done. Now we expect nothing less than a championship, and yet, we all find ourselves in the same Boston Red Sox grip, and dropping game 1. An hour ago I found myself aimlessly walking the streets of Hunters Point in the Bronx, and after two collisions into crack-heads, offered coke, weed, H, and liquid crack-cocaine, girls, and girls, I realized something: how we feel about the Sox will never change.

Which brings me back to my terminal, punching in the clock, and reviving this blog. My only regret is I wish I was happier to drop some comical intrigue.
Regardless, and since the point has been brought up about our attitudes not actually changing, I would like to be the first to put in print: we will win the World Series this year. Isn't that how we would have thought about it any other year? For 86 years it was "next year," and last year it was "next year," and now it is "next year." We have to keep faith in this squad, it is the only hope we have. Fudge it, if it doesn't work out, we always have next year.

The Red Sox, fortunately, aren’t the only thing going on in my life. I am taking a fulllll load with the class work, talking big load. Currently turning my political stance back to “radical” and taking a socialist theory class. I would call myself a Christian Socialist, but then I would be going to hell. I would call Bush a Christian Conservative, but he is already going to hell. There isn’t much else to say, but I am weighing my options at the moment. I am also in a French literature class. This class focuses on the Belle Epoch (Beautiful Era) in Paris, roughly 1870-1914. The biggest upside is that the university actually found someone who lived during this time to bestow his experiences onto us. That sounds like a cheap joke, but it’s quite possible. My other class is a real tough one: The History of World War 2. Not tough as in lots of work, just tough. I’m Feeling strong after this class, walk out of there muttering to myself. I was one class short, went to my advisor, and now I am also in a cinema studies Grad course. Here is where I would experience what life after undergrad-cinema-studies would be like. Well, the kids, um, are, they like movies. They generally smell. Make weird noises during lecture. Some of them twitch, and almost all of them sing during rare Classic Hollywood Musicals. So, as you could guess, I feel right at home there.

Those are the classes, and the Yankees game is going the Yankees way. It has only been a month, but it has been a fun one, and full of explosive stories. Yes, explosive stories. I hope to put more down in the coming weeks, just need to finish this book about an old man and his turtle, living in Paris, sipping liquor from his mouth organ.

I am signing off, but before, I would like to mention that there is another project in the works, and hoping to get lift-off in the coming weeks. It is about an alien and his friend. Peace.

NHL Preview

2005-08-20T15:17:00.000-07:00

“Oh, sweet Mary Malloy. Can you spare me some cuttah, me brutha?”

You know the scene in A Clockwork Orange, with the old drunk man singing away in the gutter? Then Alex and his droogs come waltzing down the alley, and beat the crap out of him? There is a reason that movie is set in the future, for if it was today, that old man would have put a hurting on those kids. Or maybe the NHL just sees it that way.

Oh, yes, indeed, the National Hockey League is back, again. The owners and GM’s plaster the television screens, commercial are sprouting up during re-runs of Sienfeld, and apparently Comcast will be showing a game or two this winter on OLN, Outdoor Life Network (I hope they know this isn't pond hockey). Hell, even the cheap Bruins claim they are out to “win the cup” this year. My friends, I am truly excited.

I am, unlike the pros, 3 years removed from hockey. My winters growing up were spent on the ice, as the starting goaltender for my high school team. My class was big into hockey, and most of my best friends played on the team with me. Within our 4 years together, we played at the FleetCenter twice, winning two State Championships. I carry those memories with me today, and they are some of my fondest and greatest moments. I would feel like an old man getting back on the ice today, “Oh, back in the saddle, again.” As a goalie, I would fear each slap-shot, every breakaway, basically anytime I had to deal with the puck (this is before I pull my 21 yr-old groin). The NHL doesn't seem to worry about such things, as they appear set on marketing the past rather than the future.

The “top free agent signings” this off-season is evident of that. I should start with the Penguins since they have been the most talked about team in hockey, of late. So, they chose Sidney Crosby as their number 1 pick. This kid is going to save hockey, but…probably not for a few years. He is 17 years-old, and the moment he is put through the glass courtesy of some over-sized defensemen, everyone will see that this kid has lots of growing up to do. That said, who do the Pengiuns, or the league for that matter, promote? It is obvious that the league can’t hand over a 17 year-old, un-proven, kid as their main reason for fans to tune in. So, the league goes the route of the old-school. This sounds great, and looks even better on paper, but how funny will it be when the public watches their favorite stars go down with “old-man” back? The Pens signed Mark Recchi, John Leclair, and Gonchar this summer. These old-timers lined up with, of course, Super Mario, and a 17 yr old is the savoir of the franchise. At first, this all looked good to me; that was until I looked up how old these players got since the days I watched them as a kid. Recchi is now 37, Leclair 36, Gonchar 31, and Mario might as well be 60 with his history of injuries. These are the players the Pens are promoting; their youth movement consists of exactly one player, Crosby. I am not saying they don’t have players with ceiling-high potential, all teams do, it’s just that no one is talking about them.

Brodeur, Mogilny, Stevens? These players represent the NJ Devils. Their ages a respected: 33, 36, and 41. All I have to say to that is, “holy-grandpa.” Again, these teams have younger players, but I beg the average fan to name one of them. If you go to the Devils home web site there is a big banner lining the top of the screen, “The Devils Sign Alexander Mogilny.” This should read, “We got an old man that was drafted in 1988.” Yet, fans will drop the coin to see there favorite old Devil.

The bruins are the home town squad. They are also very lucky to have some young super-talented leaders representing them: Thornton, Raycroft, and Samsonov. Their big signing this summer was, however, Brian Leetch. The Bruins are just as guilty for promoting players of the past. On New England Sports Plus this past Thursday, one reporter for the Boston Herald got so excited discussing the Leetch acquisition he blurted out, “We are talking about the Rangers Stanley Cup MVP.” Someone had to remind him that Leetch was then in his prime, about 10 years ago.

I could go on all day with this matter; Forsberg, 32, Modano, 35, Foote, 34, Zubov, 35, LINDROS, 32. We have been seeing the names, tracking the players, essentially ignoring the youth. I just wanted to throw the facts out; while I do understand that these teams have the players, and farm systems, yet chooose not to talk about them. I am only hoping that after a few years, and maybe a couple notes taken out of the NBA money-making book, the NHL can get their stuff together so the fans have fun, exciting, young hockey back. Until then, I hope the Bruins see the window of opportunity and take it.

I, Stadium

2005-08-15T17:20:00.000-07:00

This is a little thing I did for www.realgmbaseball.com tonight. I figured I might as well post it, although you can also see it there if you want.

The hottest team in baseball had some big news coming out of it's camp this morning; the Oakland A's owners announced the initial plans for their team's new stadium today. The plans call for a 32 to 35 thousand person state-of-the-art stadium, equipped with a gigantic scoreboard and, oh yes, condominiums. I am actually a Red Sox fan, but I knew immediately that I wanted to write something about this announcement. See, here in Boston we have Fenway. We pride ourselves in the fact that our stadium is a one of a kind. No one can build, or even buy, a Fenway; which played host to 86 years of pain, and last year’s glorious World Championship. Maybe, this was the reason this story caught my eye, because when a team announces a plan for a "high-tech" stadium, I get jazzed a little bit.

The plan is pretty fun, actually. It will be a rather small stadium, in relation to the newest stadiums, as it subtly pays homage to the old-school. However, this is no old fashion stadium. There is a pool on top of the multi-level condo châteaux (not really a French castle, but it looks pretty cool), a scoreboard the size of Hollywood Squares (appears to be directly eye-line with the batter, good for the Red Sox come the annual playoff series), and acres of space outside of the stadium for development. The A's have always been a fun team to bandwagon on. They emerge, as expected, late in the season. The fans are serious and plentiful, and they gracefully (at least in the past few years) lose in the first round of the playoffs. As a Sox fan I have no complaints, and encourage their victories, up until we see them when it counts. So, really, I hope to see this plan followed through.

It makes you wonder though, is it time to scrap the old ball park and welcome in a transformers-esque building. One that closes in on itself when it rains; stifling those rain-outs that can ruin well planned Sundays (see yesterday). I, like most fans, don’t think that is the answer, or appropriate. In 1999, Sox owners pitched a replica version of Fenway, adjacent to the standing stadium, only much larger. This plan was just a few signatures away from completion; but in retrospect, I think most fans are happy this never happened. The renovations that have taken place the past years, and the ones to come, respect the stadium in geography and history. I don’t think any fan wants to see Fenway gone; and even the idea of Condos built into the green monster, while intriguing, is just insane.

This being said, I do enjoy myself a new and improved stadium for some other club. I am even looking forward to the new Yankee stadium. The day Ortiz (although, he may be old by then) cracks the grand slam to win the ALCS, in the Yankees $1,000 a seat stadium, with personal robotic waiters, and hot tubs that line the 3rd base line, will be a glorious day.

Lunch Packed up, Shoes Tied Tight...

2005-08-12T22:53:00.000-07:00

Soon enough, the summer will end. No more lying on the beach. No more mowing next to pools of poo. Man, not even screaming 3 year olds to look after on the tennis court. The one thing that any of us islanders should be fast to realize is that we are lucky that these are our worries for the summer. This thought, still, can't prevent the reservations I have for returning to my Cinema Studies department at NYU this fall. I could be oiled down and massaged the majority of the day, and yet I will undoubtedly have my worries about the upcoming school year. I feel it necessary to provide an insight into the world I will be delving back into in less then a month. To paint a clearer picture.

Tisch School of the Arts, at New York University, is a special place. The arrogance that waffs, and seeps, from every corner of the building, is something to marvel at in itself. I am actually lucky to be on the 6th floor. The other floors are the ones NYU students generally jump from. That isn't even a joke (3 students jumped within a couple of months my freshman year).

Upon entering Tisch, you will be approached by security guards. Usually, this is a hindrance at NYU; however, at Tisch no one gives a flying fudge. You can wander in and out of the building during class hours—unlike any other building in the entire school. This might be because the guards are high from just seeing the kids, or the guards know that if there is ever a place full of hippies and tree-huggers, a place so anti-terrorist in NYC, it is here. The elevators are about the size of miniature portable-potties, making for amazingly long lines that maze throughout the lobby. If you do have half a brain, like me, you will walk to the back of building and catch the massive service elevator on most days, saving about 10 minutes of your early morning (noon).

On the front desk of the 6th floor lies a bell. There is nothing else, just a bell. Behind the desk is an absolutely sour individual who cannot wait to get off from work to run to the nearest John Waters Pink Flamingo screening. This is your welcome, "welcome to cinema studies, and now leave me and my US Magazine alone." “Ding.” “Please sir, do not ring the bell.” “Ding.” Um, don’t get me angry sir.” Ding.” “That is it, I can’t stand it. I am done after my shift is over.” The department is pretty small in relation to the people enrolled. There are 4 screening rooms/class rooms, a fish bowl room (all glass and visible, which can create some of the greatest of unintentional humor), one bathroom per sex, and a quarter of the space is split with the "performance art" department. That last part is a post all on its own; my point is that the space is pretty small. There are roughly 20 students to a class, which would make around 80 undergrads. Aside from our movie-theaters-for-a-class, the department also hooked us students up with some unbelievably comfortable couches to study on. When, and if, I ever become a Grad student, one of these couches will have my name on it. Unfortunately, many of the older sick bastards studying movies are usually lying on them. There is also a research library, aka movie store, to watch virtually any movie ever produced. These aspects sound somewhat glamorous to a sad man such as me, but for 4o g's a year I can only hope they could afford such luxuries.

When entering the program I was pretty sure of one thing: I will meet kids who like to watch movies. This happened, but, I didn't realize how much and what kinds of movies these people were down for. I was quick to make a few friends, but really the students were not exactly the people I was used to hanging with. This is no knock on them; they probably looked at me like I had a booger hanging from my nose too. It was just something I had to get accustomed to.

My first teacher was named Brasssel (I forgot his first name because, well, he wasn't a very good teacher). I did get a good sense of whom and what was contributing to the field of Cinema Studies from this guy though. Brazzdazzle, as I called him, was an adjunct from some obscure school out in Queens. He was very open about his sexuality, and his southern past, which caused for numerous classroom digressions. In this class, appropriately titled "Intro to Cinema Studies", we learned the most basic of basic cinema terms/films. Probably, the highlight of the class was the meetings all students were forced to attend with the teaching assistant. Michael Porno acquired his name cheaply: the guy was writing his doctorate thesis on porno. He could call it what he wanted, but he watched porno movies and was about to become a doctor in cinema. Meeting this guy sealed the deal on whether or not I had made the right choice on what school I should go to. The man watched pornography, and was about to become a doctor—enough said.

All classes are 4 hours long. We sit in a movie theater, and watch clips and movies, while focusing on some random aspect of cinema. I really got a kick out of this. Watching The Good, the Bad, and the Ugly in a class, seriously, was something I could have only fantasized about. I met a couple of great kids too, Cullen "the G-man" Murdah, and Steven Snart, both contributed to my constant NYU bashing. The teachers, students, rooms, bells on front desks, administrators, f'ing couches, all begged for incessant snow jobs, and got what was coming to them every time I wandered through the halls and muttered under my breath. There is, I would later find out, zero room for jokes when it comes to Cinema Studies.

What I learned was that people thrive off of this work. They raise kids off of these studies. People's careers and reputations are built through sitting in these rooms. The jokes faded pretty fast. Well, after I got my first grade back at least. My Martha's Vineyard "all play, beer, sports, girls" world had slowly but surely been deflated, and my friends were nowhere in sight. It was time to put on the thinking cap and swallow lots of reading and writing on movies I would have never ever sat through otherwise.

I have to go back to my original statement, "I am lucky that this is what I have to deal with." This is my junior year, my parents are breaking the bank for me to watch movies for fun, and I need to not aspire to living in a box in Brooklyn. The days, damn, the minutes, are now counting down till cinema studies season begins. I got to put the sun block down sometime. I have to say, I'm starting to get up for it.

Stolen Diary

2005-08-07T15:42:00.000-07:00

The following is an excerpt taken from the diary of Ralph Harrington, a yatchy living the high life on the island of Martha's Vineyard. This is July 23rd, 2005.

Dear Diary,

What a beautiful day it has been. My soccer game ended quickly and I raced home for a late lunch. I couldn’t stand half the kids anyways, so there was no need to hang around for some of their cooler-talk. Diane set sandwiches up on the deck, p-and-j between Eggo waffles. She missed on the crunchy peanut butter though, lost some points. Man, did I feel good today out there. I scored 6 goals, had 2 assists, and even blocked a shot when my goalie got hurt. Just another day in the life of Ralph Harrington, I guess.

I actually was worried this morning. I woke up and none of my white cloths had been washed. Better than last week at least, when Diane turned half my stock pink. I had to wear a dirty shirt to my morning tennis lesson. To top this little number off, she got me the wrong cereal. Um, I am pretty sure Star Wars episode 3 came out this summer, so when I say “Star Wars shaped marshmallows in my Lucky Charms,” do not get me out-of-season cereal. I wonder sometimes if this might be asking too much, but I don't think so.

Billy came by this afternoon. He brought over his Austin Powers martini shaker; we had victory drinks after the soccer win. Billy, of course, provided the assists to half of my goals.

Right now I have to get dressed and meet my father and mother for dinner at the club. It really can get boring sometimes; we eat there at least three times a week. I think it is a little much. I have to meet Julia later as well, of course I could visit her at the ladies clothing store she works in before dinner, but I need to get ready.

Oh Jesus, I think Frank, my father, is already tipsy. The conversation at dinner went as the following, I am writing this down while Frank is ordering the first bottle of wine. “Father, how are you. Mother, you look beautiful.”

Frank: “You are late Ralph, what was the hold up.”

Me: “I had to get cleaned up, I had my soccer game today over near the Boys and Girls Club.”

Margaret: “None of those rabble rousers hurt you dear, did they? You know I worry when you play with that rough crowd.”

Me: “Oh mom, I was the best on the field once again. I don’t think the high school here is very good at soccer. There were a few older Brazilians that had a few moves.”

Frank: “Oh, the Brazilians play?”

Me: “Yeah, most of them are older though.”

Frank: “Well, that’s nice to let them play.”

Again, I have decided it is important to keep track of some of the great events of the summer so I can relay my experiences back to my friends at school. My father doesn’t like it though; he thinks it is rude to write at the dinner table, huh, like I care. This restaurant is not as fancy as the best in New York, well, definitely not in Paris.

Dinner was the same as always. I had the foie-gras to start, and the duck for my main course. I really wanted to get out of there so I skipped on the desert wine and said goodbye to the folks. Julia looked beautiful tonight, she came over after work. I feel bad sometimes that she has to work; I am glad that Frank has set this nice allowance up for me. I do think it is important to relax between school sessions. We played beer pong tonight, and Billy spilled a full beer on my shirt. I had to get a new one and that kind of pissed me off. The girls were fun. They left early because they had to get home before curfew. Anyways, I have an early sail in the morning so I am getting to bed. Goodnight.

-Ralph.

POPCORN STAINS

2005-08-03T21:42:00.000-07:00

I finally saw The Island. It was as expected, nothing more and certainly nothing less. How can anyone expect less from a movie that shoots as many cars across the screen as porno’s shoot nuts. Maybe that was a little vulgar, but I’m trying to equate my experience. I did indeed leave with some serious popcorn stains. First off, I have nothing against sabotaging my own theories and those of you probably know by now about my very simple Bay theory: He is not the worst director in the world, and he is far and away the best at blowing things up and strapping cameras to Corvets. In this context, Michael Bay has no doubt made the ultimate popcorn film. I will not waste this post by simply regurgitating the movie back to the simple folk who should have already seen it, but I will say that this is exactly what our public asked for. Unfortunatly, the public pretended to grow up and turned this Bay film into one of Hollywoods all-time flops.

"Be careful for what you wish for."

These sorts of sayings I have always balked at. Naturally my brain had been turned off, but the notion hovered over me while watching The Island. Man, the public is stupid, and MB no doubt played down to them because this is what is expected and more. The real insult was caused by the audience, by revealing their own arrogance and dissing the film by not showing up. The movie had an opening weekend bow of 12.4 million bucks and has pretty much halted its cash intake at 30+ mill worldwide. Let us get one thing straight, just because you refuse to see a movie does not mean you are above it (at least while you are still seeing Fantastic Four or the Pacifier, two of Hollywoods success stories this year).

This summer I have spent on "The Island" of Martha's Vineyard. We often refer to this island as "The Rock." Mark, my older brother, and I are a couple of "Bad Boys." My twin little bothers, Jamie and Patrick, are "Bad Boys 2." This thinking is as base as anything Bay would ever produce (he titles his films with such names). He has always been clear on what he has set out to achieve, and the public has been responsive thus far to his ventures. His new film, The Island, has officially flipped the script on MB, and I can't say I am a bit surprised.

Now that we have this crisp and clear, MB getting a reality check by no one showing up to the movie he produced for "everyone," this is a gooooooood thing. I am sad to know that the studio backing his next project, "The Transformers," will no doubt put a short leash on his budget, but maybe it is actually time for Bay to grow up and developed something "different."

What can be different for Bay? Is it possible? I have no idea. If I had it my way, I would put Bay in charge of popcorn stains for the next 40 years; the Lieutenant in arms of the summer film, but those days appear numbered. I leave it up to MB now, to prove the people wrong, and developed something that will transcend all demographics, not just the 14 yr. old kids he has worked so desperately to impress. Something finally worth talking/writing about critically. When this film comes, I will feel proud to have acknowledged the skills. I am pretty sure however, that Michael Bay can only deliver on mindless summer explosions, so the public might have just shunned its best in that category. Meanwhile, we will all have to settle for someone elses "Bays" summer film--only providing the public with their wish.

Tennis Report Card

2005-07-27T13:46:00.000-07:00

After 3 weeks of amazing tennis camp with the kids, I think it is time to provide some feedback on what has been happening. Kids from across the world have signed up, and have been playing their little hearts out. I have enjoyed the occasional water break, the rain-outs, and of course sending a child to sit in the glass pile, but I have to admit that these kids often miss the point. Tennis, past the age of 5, is no longer a "game," it is more of a career choice. I was wondering all year how I could get this point across without having the parents contact child services, so I decided to implement a very simple system: the golden star system. Each child is awarded a golden star when they complete a specific drill, dominate an opponent, or simply follow the "182 rules of the court." For instance, "Suzy" smashes a ball into "Frank's" face, she recieves 2 golden stars. "Cooper" picks up 25 balls=5 golden stars. "Billy" brings Coach Jeff a $5 bill=20 golden stars. Of course it is just as easy to lose golden stars as it is to gain them. This is evident in most cases, as students tend to laugh and cry far too much, and neither emotion should be revealed on the court. I decided to post my first score card of the summer for everyone to see who the top and bottom students are thus far.

1. Brooks Jordan, age 3. 3rd cousin of Michael Jordan. golden stars: 567. Has followed every rule to a tee, including tuxedo and miniature vehicle.

2. Braddigan Crimmples Shwartsdinger, age 9. Year round resident of Edgartown. golden stars: 131. Besides the fact that he is late to nearly every class (he eats cereal in the morning and spills it all over his shirt) he has been emaculate in all respects of the rules.

3. Milo Walsh, age 4. Resident of Tokyo, Japan. golden stars: 99. Talents Showcased in the upcoming film "Charlie Bucket." With the exception of his withdrawal from the "100 push-ups and crying game," Milo has shown the unique ability to cry and smile at the same time, canceling out both emotions and delivering confusion to his opponents yet to be matched.

4. Charlotte "Sister Act" Dinlehorn, age 8. Island resident/Award winning singer and future US Open Champion. Golden stars: 82. She has zero tolerance for losers and has been extremely helpful with weeding out the weak.

5. Mathew and Modine Gramskowzer, age 10 and 11. I have bunched these brothers together because they share the same total of stars (79) and because they work as a team on and off the court. They were last spotted drinking budwieser beers behind the tennis wall, trying to get the hot nannies to convince their mom that they need looking after.

Such as life, when there are positives there are negatives. Here are some of the worst scores--of the ones who haven't been kicked out.

-John Henry, age 9. -67 stars. That would be minus 67 stars. Goes to the Boys and Girls Club Camp. Caught throwing stones at a Yachty Lexus (actually that gave him stars). Has followed none of the 182 rules of the court, and wears crocodile slippers to class (I think that gave him a couple of stars too).

-Linda Mortimor, age 6. -44 stars. Brings her grandmother's wooden racket to class. Cries at the site of Coach Jeff hung-over. Tried to clean up the glass pile. All things which cause you to lose stars.

-Lukas Tanner, age 10. -33 stars. Refused to provide his nannies cell phone number.

-Sara Kingsly, age 7. -25 stars. She was doing fine for the first 2 weeks but she went to "farm" camp last week and hasn't been able to get off the subject since. You think your opponent cares that you can feed baby chickens? No, they don't care about baby chickens, goats, cows, or bears.

-Ralph Stewart, age 7. -20 stars. He lost 30 stars the other day when he told me his last name. He claims he is done with the camp now, or something, I don't know I was laughing at his last name.

- Andrew Wilson, age 8. -15 stars. Is just recovering from the worst start in camp history after he showed up wearing over 30 rubber bracelets. You know, the "livestrong" ones. Those ones are cool, the ones the kid was wearing he got out of happy meal boxes from McDonalds that read, "Sudahbumbumbum, I'm Loven' It."

So far so good I would say. The students are learning how to serve, and we have been playing matches. Tomorrow is running day. I time the children to see how long it takes to get to the candy store and back. I will be back soon for final honors.

2005-07-25T08:40:00.000-07:00

"HAHA, The Raptors?"

Breaking News:
The Toronto Raptors are screwed once again. I should probably be feeling bad for them but I can't help but laugh at the newest development out of the Babcock camp. Apparently, they couldn't get the fat guy from Meatballs to play for their team. Roko Ukic, the 6-5 Croatian star, just bailed on the Rapts to go play in the Spanish Basketball League. The Celtics had reportedly promised Ukic, at one point, to take him as high as 18. That of course changed when Gerald Green dropped. Ukic fell into the Raptors lap at the 41st pick, lessening the Villuanevwho blow Raptors fans took early in the lottery. This news shook ESPN studios this morning, causing Stephen A. Smith to spit out his Fruity Pebbles all over his "Quite Frankly" desk.

In other news, realgmbaseball.com just got had by yours truly. They recently hired me as a Red Sox columnist, so be sure to check out my work. They pay in "Clark Bars" so don't expect any groundbreaking material.

YAY HOLLYWOOD!!!!!!!!

2005-07-21T16:03:00.000-07:00

I never really wanted to write this post, but Hollywood amuses me so much I can't help myself. After a 20 odd week slide in box office cash flow from last year, Hollywood has found its swing again. What is funny to me is that most journalists and executives act as if they are surprised. The arrogant people over at Fox, the old grumps over at Universal, the sour sippers at MGM, all couldn't figure out why they were losing money every weekend at the box office. The funniest thing, during this time, was that the studios blamed the poor results on absurd circumstances: "Uh, yeah, it rained last night in parts of the Northeast. Yeah, there were some terrorist sightings in Wichita, really hitting the box office. We think, um, disco is coming back." What they neglect and who they forget to blame, is the real reason for this decline. They are the ones messing up their own business. As far as I am concerned, America really couldn't have made their job any easier; with our affection for narrative, and our reliance on formula.

During this month's long slide in revenue, I was cheering on the decline. Sitting back after every weekend reading about how "Guess whose Coming to Dinner," "Sahara," "Racing Stripes," and "Miss Congeniality 2: Armed and Fabulous" were not meeting expectations, this no doubt tickled my raspberries. And why shouldn't this make me feel good? It is well documented, the industries tendency to sell-out, and America's irresponsibility with the medium, so why shouldn't all of us be happy that these jerks are getting what they paid for?

Unfortunately, for me, Hollywood has finally made its come-back. Again, however, people are surprised by this. What has happened is that there are no expectations for good material to come out of Hollywood anymore, so when something half worth watching arrives everybody feels the need to jump on it. To further complicate, these studios politically decide what they think are their "Oscar worthy" films. That process has little to do with us and is evident in the "People's Choice Awards," or the "MTV's Shapes and Colors Awards."

The issue is that people become grateful: happy to see their favorite star sit opposite Will Smith. It might, again, sound like a lot, but truly (honestly, plainly, skloggggly) is something we should immediately shun. It is bad enough that we leave the theater thinking, "Holy poo, I wasted cash on something I could have made with my friends for five bucks." The conglomerates shouldn't be so Surprizzzld when people stop going to the theater.

There really is no excuse for what is happening on the screens today. I don't expect anyone to argue against me (unless they work for First Line), so this goes out to the people dropping the big bucks to enjoy a night at the theater. I ask those that giggle, laugh, and kiss, to stop and look up at the screen for a moment. If we don't work together, then unquestionably we will we be left with "Miss. Congeniality 8: Guns, sisters, GWB, and drug people." It is a long winded warning, something I never wanted to say, but today I realized: I got no choice.

Jeff's Summer Stock Tips

2005-07-18T19:31:00.000-07:00

Being that I am the brother of two financial wizards, the nephew of a multi-billionaire, the 3rd cousin of President Bush, and having the reputation of a puma on the floor of the NYSE, I believe it is only fair to spread the wealth every once in a while. Why not do this by just tipping you off on some hot new stock tips. Here goes nothing, because it gets boring racing helicopters by myself.

1. The Sparks Drink Corporation: I could give you the everyday stock and bond mumbo jumbo language, by telling you that "the proof is in the basis points", or "Sparks free cash flow has demonstrated an impressive vertical leap since I started drinking it," but really lets get to the basic formula of this product: the reason why it has become the silent boomer of the summer. The drink, a caffeinated malt liquor, has a taste almost identical to that of the candy "Spree." You crack the can, and with one gulp of its nectar, not only has your mouth turned orange but you are well on your way to being so hyper you can barely tell you are completely smashed, and dancing on top of a Geribaldi Statue in Washington Square Park. The company sells the cans by the single, I know you have seen these great dispensers at your local deli, or by the four pack. Yes, a four pack. Why a four pack? The Sparks Drink Corporation understands that their product actually consists of two of the most popular ingrediants in the world, caffeine and alcohol, and that no one that actually drinks sparks can afford to buy only four. You crack one and you have three left, your buddy goes, "yo, you got three Sparks left, give me one." What are you going to do, be a dick about this, it's a Sparks. You throw your buddy the can, and you are left with two. The girl next door walks into your room and asks you what you got in your hand. "It's a Sparks." "Oh really, can I have a taste?" (Gulp, gulp, giggles) "Oh, my, god, this tastes like a "Spree." Before she says anything else you throw her a can. You have one can left; the people at Sparks know full well what you are going to do when that can is cracked and blissfully guzzled. You are going to buy another four pack.

2. General Motors: Yet again, GM has found itself struggling to find its true identity. As they prepare to release their "H3" (third line of Hummer vehicles), many critics wonder, "Another Hummer, so our rich can drive over mountains?" Gm certainly heard the negative buzz, which is why they plan on skipping the "H3." I have decided to spill the beans on this one for two reasons; first, because I believe the future of the automobile industry should never be secretive, and second, because my Uncle is a Supreme Court Judge. So, yes, indeed you have heard it first here. Following the arrival of the "H3," GM plans to almost immediately deliver its "H4." The newest of the Hummer family will be dubbed, "baby H," as initial plans have it's size no larger then a child's "Power Wheel." The idea is that the future business person will eventually park their car directly next to their desk. GM has already been in talks with the largest ramp building company in the world, Rampulous Inc., for a joint venture. I, also, got dibbs on the first model, hopefully this works out better then my yacht car.

3. Bally Total Fitness: This is the real scorcher of the summer, and I am excited to see this stock sky rocket. The burgers we eat, days spent on the beach sucking down cold suds, and the endless hours sitting in front of our televisions have finally taken its toll on America. It is time that we hop in our cars and drive down to the gym, and blahbadyblahblahblah. This is what we hear everyday, and Bally is about to bank off the cultural standards we have set for ourselves. Why Bally, and not one of the other numerous fitness chains? Well, simple, because they make their money illegally. Well, in technical terms, (i.e. most people don't have good lawyers anway) so they know they can rip off people of all ages at any of their hundreds of locations. When someone walks into a Bally gym, they are quickly confronted by a highly trained Bally employee. You, the eventual dumbfounded customer, are sent down a maze, spun around, and drugged. Afterwards, you sit calmly and sign a fifteen year membership, worth over twenty thousand dollars. This age old trick is exactly how lady Bally got to where she is today. Now that she is head of the most profitable fitness chain in the world, you think she will stray from her winning ways? I don't think so, and this summer is the perfect time for you as the public to win with Bally.

You can thank me later, or just see me in the sky if you are up for a race. I'm going to go pick up my H4 and drive it up my stairs. Adios, and remember, "Don't be a sucker."

(Warning: Jeff is not responsible for losses in money or hours wasted trying to buy stock in non-existing companies)

Review the Movie Review

2005-07-14T15:41:00.000-07:00

"a fun, futuristic ride with just enough intrigue to keep you brain cells intact during the dog days of summer."

As painful as it can be, I still read the average film review weekly. The art of reviewing a film has evolved over the years, from academically analyzing a film as a work of art, to simply "letting you know if you should drop the coin on this flick." Naturally, film vocabulary has evolved through this process. I chose the above quote for two reasons. First, it has a funny spelling error. Second, it rocks this kind of evolution of rhetoric, and works well as exibit A for this commentary.

Michael Bay, the brave Lieutenant-in-arms of summer popcorn films, has indeed blessed us with another picture appropriately entitled (for us islanders) The Island. The given quote is refering to this film. I am as excited as you are, for Bay may be the only working director whose images comfort me enough to turn my brain off and enjoy. My brother, Mark, actually showed me how to turn my brain off when I was about 15 years old. Many people don't know this, but your earlobe is actually a remote for your brain. With a quick turn of the lobe you can go between levels one and ten of brain power (it sounds crazy but through practice it works). To turn the lobe down past three is dangerous (trust me, I have found Mark cold and shivering on more then one occasion) but to bring it down to around five-six you can safely enjoy mindless films. Using this method I still make it out to the theater, but before I go, like you, I often flip through the morning paper to see what the bozo critics are saying. The key to knowing if a reviewer genuinely likes a particular film, or is getting paid off by the Christopher Nolan's/Zach Braff's of the world, is a tricky business. For instance, if Roger Ebert says "this is a gem of a film" then my only suggestion would be to stay away from that screen. "The Pacifier is a gem of a film," exclaims Roger Ebert. Stay clear of The Pacifier. Another giveaway is when a reviewer hooks a movie with a clever tagline, as in "the feel good hit of the summer." Usually this is a nice way of saying, "A Julia Roberts/Gary Marshal production." Again, steer clear.

This may sound cynical, and it undoubtedly is, but before you judge go pick up the paper and check out the review. You calling me a liar? Fudge, fine, here is another bit of a review. "Is it really this good? In a word, yes." Apparently the film in question here is "good." What this means, well, the film sucks. I saw Million Dollar Baby, and in a two words it was "not good."

The art of decrypting a review is something that I have worked hard at. Over time, however, I have discovered that these reviewers may actually believe in what they write. They might completely enjoy a movie, where otherwise you would have to have half a brain to sit through without rolling down the aisle. The bottom line is, do not trust these people. Looking at the situation for as long as I have, this might be the only solution. Just don't listen.

It might be asking a lot, going through the rigors of studying painfully written and vague reviews, but this will help you in the end, I promise. The reality is simple: We (Hollywood) make films for one reason, which is to bank some cash. Never forget this fact. Cinema is not a toy, and certainly was not invented to dupe an entire public, so go into films as cynical as you can. My only issue, and the reason for this post, is that people wake up in the morning to such reviews. To decipher, break-down, and crack these age-old codes will help in saving the embarrassment of pretending to like "the most sensual film of the fall" (not to mention the cash and time).

Willy Wonka and the Poo Factory

2005-07-12T16:58:00.000-07:00

At the time the joke would never get old. The Waste Water Treatment Facility had just hired me as maintenance man for a few hours a week; just enough time for me to really take in such a gem of a workplace. When I first arrived, Bill, Steve, and Jacob, were probably on their 15th cigarette break of the day. This was the entire cast at the facility, I was to become their 4th. The youngest, Bill, saw my arrival and quickly threw down his cig and began to walk to the back shed. I met him at the door.

Bill: "How you doing? My name is Bill. It kind of smells around here."
(Bill had been working at the Waste Water Treatment Facility for 7 years, I think his senses had been dulled.)

Me: "Yeah, it smells like shit."

Bill swung the garage door open and revealed the most enormous and graceful lawnmower ever created by man. The new John Deer LT160 lawnmower was to me what the hyperbaric poo chamber was to Bill: brilliant.

(Bill slowly runs his hand over the hood of the lawnmower and lets out a faint whistle of approval.)
Bill: "You know how to drive one of these things?"

Me: "Yeah, I'm sure I can figure it out."

Bill: "Alright good, cuz I got to clean out tank 4, so if you crash or nothen just bang on the pipe a few times. We will hear ya."

Me: "Thanks, man."

I hopped on the lawnmower and looked down on all the clickity clacks and levers. The mere sight of the machine momentarily made me forget the horrid smell. As I was about to rev up the engine, Jacob, the boss, came over for a formal chat.

Jacob: "Hey, and you must be Jeff."

Me: "Yeah, thanks for the job."

Jacob: Good, so you going to mow today, and probably do some weed-whacking.
(An awkward pause overcame Jacob, he realized he just hired me to work strictly on the lawns.)

Me: "Is there anything else that, I mean besides the mower..."

Jacob: "Oh well, if you want to get dirty (pointing over to Bill putting on a Teflon suit) but I figured..."

Me: "Yeah, I will just take care of the lawns man, thanks again."
As he walked away, and I gazed upon the many fields in which I was soon to cut, I felt proud. I had officially infiltrated the waste water community.

The waste system itself was nothing like I first imagined it. It really looked like a factory, except virtually no one was there. The purifiers and pumps, gadgets and gizmos, which kept the poo flowing up and down the numerous tubes and through the pools, were run entirely by one computer. I only once caught a glimpse of "NED" that first day, that was what they called the computer "NED," but man did it look advanced. When I looked into the "NED room" Jacob immediately shut the door. Jacob was a good man. He cared deeply for the factory, but he was also suspicious of my curiosity. Jacob appeared content on keeping all the secrets of the plant safe, even from his lawn boy.

The first day flew by, or should I say the mower flew by all the tanks, pools, vats, and buildings. I rounded the first of seven buildings and drove nearly vertical up a hill. As I reached the horizon I almost drove directly into a large swimming pool full of shit. I slammed on the breaks and slowly rose from the seat of the LT160, removing my goggles. The murky water, being swooshed and swirled, was like a living nightmare. How could this be I thought? This exposed pool of waste, how could they keep it like this? From a distance I heard a voice, it was Steve.

Steve: "Hey, you, what you doing next to my pool?"

Me: "I was just, I almost drove into the pool."

Steve: "Yeah (he pulls out a cigarette and lights it) I saw. Now you listen here boy, I don't know how you got this job, and I didn't like you the moment I saw you. You stay clear of the pools, they are dangerous."

Me: "Yeah, I'm sorry mister, the lawnmower was moving fast..."

Steve: "Don't drive it so fast then. Now get, there ain't nothen to see around here."

Well, I couldn't argue with him. A swimming pool full of shit is something I come across a few times a day. Steve looked back at me as I drove away, with a mean grin on his face and a sharp wink with one eyelid. I drove around a massive tank to dump the grass. Grass had been dumped there for years, I gladly added to the piles. I stopped to catch my breath and took a swing from my water bottle. A light appeared on the side of the tank.

NED: "Good afternoon." (The light was speaking to me.)

Me: "What? Hello, who's this?"

NED: "My name is NED. I am a waste water computer system."

Me: (not sure to laugh or run away.) "What?"

NED: "Are you cleaning the grounds?"

Me: "Yeah, you know where I can find a toilet around here?"

NED: "There are two in building A, located near the front and rear exits. One in building B, located in Jacob's office. There are 4 in..."

Me: (beginning to get a little scared.) "Okay, well thanks, I can find one."

NED: "Have a good day."

To Be Continued...

Check number #5 Geraldo Green's Dunk.

2005-07-12T13:58:00.000-07:00

WAllluhfudge
I would like to have to say more, but i think
that just covered it.
http://www.nba.com/media/celtics/green_dunk_320.mpg

He also has a smooth jump shot apparently, don't worry about it.

And Now...Andy Milonakis

2005-07-11T13:06:00.000-07:00

"Its my show I'm Shmandy Shmilashmokis."
Over ten years has passed since the first taping of "The Tom Green" show. The fact that the show was as small as it was makes it hard to gauge exactly how influential "The Tom Green Show" has been on today's comedic youth. There is no doubt however that Tom Green has greatly impacted the comedic styling of Andy Milonakis. Using the internet as a springboard, (Once Busting a 3 minute rap as "Crispy" which opened with, "meet me, meet me, meet me, don't beat me. Just meet me at the waffle house, cuz I'm ah mouse." I equate this to Green's "bum bum song") Andy has quickly become a household name amongst teenagers and blazed college kids. His internet bits were recently picked up by MTV and turned into the "The Andy Milonakis Show." Tom Green's show, "The Tom Green Show" and now "The Andy Milonakis Show" are both self-relfexive, self-mocking, and undeniably hilarious.

Tom Green used to act "special" in front of complete strangers, extracting unintentional humor from such victims. Arguably Andy takes it one step further as he pretends to be just a little kid; skipping through his "neighborhood," getting cereal all over his shirt, and busting rhymes to crack-heads (Didn't we all do that when we were young?). The greatest irony might be that he is actually 27 years old and lives alone in the East Village in Manhattan. With the ability to play up the facade of a 14 year old Andy has enabled himself much more flexibility with his comedy; he has virtually zero set up besides a cue card with the title of the sketch on it, strangers visibly have more patience providing Andy with plenty of time to pull off his pranks, while his friends are often elderly men and women only widening the age discrepancy. Tom Green had to go through a desk, a live audience, and two sidekicks to get to his street sketches. Essentially Andy has taken the main ingredients Green once formulated and made them more potent, not unlike the evolution of action films or weed.

This formula is clearly basic (most of the time relying on spontaneity rather than thoughtful concepts) but has no doubt become a part of our comedic culture. The avenue Tom Green opened up was one in which a demented chubby kid can mess up his hair and have the courage to bust rhymes with a pancake on his head. This can only be viewed as a positive, and returns to a point I find myself making a lot when dealing with anything MTV or Hollywood related: if you are going to insist on selling candy to kids make sure the candy is delicious. Thank you Tom Green, may your left nut rest in peace.

Films Opening June 8th

2005-07-08T10:42:00.000-07:00

"Flamer, AHHHHHHHH"
Friday, July 8th, 2005. Movie theaters across the country prepare to deliver yet another comic-book-to-screen movie. This week's premier: The Fantastic Four. With summer action films such as this, I always think it is important to first look at the title of the movie. When dealing with a singular action hero, such as Batman or Spiderman, writers get an immediate bye on what to name their movie. On the set it's simple, as in, "we're shooting the new Spiderman movie." Or, Christopher Nolen exclaiming, "Shit, they think I can actually direct and I have to shoot a Batman movie." The Fantastic Four however is a movie that apparently features a group of superhumans, a crew if you will. I have not seen the film but from viewing the trailer this is how it is. My issue is simple, why name it The Fantastic Four? Wasn't that name made up over 30 years ago, when kids actually read comic books, when they could enjoy their own vision of the stories? When producers first sit down, carelessly budget a 100 million dollar summer flick, don't they stop to think about this? If, for instance, you know that your comic book movie will easily clear its budget why not name it The Fantabulous Four, or The Entourage Of Four? If the 2002 comic book summer movie The Hulk was named The Big Green Scary Man I personally would have enjoyed the movie a whole lot more. What I am asking for is nothing groundbreaking. Recently Alien vs Predator was shortened to AvP. The movie could have sucked worse then Rollerball but at least it had a cool title. I even remember some friends saying "Yo, I'm gonna go check out AvP. Yo, they kill each other in AvP." This should go for all action films destined to suck. Name it something ridiculous, and in the end if people don't like it you can always just say, "Well yeah, we called it "Blood, Fire, Earth, Boobs, and DEATH." Hey, its just a suggestion. When The Fantastic Four comes out with this authentic name and all and the audience scream, "Damn, I just gave those jerks 10 bucks we will never see another movie like this again" you will be sorry you didn't just name the movie "Get Blazed and Watch Explosions." If you plan on making crap, at least try to call it something cool.

"Yellow Water"
Friday, July 8th, 2005. Theaters across the country prepare to deliver yet another Japanese-turned-Hollywood horror film. Dark Water, written by the man who brought us The Ring and the creatively titled The Ring 2 brings us Dark Water. Dark Water stars Jennifer Connely, the dark haired vixen who bawled for 6 straight weeks to prepare for the role. The story line is relatively basic. A girl moves into an apartment and water begins to seep from the ceiling. Her daughter begins to have visions and draws scary pictures, so Connelly's character eventually goes upstairs and turns the water off, but then looks in the mirror and is a ghost, but the audience doesn't know it yet, so she turns the water back on and sees the devil and the daughter draws this, but there is a twist, because Connelly wakes up and realizes her daughter just peed the bed. So don't worry about it, you won't have to go see the movie now, you can thank me later.

"MuRDeRBalllllllllll"
Friday, July 8th, 2005. Theaters, well 3 theaters, across Manhattan are preparing to deliver a movie in which documents something rarely seen in films: handicapped people. Murderball features super tough Rugby players, Quadriplegic rugby players, who battle it out in a sport that has reached international audiences. You meet super tough mo fo's who, despite being confined to wheelchairs, could easily kick nearly everyone i knows ass. The narrative develops the relationships between the competitors and the nature of the sport itself, quaintly titled MurDeRbAll. These playas exchange their daily chairs in for metal chairs that are reminiscent of Greek battle wagons. The sport is so physical that people are often thrown from their chairs (just check the movie). Really, I would like to thank the director and the people involved in the film, and any other filmmakers today providing us the viewer with something a little different, a little real, and little more intense.

And those are this weeks films.

Boston Celtics Update

2005-07-07T09:25:00.000-07:00

Today will certainly be looked back in history as a landmark day for the Boston Celtics. With all the hullabaloo happening in the free agency market many a great man can get lost in the shuffle. Danniel "Cranberry" Ainge however has been blessed with a keen eye and has garnered a reputation to quickly and quietly seal a deal on a "real" National Basketball Association Player. Real in the sense that this player whom we, through handshake, acquired today could be your camp counselor or deliver your milk in the morning. You know, that next door neighbor "real." Now, before I reveal who exactly has agreed to come to Boston this fall and help in our quest for our 17th Championship, I will provide you the reader with some tips. A little guessing game if you will.

1. This man is tall. (He is 6 foot 9 inches.)

2. He plays with heart. (He sweats sometimes when he gets to play and he screams real loud when he gets kicked in the groin.)

3. He has very red hair, and fair skin, not unlike Danny Ainge himself. (Irish descent.)

4. He cheers on his teammates. (I have had the privilege of sitting behind the Nets bench during a game, he was screaming and yelling "Yeahhhh, Hoorrrayyyyy, Wiiiiinnnnnn.")

5. He drinks tea between quarters. (And often times eats crumpets.)

6. His dad was once a professional boxer nicknamed "The Scallion."

7. He drives a Ford Focus to work.

8. Got on stage with Phish when he was 16 years old and sang "old miss mushroom." (I read this on a Realgm message board, it has to be true.)

9. Before he played basketball he was a fencer and actor.

10. His name is Brian Scalabrine.

11. His name is Brian Scalabrine.

Yes, Brian Scalabrine. For 15 million American dollars the Celtics just stole one of the finest bench warmers in the entire league. You put him next to Mark Blount, and you don't think we'll reach number 17? Please son, you don't need hands or athleticism to win basketball games. You need heart and pizzazz. I think we should all look forward to those shining moments at the end of a game when we see Brian Scalabrine slam dunking all over Tom Gugliotta. Yeah Scallllllllabrine, yeah.

Original Flyer For My Tennis Camp

2005-07-06T10:12:00.000-07:00

Welcome to "Jeff Smadbeck's Tennis Regiment." Come one, come all, come no one, either way the town owes me money. For the second summer in a row Jeff Smadbeck welcomes back two of the top tennis instructors on the island, Jamie and Patrick Smadbeck, as assistants to the most electrifying tennis camp in Edgartown. Today was the first day, so be sure to make it next week starting Monday morning before the crowds really begin to flock. Along with rigorous training each child receives a 36 page rule book. They will be provided with the proper tennis attire, courtesy of the town of Edgartown (a tuxedo and top hat for the boys, ballroom gowns for the girls), one small motorized vehicle of their liking (must drive up to the court and park), and a wooden racket. (Hard black shoes and cigar optional) The rule book covers all 182 rules of the court, with descriptions, and a diagram of a crying child being thrown into a trash can. Let's review a few of the more basic and important rules.

1. Always listen to Coach Jeff.

6. No smiling, laughing, or cheeriness whatsoever. Champions don't actually love the game, they love the win.

15. If you do not participate in the game "100 push-ups and crying" you do not participate in the lesson at all.

36. Cannot drink anything stronger then gin during match play.

45. Any child who talks about a time in which they took tennis lessons with a nice tennis instructor must sit in the forest for the remainder of class.

86. If Coach Jeff looks sickly and smells of booze, do not remind him of this.

92. Every Wednesday you must run to the ice cream store and bring back ice cream for Coach Jeff.

112. A child who cries is a child who flies, directly into the trash can. Should be obvious enough (Also see diagram). Crying, of course, allowed only within the duration of the 100 push-ups and crying game.

120. Coach Jamie and Patrick like it when you steal money from mom and dad and bring that money to them.

Other rules include "162. A rain drop can cause serious injuries so the lesson must immediately end if one falls" and "181. Tips are not only appreciated but required if you plan on continuing lessons."

I know what you are thinking, and yes, as long as you are a resident of Edgartown you are welcome. If you would like to join the class please contact Pam Dolby at 508-627-9044. Thank you.

2005-07-02T12:23:00.000-07:00

Diane, my mom: post 1. The blog has been up for almost a week and the greatest travesty thus far has got to be the fact that my mother Diane Smadbeck has not had the privilege of her own post. I owe her this one. She did in fact bore me.

Jeff: “You what?”

Diane: “I BOOOOORREEEEEEEE YOU.”

“The Airport.”
Diane Smadbeck grew up in the mountains of Western Pennsylvania. Her childhood town of Winber brought all the joys any girl could ever dream of. There was a school, some steel mills, and I think she mentioned a movie house. She would go on to study at Indiana University of Pennsylvania, while continuing to date her high school sweetheart; the quarterback of the Western Virginia football team. Working, to pay for tuition, at a local airport gas station seemed like a perfect place to make some cash and relax. All was well, but things were about to drastically change when Arthur Smadbeck, with his large plane, came flying her way.

(Art's plane lands and he hops out)
Arthur: “Hey, what up?”

Diane: “Nothing just working.”

Arthur: “Yeah, I’m just flying through this fog, its thick today, don’t worry about it.”

Diane: “Yeah, no one is out flying, they said it’s dangerous.”

Arthur: “It’s no big deal. Just had to tighten the turbine a little, 150 155, whatever it takes.”

Diane was engaged at the time to this football star but was getting tired of his off the field antics. (At home doing her nails while on the phone with her fiancé.)

Diane: “Why can’t you come home this weekend? It’s my Birthday.”

The QB: “Yeah babe, I know but I’m swamped with some extra circular training. I’m gonna have to stick around campus and work on my quads.”

Diane: “And that’s all you do (screaming like a banshee) what about us, what about me?”

The QB: “Di, I know babe, but you know how it is. I got NFL scouts out here, they told me I needed to work on my lateral quickness.”

Diane was upset with her situation, her destiny to be married to a Pittsburg Steeler was fading, and fast. She went to work that Friday, all alone on her Birthday, and was feeling quite down on life. A plane flew in and she went to attend to the pilot.

Diane: “Yeah, what can I get for you?”

Arthur: “Uh (checking the rear view) fill it up with super, and your phone number will be fine.”

Diane: (blushing at the site of Arthur and his glistening mane.): “Um, and I can do one of those things, but I don’t just give my number out.”

Arthur: “Oh yeah, Bill over in the rig told me it was your birthday, just making sure a beautiful women such as yourself wasn’t planning on celebrating alone.”

They went out that night to a nice dinner, and later Arthur took her over to the landing field to look at the stars. Within a few months they were married and moved into a small apartment. Arthur and Diane Smadbeck went on living happily ever after. A few years down the road they were about to welcome their third child, Jeffrey, into the world. They built an entire castle for his arrival; it had a ferris wheel in the backyard and a giant zoo. Bill Cosby was there, and Dennis Eckersley was his personal baseball coach. He ate candy everday, and later they built him a Coors Light fountain. Wait, that never happened. Hold on Diane, why am I writing this romantic story about you and Art?
Diane: “Because, IIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIII
BOOOORRRREEEEEE
YYOOOUUUUUU.”

(Note:The twins did eventually rise to power. (not seen in picture))

Michael Bay and the End of the World

2005-07-01T08:36:00.000-07:00

If I were to have to guess when exactly my sick mind subconsciously developed a theory on summer blockbusters from the 1990’s and the end-of-the-world sci-fi genre that often make up these films I would probably say a year ago today. Why not, the theory started out as “Action films under the influence 101.” It is safe to say that I have covered all my bases within this year, watching many of these films more then once, this thought today makes me sick to my stomach, but really this very easy and most of the times extremely enjoyable experiment greatly helped me with such simple film related issues as genre theory. To keep things consistent however I went strictly with films from the past 15 years, for the sole reason that these films came about during the rise of the SpecialFX era, splig.

Seeing that I saw “War of the Worlds” last night I believe it might actually be time to reveal some of the things I have discovered (I will keep it short and only work with one film today) through the year. Keep in mind I was never disciplined during this undertaking, hence the subconscious decision that I will study such subjects. It came about the time I was also working on my “Michael Bay is not the worst director ever” theory. The singular reason why he is not the worst director ever; because he makes action films for 14 year old boys. You don’t believe me? You are 26 and still popping in “Bad Boys” every Christmas? Well then my friend you like films for 14 year old boys. And if you hate every single minute of a MB film, then you have probably outgrown your 14 year old former self. Bottom line is Michael Bay knows exactly what he is doing. Before he was blowing things up in such summer popcorn flicks as “The Rock” or of course “Armageddon” the man was making music videos for Tina Turner and Ads for Nike. Prior to this he was in a frat house at Wesleyan University sporting a slick car and most likely taking advantage of younger women. So let us get one thing straight, this man never claimed to be the next Orson Welles or even the next Spielberg. Now that we have that out of the way I would like to take a second to defend one of the greatest end-of-the-world sci-fi films from this era “Armageddon.” And before you throw your puter across the room crying, take a second to think about this film as a litttle kid. A rock is flying towards earth, is discovered by a guy with a huge telescope, lets NASA in on it, and within a few hours it has been decided that our planet only has a few days before it gets blown up. Now before this even happens Bay goes with the classic convention of the “voice of god” introduction (aka awesome, and I’m not talking about a voice we all recognize like Jude Law or Morgan Freeman I’m talking car commercial voice). All of this is followed by the explanation on how exactly the American government will go about defending our beautiful planet by “the smartest person on the planet” (the actor actually looks like he might be the smartest guy ever, could only have been topped by hiring Werner Herzog to play the part). It really doesn’t get more extreme then this. Or does it? The fate of the planet will be left in the hands of oil drillers (?), ah yes, the best in the business in the form of Bruce Willis. Now to keep the film moving, keeping all of us at the edge of our seats and with popcorn all over our shirts, Bay blows up New York City with a massive meteor shower, then he destroys Paris. If you are sitting there thinking this jackass is only digging this movie based on the concepts alone, then you aren’t watching the films closely enough. These concepts have been fudge over by some of the most skilled “craftsman” of cinema (whatever that nonsense even means by now), Bay just takes everything so over the top that these films are some of the hardest to study when you are going from frame to frame. The cuts occur so rapidly, the music I’m pretty sure never ceases, and the drama so over-stylized that the comparison to a soap opera is no longer valid. The soap opera comparison still works in most any other end-of-the-world films because some how this phenomenon has been bought by the general audience, a crying shame. The fact that Liv Tyler has tears in her eyes 90 percent of the movie and yet the shots never go head on is telling of the effect Micheal Bay is trying to elicit from his audience. The audience sees these tears from below, above, through long shot, and cut against burning cities or astronauts saving the day, making for an affect never seen in a soap opera. The soundtrack is so triumphant, sooooo generic, aligned with the crazy special effects that they over ride any “human” study (aka bullllshit) that might otherwise overtake a film of this nature.

Keeping it as short as possible, we are left without a study of the human psyche but only with a popcorn movie. If I want to be learned on myself I’m not going to a summer blockbuster for that.

I do not agree entirely with this summer blockbuster system however I have come to an understanding that this is inevitable. With that said I wouldn’t want any other director to handle such endeavors then Michael Bay.

Back to the beginning of this post, last night I did get the chance to see "War of the Worlds." I will keep this brief and let it be known that no i did not exactly think the film succeeded in what it sought out to accomplish. Spielberg is actually just like Bay, except he has a little more range so he can apparently pull off a "Saving Private Ryan" or Schindler's List" once in a while. My point is that Spielberg has merged the two; the entertainment summer blockbuster with his heartfelt artistic "meaningful" film. This has failed for Spielberg as his last films have either resulted in conventionally safe and commercial vehicles (The Terminal) or poorly executed sci-fi films that are rooted in dialogue taken from “Days of our Lives” (AI, Minority Report). Before you begin to wonder what I personally would want Spielberg to do, well playas if you haven’t seen Jurassic Park then you have no idea what I am talking about; Jaws, Raiders of the Lost Arc? Has he forgotten why we loved him, why his films never ceased to entertain? Because isn’t that what we are talking about, being entertained? Man Spielberg built dinosaurs, a giant shark, had Indiana running through old tombs with nonstop jokes along the way. With "War of the Worlds" he leaves us with a half baked sci-fi film, in which really is a simple study of the human psyche? No, I for one am not going to buy it. “War of the Worlds” was in many ways enjoyable, and I didn’t mind seeing those aliens with their robots shooting down whole buildings. It was when Tom Cruise felt the need to “defend” his little girl and his son, and for Spielberg to guesstimate how any of us would react to aliens trying to exterminate our peoples. Who gives a fudge? I would rather see a thousand cuts a second or a dinosaur.

Anyhow, its not much of a review, but I hope I got some point across, when I want a candy bar let me eat a candy bar, don’t make me eat spinach before desert (not for 10 bucks on a summer evening).

2005-07-01T08:21:00.000-07:00

"And the Toronto Raptors Pick..."
For any of you confused about what exactly I was having Stephen A. Smith say in my short biopic, this taken from a Toronto Raptors message board should clear things up. It is riviting, and only funny because everyone knows that no they will not choose Green or Granger, not even Frye, but indeed Villanueva. Oh T-rap fans, got to feel bad for those kids. Click on the link, it begins just as the clock is turned on for the Raptors 7th pick but to get to the real good stuff you will have to click a few pages ahead to when they finally pick CV.

http://www.realgm.com/boards/viewtopic.php?t=386912&postdays=0&postorder=asc&start=120

2005-06-29T16:46:00.000-07:00

"The life and times of Stephen A. Smith"
The nba draft happened almost two days ago. The reason it took this long to discuss such an important topic, well, I went drinking after the celtics drafted geraldo green at the 18nth pick. Yeah so I spent most of the day yesterday trying to sit perfectly still, so as to keep the bleeding of the brain to a minimum. Naw i didn't get too drunk mom, but I did however stay up far past my bedtime of 4am, so yeah a mindless viewing of the end of the world sci fi film "the core" was appropriate (after tonights screening of War of the Worlds i will get back to this thought). The draft was in fact entertaining. The format, however better then any other sport, was in some ways disappointing. The shining moments of course came in the form of Stephen A. Smith, thee most electrifying sports commentator in the history of the game. The reason why? BEEcuz, he said so. There really is nothing worse then to watch a commentator, announcer, or news broadcaster so painfully limit themselves when talking on television by following to the letter the nonsense they learned at journalism escualo. The conventions were once needed maybe at the birth of television, even for the Fox Network, but its 2005 baby and i needs to see someone who is not afraid to put their feet up and scream. And let me tell you, SAS does that. I can only hope that a entire bio-pic will one day depict such an entertainer. In honor or Stephen A. Smith I give you a short script.

Stephen A. Smith scene 1.

Outside of Madison Square Garden, the marquee reading "2005 NBA Draft"
cut to. inside a car.
A key is inserted into the ignition, a hand adjusts the rear view window and you see Stephen A. Smith with a big smile. He reaches down into his pocket to retrieve his cell phone earpiece, shifts the Lexus into gear, and turns up the radio within the same second. He is a pro at looking good, its what he does. Boop, the cellphone is calling someone.
SAS: "Scoop"

He calls his friend and fellow ESPN sports writer Scoop Jackson

Scoop: "hello? Im in the dungeon."

SAS: "let me tell you something, as in key points to this entire process the draft and thereafter. You cannot pick Charlie Villanuavwho with the 7th pick. Rob babcock is and may always be a loser when it comes to the game of the NBA draft. (almost shouting) He has no understanding of need nor wants, and as far as i can tell might be blind."

Scoop: "well dawg..."

SAS: "and further more, how can anyone with eyeballs, an arm or two, and maybe a brain oversee the obvious need at the point and center positions? "

Scoop: "Stephen A. Smith, its understandable that this issue may be bothering you and shit at like midnight of tuesday the 28th, June 2005, but when a playa's got a fine looking female ass cracknaked within the confines of his bed, a dawgs gotta do what a dawgs gotta do."

SAS: "Oh yeah (turning down the music and shifting to a low gear), yeah you know i got the same thing going on, i just thought you wouldn't be busy, shes actually just working on me right now."

Scoop: "Peace dawg, see you tomorrow, we'll talk about this."

Stephan A. Smith is visibly distraught. He pulls over at the corner of 9th ave and and 27nth st. As he reaches down to his diamond studded Nokia he speed dials a number.

SAS: "Stu, its Stephen A. Smith here."

Stuart Scott is in a blue velvet club, sitting next to 3 beautiful young ladies.
Stu: "Yooo, my boy."

SAS: "What I can't understand is knowing you have Chris Bosh, and a city that has just been desolated by a Vince Carter for peanuts trade, how does Rob Babcock breathe? There really is simply and utterly no excuse for such behavior."

Stu: "Yo dawg, I gots to flip it back to you son, Im in a club with some babies dawg. Yo boy, see you tomorrow."

SAS: "No, Stu, wa..."
Stuart hangs up.
Stephen quickly turns the car around speaking to himself.
"Fundamentally its obvious, and apparently not to not take a power forward with the pick. your needs are not at the 4 my friend, and its simple to see that and still you decide to waste a pick. if i was general manager of the toronto raptors would i take charlie V? no i wouldn't have. thats the answer. furthermore and so forth..." (fade to black)
-Open up in a loud bar as a shot is being poured. the camera pans back as you see a drunk Stephen A. Smith talking to a group of 20 something college kids. As the camera continues its backtrack you see that he has made it to the ESPNZone in times square.
SAS: "And the biggest steal, i can tell you it wasn't (in unison with about 10 other people) CHARLIE VILLANUEVA.

He shall once again be safe, for tonight.

to be cont.

2005-06-28T15:15:00.000-07:00

Unless you are good at basketball.

Buster Keaton/Charlie Chaplin Excerpt

2005-06-28T14:49:00.000-07:00

I think it should be known here that yeah i do watch lots of silent films. its not a bad thing, in fact, i know lots of attractive women who watch ct dryer, dw griffith, keaton, arbuckle, chap lips chaplin. i mean most of them live in or around the niagra falls region, and a couple probably in houston tx, but they are around. errways this goes out to keaton.
(excerpt taken from a paper centering on the evolution of the vaudeville comedian to cinema.)

By 1903 cinema was no longer a small threat to the rest of the entertainment industry. With nickelodeons brought a whole new type of audience out to the theaters. The name nickelodeon itself derives from the American nickel and the Greek word for theater. These nickel theaters were a far cry from what the vaudeville was asking spectators to spend; a nickel to see moving images or up to two dollars to see a live show. The Keith and Proctor’s Twenty-Third Street Theater where Buster and his family frequented when in New York was once solely dedicated to the live vaudeville show but by 1907 was drastically renovated to only exhibit films.
At around this time however, two of the world’s biggest future film stars were honing their skills on the stages of these vaudeville shows. Buster was working with his family and a man named Charlie Chaplin was on his own with his brother, Sydney. These two comedic geniuses would later set the bar in comedic cinema, but it all began on the stage.

Buster was a master of the physical comedy. “They call my first years on stage as training. Well, you wouldn’t really call it training, you’d call it experience…” (1. pg. 10) Playing along side his father he became known first for his famous “human mop.” Buster played the young rascal always getting into the way of his father on stage. Joe Keaton was known to be rough on and off the stage but it was his show that you got to see how rough he really could be. Buster would get hit with his father’s broom if he were to express any emotion on the stage. With this Buster developed his “stone-face” which has now become the iconic symbol of the legend.

Charlie Chaplin had no parental control by the time he was ten. His father had suddenly died and his mother had fallen ill to a mental disease. He quickly utilized his immense stage presence to make a living for himself and his brother. He did not have the exposure that Buster Keaton had had on stage, nor the experience, but the two comedians had a rather similar idea of what was funny. These two young lads, one an immigrant with no parents the other growing up literally on stage, would venture from their vaudeville acts to rise to stardom and excel in this new medium of cinema.

The camera stayed center, not moving, not cutting, but simply playing the part of the spectator. Here you see Buster striking the set of an old stage show. Outside the camera shows Roscoe “Fatty” Arbuckle slide open the door to the back stage entrance to paint over the billboard of the show that had just finished on the side of the building. He begins to paint when a little boy gets in the way of his job and “Fatty” paints the boys bottom and sticks him to the billboard. Inside we see Buster again cleaning up after the show. The new “star” of the show enters the screen and insists he has the dressing room with the star hanging over the door. He enters this door and Buster pulls a string that moves the star above another door. No expression from Buster in any way, his face is still, deadpan, as he continues his duties. Back outside the boy fights Arbuckle from the billboard. “Fatty” pulls the kid down and continues to paint. Shot of inside again and when the camera comes back outside “Fatty” had finished the sign and it reads.

“YOU MUST NOT MISS
GETRUDE MC SKINNEY
The famous star who will
Play
LITTLE LAUNDRESS
First Time Here
Tomorrow at 2 pm”

As “Fatty” slides the door over, however, the billboard then reads.

“MISS
SKINNY
Will

UNDRESS
Here
At 2 pm”

After he does this a man walks by, pulls out his watch, and begins to run for the door. This is just one example of what Buster began to do after his vaudeville days. Cinema brought a whole new way in approaching comedy. This scene was taken from Arbuckle’s Back Stage. Let us look at this 1 minute scene. He cuts between two different areas. The first shot is the shot of Buster cleaning up the set and tricking the “star” of the show. The second shot is “Fatty” outside the room that Buster is in. In this case editing allows the use of two gags to happen at one time. Having “Fatty” simply enter and leave the room he produces a gag.

2005-06-28T14:26:00.000-07:00

"The Rules of the Game, Scene One"

This blog also aims to educmacate its readers on some of my favorite films and the many theories that have emerged from them. Todays lesson, an essay discussing my boi Renoirs classic film "The Rules of the Game", the way in which he depicts realism through the medium of film, and of course andrea bazin's obvious D-riding of such skills. holla at chaboi)

According to the credits of the Criterion Collection DVD of Jean Renoir’s film The Rules of the Game the reconstruction of the film was done by Jean Gaborit and Jacques Durand, “with the approval and advice from Jean Renoir, who dedicates this resurrection to Andre Bazin.” This dedication seems appropriate as Renoir, even in the opening sequence of this film, exemplifies the realistic style that Bazin so admired. It took films such as this for Bazin to so boldly say, “The film-maker is no longer the competition of the painter and the playwright, he is, at last, equal of the novelist.” (Bazin, Film Theory and Criticism. Pg. 53)

Following the credits The Rules of the Game opens with a long shot of a radio announcer reporting live from a landing strip. Our protagonist, Andre Jurieux, sets his plane down on the soil of France after flying the Atlantic Ocean in twenty three hours. The camera starts in the control room of the radio car, pans across following the cable of the microphone to the announcer as she moves towards the plane’s landing spot. The camera eventually stops as the crowd rushes by. Renoir utilized the use of off-screen space and the long shot in correlation with a deep focus to create a realistic realm that Bazin claimed set an artistic standard for cinema. This effective way of inviting people in and out of the frame, along with the affect it creates aligned with the content of the narrative, was in many ways Renoir’s trademark. Renoir said on this style, “The better it works, the less I use the kind of set-up that shows two actors facing the camera, like two well-behaved subjects posing for a portrait.”(Bazin, FTC. Pg 48) This first shot is not only an introduction to Renoir’s realism style but essentially where the art begins. He creates an ambiguous space in which the camera may freely move from one landscape to the next. Andre Bazin wrote, “In his films the search after composition in depth is, in effect, a partial replacement of montage by frequent panning shots and entrances. It is based on the respect of the continuity of dramatic space and, of course, its duration.” (Bazin, FTC. 49)

The realism aesthetic differs from the montage that Eisenstein had demonstrated. The montage has a formalist aesthetic, where it is precise in its movements and its cuts. Bazin was never satisfied with this style and had a much deeper appreciation for Renoir, especially The Rules of the Game. I chose this opening sequence to demonstrate the realism aesthetic in part to show the frequency of it in this film. It appears throughout and is strongest (longest takes, deepest focus, most ambiguous) in the end. This opening sequence serves to show that his realism style is not scattered throughout the film but works through the entire picture.

The sequence ends in the house of the woman that Andre loves, Christine, listening to the radio broadcast. The camera essentially moves freely in this space, displaying the grandeur of the people and its belongings through the mise-en-scene. Bazin wrote, “The camera should be able to spin suddenly without picking up any holes or dead spots in the action. What all this means is that the scene should be played independently of the camera in all it’s real dramatic expanse and that it is up to the cameraman to let his viewfinder play over the action.” (Bazin, Jean Renoir. Pg. 89) This is done to an even greater extent when the film moves to the French chateau at the end of the movie, displaying some famous scenes in which the action occurs across the screen and deep into the shot while the camera sweeps through the massive mansion. Renoir took the montage to the other extreme by eliminating it and showing a new cinematic world. A world that attains realism and a complexity that led Bazin to compare this work to that achieved by a novelist and was the result of Renoir’s departure from the static composition.

2005-06-28T12:13:00.000-07:00

post 1. jeffrey smadbeck in a familiar position begins his cyber journey in hopes to archive and create meaningful and positive material centered around his affinity for cinema, the national basketball association, coors light, late lunches, time travel, and the cosby show. I recently discovered that I was far too lazy to bother backing up any of my current "work" via zipdrives, harddrives, softdrives, or sklogdrives so this blog will most likely feature my latest papers written for school and pleasure. Along with this nonsense this blog will feature a little social commentary from myself. So before my eventual move to a box in brooklyn, i would like to leave you with this short glossary of often used words within anything you might ever read on this site.
-sklog
to not do something. "sklog it, sklog that"
-splig
a person or best friend.
-Slig, Sliggities
a pretty lady. can also be used as a replacement word for "slut"
-La
"the"
-ANYHOW
moving on
-beagle.
to kill something
-wallllluhfludge
to simply ask someone to better explain themselves. also known as lalalala.
means "what do you mean?"
-whalluhyou
"what do you?" "whalluhyou need, want, see"
-CDL
my mom diane
-Gibblets
the inside of a chicken
-goggles
"eye glasses"
-smandwiches
"sandwich"
-wackpack
"group of people in which all are wack."
-mobuckles
"kid"
-crack
"a good friend"
-bizzle
"beer"
-spigglets
"stuff"

peace crack and i will be backkk with some spigglets on werner herzog, spike lee, and the 2005 draft featuring stephan a. smith and scoop johnson.