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Tuesday, January 29, 2008

[Wins Again]

Side A:

I'm convinced that rappers think everyone is clairvoyant. "You already know what it is" being a staple of the average rapper's lexicon. First of all, already know what what is, and why do you suspect I already know?

I (already) know that being able to rhyme "Pyrex scale" 50 ways to Sunday takes considerable cognitive skill, but slow down, killer(s); the rest of us are human.

In fact, that obscure and persistent "it" appears to be a catchall term for urban folks in general: When I agreed, yesterday, with my friend Pete (not his real name) that Angel "Lola" Luv's posterior is downright stupid (and not in the good New York way), he either agreed with my casual agreement or simply replied, "That’s what it is." (OK, that was way too Meta—I feel like one of The Game's lyrics.)

Also, why does Jim Jones, who is probably the least hygienic-looking person on the planet, want everybody to smell him? Considering that, I dunno, he's probably the least hygienic-looking person on the planet, wouldn't it be more appropriate if he tidied up a bit before offering the invitation? Just saying, 'cause that’s not nice.

Wait [sniff sniff] I think somebody shitted
(Yes, I do think of shit like this in my spare time. Yes, you should be afraid—very.)

Side B:

Do not they know that brotherly love is sacred?
The best thing about Woody Allen's new movie, Cassandra's Dream, is the people in the audience. For years Woody has been releasing pretentious cinematic "think pieces" that attempt to mix tales of sketchy morality with the sort of slapstick pseudo-intellectual comedy—always with the well-timed Freud reference—that's supposed to make you feel all smart and shit if you actually know what the hell anybody is talking about. (In the row behind me I, really, overheard somebody say "cohesive structure," with what I assume was a straight face. I almost choked on my brevé.) In my life I have never, during the 15-minutes-of-previews pre-cum, heard anything close to that amount of "I should introduce you to my editor" speak. Do not these people know they are walking punch lines, like regular Zane readers or something? Sheesh.

The movie itself wasn't exactly terrible. But I somehow feel like the overall plotline, with its acidic murder-across-the-pond motif, is recycled material, even for a filmmaker who has a propensity to borrow from himself. Not only is Cassandra's vastly inferior to 2006's Match Point (which was also shot in London), but it also brings to mind another much more effective Allen picture about murder and the woes of free will: 1989's criminally underrated Crimes and Misdemeanors. Which, if you think about it, is kind of like listening to a mediocre song that contains a sample of an original recording that is much better than the song you're currently listening to (like, Thank you for reminding me how much you really suck). Which, again, is not to say that Cassandra's essentially sucks. But all things considered, the idea of two brothers committing murder to appease a wealthy relative is kind of stupid—not (for obvious, across-the-pond reasons) in the good New York way.

I'm up. In a Dickensian sort of way.
Is it just me, or is it totally cool that Jimmy McNulty, that loveable Irish lush, is back to his drunken carousing on this fifth and final season of HBO’s "The Wire"? Part of what made Season Three so great, I think, was the camaraderie amongst the detectives, wherein we felt like we were as one when they got wasted, emoted, and ate together. Season Four, while certainly no slouch, had a trial-like, less surefooted feel, finding McNulty trying to finally act like an adult, and Lester, Bunk, and the others all working in different departments. Great to see them more or less under the same roof again.

I must admit that I was late to the David Simon love-in. Sure I caught the show's first episode back in 2002. But for some reason—I think I may have accidentally heard a Smilez and Southstar song that day—the show didn't immediately appeal to me. Thus, I have been sleeping for these past seven years.

Yeah, you can forgive me now.

Dear Mr. Simon,

Thank you for not only inspiring me to re-explore Greek Tragedy, but also for teaching me basic directions—"You up? Yeah, I'm up"—and user-friendly slang such as "shitbird," "fucknuts," and other awesome and inspiring expletives.

P.S. Am I the only one that would love to throw a hot fuck into Detective Greggs?