Friday, August 14, 2009

Nicknamery: Part 1


Nicknames.

Everybody wants one.

Everybody.

Including you.

Sure you do. Because you're part of "everybody." That's how that works.

Let me amend that ever so slightly. Everybody wants a COOL nickname. Like "Nails" or "Big Daddy" or "Ezekiel Thundercock."

Let's face it, nobody wants to be saddled for the rest of their life with an unfortunate handle like "Skeeter" or "Boner" or "Needle Dick, The Bug Fucker."

That's just common sense.

But you get my point.


“The name’s Rutherford T. Rothschild III, but my friends call me Scabs. I hate them so very much.”


To reiterate: Everybody wants a cool nickname.

That includes me. Because I'm part of "everybody," and that's how that works.

But unfortunately, it's not as easy as all that. I can want a cool nickname as hard as a person can want a thing .... but it won’t do me any good. See, ultimately it’s not up to me. Such is the inherent peril of nicknamery.

You can't give one to yourself.

That’s the first and only rule. A nickname must be earned. It must be bestowed upon you by others.

A nickname is a thing freely given. Like a Knighthood. Or sex from Tara Reid. Actually, come to think of it, both of those bestowals also come with their own nicknames. Nicknames like "Sir," "Dame" and "You’ve Tested Positive."

"Stay pozzzative, mmmuhtha-fukkkkahhzzzz!! Woooooo!! Party!!"

I digress.

Good nicknames used to run in my family. There's a rich Badlam tradition of ignoring your relative’s given name and saddling them with one that's utterly ridiculous ... but always evocative.

My paternal grandfather's name was Edward. But nobody actually knew that. In his 90+ years on the planet, it never really came up. He was known to everyone in town as "Hi." Except for the family. We knew him as "Monk." (Pronounced "Mawnk.") Though, in more formal situations this could be modified with an article, e.g.: "The Monk" or, alternately with the addition of an adjective, "The Old Monk".




PHOTO TO COME
The Old Monk. Gentleman, Patriot, Nicknamer of Men.



(One can also use “monk” in the lowercase as a more general term that can apply to anyone. As long as they're doing something stupid, amusing or embarrassing. e.g.: “What a monk!” or “That monk took a shit in the middle of the road.” Suffice to say, there have been many “monks” in my family.)

Again, I digress.

My grandfather’s brothers were also tagged with equally colorful monikers. His brother Richard was known to the family as "Moe." Yet to the rest of the town he was "Buttermilk." And his brother Hiram (who, unlike my grandfather, actually was named "Hi") was for some reason, known to the world at large as "Duck."

In his youth, my dad's given name -- John -- was quickly cast aside for the more colorful and I’m given to understand, largely random -- "Yacca." And so on, with all the assorted brothers, sisters, cousins, et al. You get the idea.

(NOTE: Mom's side of the family was never much for nicknames. Though my grandmother would call my grandfather a "prick-fucker." Daily. At ear-splitting volume. But I never quite got the impression it was a term of endearment.)

Anyhow, it's a sad fact that by the time my generation came waddling along, the Badlam family tradition of nicknaming had largely petered out. Imagine my disappointment.

Subsequently, I've never had a satisfying nickname. Over the years, the best any of my lazy, soft-headed friends could muster was: "Rob-buh-buh." Which was nothing more than an exaggerated pronunciation the extra "b" that I’ve stubbornly tacked to the end of my first name since I was an awkward, grease-soaked ‘tween with a desperate need for attention. But that feeble nickname attempt was, by definition, weak sauce.

What I want is a cool nickname. Something clever and kick-ass. But I can’t just give myself one. It’s like tickling yourself. Doesn’t work. It’s against Nature.

So ... what to do?

Well, I think the answer is simple. Put it to a vote.

In the coming days, I’ll dissect the pros and cons of the various forms of nicknames and then I’ll come up with ten or so possibilities. (Suggestions are always welcome). Then we’ll vote.

Since this blog probably has one, maybe two, readers tops, I’ll leave the polls open for, say, the month of September. Deal?

And on October 1st I shall, at long last, finally have my nickname. I'm keeping my fingers crossed for "Ezekiel Thundercock."

Till next we meet ...

Thursday, August 13, 2009

Dear Lady on the Train ...


Please find reprinted below, a selection of my Twitter posts from this morning's commute. (Sure, you could call it cheating. But I prefer to call it "recycling." I'm all about green, eco-friendly, sustainable comedy.)

Dear Lady on Train: If I've got my iPod cranked ALL the way up and I can STILL hear you yelling into your phone, you might be too loud.

Dear Lady on Train: I don't know where you buy your hair dye, but that particular shade of two-tone orange appears nowhere in Nature.

Dear Lady on Train: Seriously. The yelling into the phone thing is getting old. The first half hour was a delight, but it's time to hang up.

Dear Lady on Train: Your awful dye-job isn't fooling anyone. You're not young. Nor do you appear to be a party clown.

"Can you hear me now?"

Dear Lady on Train: Perfume is not intended to have "stopping power." It's supposed to smell nice, not incapacitate an attacker.

Dear Lady on Train: If you could see all the elaborate and spectacularly gory ways I'm imagining your death, you might lower your voice.

Dear Lady on Train: SHUT UP!! SHUT UP!! SHUT UP!! SHUT UP!! SHUT UP!! SHUT UP!! SHUT UP!! SHUT UP!! SHUT UP!! SHUT UP!! SHUT UP!! SHUT--

Dear Train Tunnel: Sweet merciful fuck. Thank you for existing.


Till next we meet ...

Wednesday, August 12, 2009

It's An Honor To Be Nominated ... Losing's A Punch In The Dick, Though


Yes, it's true.

The rumors, the whispers, the murmured assignations. All true.

(sigh)

We lost the ComiCon video contest at SideshowCollectibles.com.
I know ... you're upset. We all are. It's understandable. But we have to move beyond this.

Well, you do, anyway. Me? I'm gonna stew in my thick, bubbling gravy of defeat a smidge longer.

Ouch. My groin. My pride, too, I guess. But mostly my groin.


It's not that I'm a sore loser ... I just wish nothing but agony, death and eternal heartache on all the winners.

Okay, perhaps that's a bit strong.

Maybe just some dismemberment.

You're right, that's probably still a little strong.

Fine.

Mild dismemberment. Happy?

But here's the thing about losing that's actually great. Now I don't have to worry about the loss of freedom and anonymity that would certainly have accompanied all the international adulation and fame I'd surely have received for winning. Plus, I didn't have to suffer through a free trip to ComiCon or get overburdened by a mess of free cash and prizes.

So, yeah, in that way, it's super awesome to be a loser. I'm so much better off now.

(sigh)

On the other, less ironic, hand ... there's also the spite.

In all seriousness, I've long maintained that spite is a wildly underrated emotion with the potential to be a tremendous motivator. The best way to get me to do something and do it well, is to tell me: A) that I can't do it, or B) that even if I could do it, I couldn't do it well.

Once the dander gets up, I tend to focus and do some halfway decent work.

So this shocking and tragic loss has only raised my game for next time.

We will meet at the commercial contest again, Sideshow Collectibles. And next time I'll be wearing my punching fists ... and I will beat you so hard with my awesomeness that you will weep prize money into my ultra-absorbent pockets.

Truth.

Till next we meet ...

Tuesday, August 11, 2009

Dear Hollywood ...


... Please Shut The Fuck Up and Make Better Movies.

That's right. You heard me.

Oh, I went there.

In fact, I might stay there.

I might even live there!

I totally would!

(pause)


If ... you know ... all my stuff wasn't still ... you know ... here.

Anyhow ... why the sudden hostility, you ask? Well, with a new batch of weekend movie releases fast approaching, I was thumbing through an article recently in the NY Times about how The Industry is terribly nervous about the month of August. Box office grosses, it seems, look to be receding as Summer '09 winds down.

Well, you know what, The Industry? Howzabout you shut your goddamn whine-hole.


The Industry: "Wah! My dipee's full of stinkiness! Pay me!"

I am officially sick to my ass of these "sky is falling" stories. They pop up like clockwork every single time ticket sales aren't breaking records. Over and over we hear the same whinging and complaining from The Industry.

Over and over we hear how attendance is down, or how people aren't buying enough DVDs, or how -- somehow -- it's been determined that audiences suddenly don't like movies anymore.

Over and over we hear how, somehow, it's OUR fault.


"Why won't you give us money? We've given you SO much warmed-over crap!"


I get hoarse from shouting it so often ...

But I'll shout it again for those of you in the back who may not have heard me the first 4,852 times.

Contrary to the "conclusions" of our learned and esteemed experts in the entertainment press, the reason The Industry is so nervous about August right now is NOT because the economy's in the shitter. It ISN'T because there's any kind of "blockbuster fatigue." And it CERTAINLY ISN'T because audiences are suddenly sick of going to the movies.

Want to know why grosses are down and why The Industry is nervous?

Are you sure you want to know?

Cuz you may not be able to handle the brain-blasting mind-hammer I'm about to bring down on your shit.

Okay ... you were warned. Remember, I'm not liable if your head suddenly turns inside out.

Here goes ... the real reason The Industry is nervous about August is ...

BECAUSE NONE OF THE GODDAMN STUDIOS HAVE ANY GOOD GODDAMN MOVIES COMING OUT!

Sweet, buttery Jesus, people! Is that really so hard for The Industry to fathom?

I've been saying this for years and I sound like a broken and tedious record. (Think "Sussudio" with a louder horn section.)

I have beaten this particular dead horse so hard and so often that nothing remains but hooves and horse dust. It's astounding to me how simple and obvious the answer is ... and yet how thoroughly The Industry and the press refuse to ever acknowledge it.

Sometimes a movie's success actually has something to do with whether the movie's any good.

Did I just blow your mind?

Didn't think so. Seems pretty obvious, right?

Well, not to everybody, apparently.


"It's the audience's fault! Why won't they wuv us!?"

Because bafflingly, the media and The Industry always behave as though a film's quality has absolutely no bearing whatsoever on its financial success. To them, all movies are identical commodditites upon release and the sole determining factor in ticket sales is marketing.

Sure, on a bad day, the sad, broken, stone-hearted cynic who lives inside me might be inclined to agree with that. After all, it's been proven repeatedly that, with enough of an advertising budget, dreadful movies can make assloads of cash. A recent giant robot movie leaps to mind ...

But on average, movies that make huge bank tend to have at least a few elements of quality to them. Which is not to say they're all great art or socially important works. Or that they'll even make any critics' ten best lists. But successful movies tend to feature at least one or two sparks of filmmaking and storytelling competence that audiences connect with.

Whether it's structure, character, concept, actor, visuals, soundtrack, what have you -- there are usually well-executed elements that can and should be linked to the resulting box office success.

And admittedly, even the aforementioned giant robot movie apparently had some eye-popping visual whiz-bangery to recommend it.


"I transform into a girl robot who can read and stuff. Also boobs! Yay!"

But when we get a cosmic convergence like we have now ... when all the big studios have simultaneously targeted the same few weeks to dump their dullest, weakest summer movies into theaters ... well, of course things will look bleak.

But despite what the big studios would have you think, that's not actually YOUR fault.

Whose fault is it? Theirs, obviously. The studios just don't seem willing to spend the time or energy to make movies not suck these days. Admittedly, it's incredibly easy for me to armchair write, direct and produce. And yes, with a zillion moving pieces, it's actually really hard to make a GOOD movie.

But at times it seems like they're not even trying. Times like -- oh, I don't know -- this entire summer, maybe? With a few notable exceptions (Star Trek and Up, leap to mind) this has been one of the worst summers for blockbusters I can remember in a long time. One big disappointment after another.

And yet, the studios expect us to keep lining up at the trough to eagerly choke down their slop anyway.

And if we don't, it's our fault, not theirs.

Though, interestingly, they NEVER seem to credit those same customers when a movie is wildly popular. Nope, that's when they crow about how awesome their movie is. Curious, that. They'll take credit for the successes, but we get saddled with the failures. Somehow it was US that let THEM down. We've broken their tender little hearts.

Well I, for one, am really torn up about that. Sure I am.

You know what, The Industry? If it salves your poor bruised and wilted feelings, I shall erect a monument in your honor to celebrate your grandeur, your wisdom and your artistic prowess.


"THE INDUSTRY: Not At All Petulant, Short-Sighted or Lazy."

"Also: Bronze Baby Dingus."


It's a marvel of reverse psychology, really. Not to mention, sadly emblematic of the dismissive and condescending way The Industry tends to regard its own customers.

Well, let me tell you something, The Industry, most of the time when a movie "fails to find an audience" that's usually because that movie doesn't actually deserve one.

People don't just stop buying pants because they suddenly and inexplicably turn into pant-hating jerks. They stop buying pants because the pants that are being sold are poorly made and the asses blow out when you put them on.

This is NOT a marketing issue. It's a production line issue.

My prediction? While the "Big Hollywood Studio Movies" fall on their faces this weekend ... look for some break-outs from surprising places. While G.I. Joe's receipts are dropping off 60 to 75%, look for a well-made "little" movie like District 9 to sneak in and make a splash.

Then sit back and wait for the next round of Chicken Little stories from the entertainment media. Marvel at how they take the hugely illogical leap to the conclusion that ... if people aren't going to G.I. Joe, then somehow the American Movie-Going Public has decided that it no longer likes the idea of tentpole movies.

It couldn't possibly be that G.I. Joe just smells like a butt. Nope. Not possible. Because all movies are exactly the same.

It makes the brain hurt.


Okay. Sermon = done.


Have a steaming sack of The Industry, won't you?



Till next we meet ...

Monday, August 10, 2009

A Fool's Errands (Monday, 8/10/09)


1) Run into bank to show everybody that cool new assault rifle you got for your birthday.

2) Play with fire. The game? Twister.

3) Taunt hungry polar bear ... in your shiny, new seal meat suit.

4) Mow lawn.

5) Ride pogo stick to waiting helicopter.

Tuesday, August 4, 2009

LLLLLLLADIES ...


Maybe it's the smoldering, come-hither glance.

Maybe it's the staid gravitas.

Maybe it's the smooth, monotonous droning.

Or maybe it's the long, leathery, horse-shaped face.

So ... some?

But whatever it is, ladies, I get it.

I don't blame or judge you. I know exactly what you're going through right now. The excitement, the palpitations, the yearning.

The urgent need to be vigorously "filibustered."

I get it.

I even agree with it.

Because ... right now ... if he asked me ... I think I just might let him.

I feel ... vulnerable.

And I like it.



Till next we meet ...

Monday, August 3, 2009

A Fool's Errands (Monday, 8/3/09)


1) Buy high, sell low.

2) Finish remainder of that box of botulism for lunch.

3) Slam genitals in car door.

4) Go to Home Depot, buy mulch for flower beds.

5) Help David Ortiz move that couch. By injecting him with more steroids.