Stan Winston Gone
Effects master Stan Winston dies
Work included ‘Jurassic Park,’ ‘Terminator’
By DAVID S. COHEN
Stan Winston, Oscar-winning special effects master who designed the dinosaurs for“Jurassic Park” and the look of “The Terminator,” died Sunday evening at his Malibu home. He was 62.
The Oscar and Emmy-winning f/x and makeup designer died after a seven-year struggle with multiple myeloma, according to a representative from Stan Winston Studio.
Winston, who set the industry standard for robotic/animatronic creatures and prosthetic makeup, won four Oscars: a visual effects Oscar for 1986’s “Aliens,” visual effects and makeup Oscars for 1992’s “Terminator 2: Judgment Day” and a visual effects Oscar for 1993’s “Jurassic Park,” for which he created animatronic dinosaurs that complemented the film’s digitally animated creatures.
The conference room at Winston’s Van Nuys studio was long one of the most effective sales tools any effects company could hope for. It was a combination museum and resume, with many of the most memorable movie creatures of recent decades — including the queen alien from “Aliens,” 
the Predator and even Arnold Schwarzenegger as the Terminator — lunging toward the conference table on all sides.
Steven Spielberg, who worked with Winston on several films, said in a statement: “Stan was a fearless and courageous artist/inventor, and for many projects, I rode his cutting edge from teddy bears to aliens to dinosaurs. My world would not have been the same without Stan. What I will miss most is his easy laugh every time he said to me, ‘Nothing is impossible.’ “
Winston refused to discuss his illness outside his intimate circle, and many were surprised at news of his death.
He is survived by his wife, Karen; son Matt, an actor; daughter Debbie; a brother and four grandchildren.
When Gary Called The Phone Sex Girl
One Must Always Drive Slowly Through Residential Areas
BRIGHT SHINY MORNING Contest Winners Announced
Thanks to all who answered the riddle for the contest to win a signed copy of BRIGHT SHINY MORNING.
Since many entries were quite creative and fun to read, we decided not only to pick a randomly drawn winner, but also to reward the most creative response.
Thus and sans further ado – the winner of the random drawing is…
DENISE COLE (of the Rainbow)
And winner for Most Creative Entry is…
BRIAN STILLMAN (whose submission appears below)
Denise and Brian, we will be contacting you shortly via email to arrange to get your books out to you. Thanks again to all for entering, and have a bright shiny day.
————————————
A woman shoots her husband. Then she holds him under water for over five minutes. Finally, she hangs him. But five minutes later they both go out together and enjoy a wonderful dinner together. How can this be?
The news warned everyone to stay indoors. She didn’t want to believe the news. Then the station turned to snow. It turned out all of them were blizzards by then.
Not long after that the wife went out to find her missing husband.
She walked the two miles and found him at the park and ride exactly where she’d last seen him yesterday afternoon. He’d said not to worry and told her to take the car, but she’d said she needed the exercise.
Some of his face was gone. He looked like the news said they’d look. The news anchor – the one that laughed like he wasn’t quite right anymore just before the signal died – had been right. After the change the victims looked just like something from a Romero movie.
The husband lurched toward the wife. She produced the pistol they kept upstairs. The just in case pistol. He didn’t recognize his name. His hands were dry but they were the same color as those parts of his face she didn’t want to look at. He didn’t recognize his name or the word stop and he didn’t notice a single one of the shots that punched through his torso. The shirt was already bloody, not that he was noticing that either.
She walked ahead of his shambling, walked back toward their home. She didn’t have to run. He’d always had that bad knee.
Their street was quiet, quiet as when she’d set out in the morning. She noticed things, noticed there were tire tracks on one lawn. Someone’s chimes rung. She stopped up at sight of the kiddie pool.
Little neon colored ducks wound around the side of the pool. Blades of grass and dropped snack time cheese doodles floated on the pool surface. The tiny pool goers had waved at them as they drove by on Sunday. Sunday. A very long time ago.
The wife walked away from the pool and sat down on the house’s porch step. She sat half folded over, top half sunk into her thighs and she shook like a mechanism had caught and the right quiver would set it off and then she’d finish folding over and start folding inside out.
Her husband walked towards her. Shambled. Shambling, he stepped up against the kiddie pool and fell forward into the water.
The wife watched the struggle. He couldn’t quite figure out how to get up. Water leaked out as he threw what looked like a fake, laughter seeking fit. If she were anyone else maybe a week ago she might’ve laughed.
She wiped her face and wiped her hands on her pants. She stood, walked to the pool, knelt and pushed down on her husband’s head for what felt like hours. No one complained about her screaming once she started.
When the moon came up, the husband remained face down in the pool, but no longer thrashed. Occasionally a bubble would emerge from the lunar illuminated depths and bloop apart upon the pool surface.
Sometime before dawn the wife rolled the husband out of the pool, pushed him up to a sitting position, shoved a towel in his moaning face, worked the towel briskly, snipped a swathe of duct tape off the roll she’d brought from the garage, and swatted away his dumb intrigued hands long enough to press the duct tape over his mouth.
She helped him to his feet. She swatted his hands away long enough to pluck a blade of grass from off his wet sop of hair. She left the roll of duct tape and the scissors on the lawn and she led him home.
The noose hung off the beam in the room reserved for their occasional guests. The noose hung directly over a chair slid over from the desk set under the window. The second chair she’d dragged in from the study.
The husband watched from the doorway, reserving judgment. He was always slow to warm to something new.
The wife stepped up onto the desk chair, the top of her head brushing the noose, and then stepped over onto the chair from the study, nudged flush against its neighbor. She coaxed the husband forward. He grunted, sounding reluctant behind the duct tape. He kept tugging at the duct tape, but couldn’t manage to pinch hold of the creased over ends. He grunted like maybe the tape adhesive hurt the way he’d sometimes groan when she’d cut his hair.
She had to step up onto the chairs repeatedly. A dozen times. A thousand. She was screaming at him towards the end. That’s why she didn’t want kids. Her patience had limits. Enough for him, 
but no one else. Finally though, he followed her up and when he made it up she helped steady him. The door was behind him and he faced the back wall, but it didn’t matter where he looked, not for the task at hand.
Soon as the loop was in place and the slack in the rope had been taken up, she jumped down and shoved the desk chair toward the window. Shoved it just as far as needed.
She walked past her husband, walked under the beam, and walked toward the hall. She moved stiffly like someone trying to finish a chore before peeing their pants. On exiting she reached for the guest room doorknob, but missed. She didn’t bother a second attempt.
Every so often as she sat on the edge of their bed, hugging herself, rocking, she could hear sound from the guest room – the beam or was it the rope adjusting to the weight.
This was no longer a life where the wife would find time or find it convenient to adjust. She knew her job was not going to take her mind off of losing her spouse. Job. She didn’t have a job. Who had jobs now? With her husband, the new status quo would be rough, but it might eventually become bearable. Without him…Well she already was without him now wasn’t she?
When she walked back into the guest room her husband swung in soggy orbit just to the side and above the chair from the study.
He was still trying to tug the duct tape off his mouth.
After she hacked all the way through the rope, but before they found their way downstairs and outside onto the street together, she kissed him on the mouth, over the duct tape, and she said she loved him very much. She said his name, most of it, before the sob broke the second syllable apart. Then she tore the duct tape off and kissed him and herself goodbye.
– by Brian Stillman
Bono et al To Sell Stellar Basquiat
U2 Selling Off Basquiat Painting in London
A Sotheby’s assistant stands holding Untitled (Pecho/Oreja) by Jean-Michel Basquiat.
Getty Images
An interesting tidbit from The New York Times: U2 is selling a Jean-Michel Basquiat painting that its bassist, Adam Clayton, bought at a New York gallery in 1989. According to Bloomberg, the band is expected to fetch as much as 6 million pounds (that’s $11.7 million) at a Sotheby’s Contemporary Art auction in London on July 1. The auction record for a Basquiat work is $14.6 million.
The painting, a 6-foot-square acrylic, oil stick and collage canvas, was completed in 1982 (some reports say 1983) when the artist was 22 years old. He died of a drug overdose in 1988.
“It seems especially appropriate that a work by Basquiat should end up in a music studio, since so much has been said about the relationship between his art and music,” Oliver Barker, of Sotheby’s Contemporary Art department, told the BBC. The painting had been hanging in U2’s studio until now.
No word on whether Bono plans to do something philanthropic with the money.
James Frey Interviews / Q&A at BordersMedia
Click below to check a series of exceptionally produced interview clips done by Borders Bookstore for their Live at O1 series.
I’m Looking Over My Swept Dog Rover
Swept Up, Killed By NYC Street Sweeper
Driver Said To Be Driving Fast, Wearing Headphones
NEW YORK (CBS) ― A Bronx man is devastated after his dog was swept up and killed by a city street sweeper Thursday morning.
The incident occurred at Randall and St. Lawrence avenues in the Soundview section of the borough. Witnesses say the sweeper came speeding down the street, swerving to avoid a speed bump, before yanking the dog, a Boston terrier named Ginger, right out of its leash.
“The animal was like a family member in my house,” said Robert Machin, the dog’s owner. Machin is completely torn over losing Ginger, and he can’t believe how it happened. “Just being dragged into that machinery and killed in that fashion,” said Machin.
Ginger and her mate, Buster, were both on leashes on the side of the street when the sweeper approached. Witnesses say the vehicle was moving at about 30 or 40 mph, must faster than the 10 mph it’s supposed to go, and that the driver was listening to headphones.
“He came so close to the car that he sucked the dog off the leash,” said Isamar Maldonado, who saw the horrifying incident. “He was not paying attention, and while you’re on duty you’re not supposed to [have headphones] on.”
Witnesses say they chased the truck for blocks, but when he finally stopped they say he refused to shut down the mechanical broom.
“We couldn’t believe that man could be driving that fast and sweep up the little dog like he was a piece of garbage or something, and then don’t even say ‘I’m sorry,'” said Maldonado.
The driver of the sweeper continues to sweep streets in that neighborhood while the investigation is ongoing.
Sexy Women In The City Swapping Lox and Schmear for Vodka and Vermouth
Toe Jam So Tasty You Can Spread It
David Byrne and FatBoy Slim like naked people.
Fake Lesbians Sued For Identity Theft
Islanders from Lesbos sue gay group over use of term ‘Lesbian’
Wednesday, June 11th 2008, 1:48 AM
ATHENS, Greece – Three islanders from Lesbos told a court Tuesday that gay women insult their home’s identity by calling themselves lesbians.
The plaintiffs — two women and a man — are seeking to ban a Greek gay rights group from using the word “lesbian” in its name.
Also known as Mytilini, Lesbos was the home of the ancient poet Sappho, who praised love among women. It is a major travel destination for gay women.
The Homosexual and Lesbian Community of Greece “causes confusion by using a geographic term in connection with (the group’s) special character and social action,” said Dimitris Papadelis, a lawyer representing the plaintiffs.
A spokeswoman for the group accused the plaintiffs of homophobia.
“I believe … the other party’s intentions were purely racist,” Evangelia Vlami said. “They showed that what bothers them is a specific sexual orientation.”
“What will they do next, sue the United Nations? They, too, use the term lesbian,” Vlami said.
Plaintiff Dimitris Lambrou has insisted the lawsuit “is not an aggressive act against gay women.”
Lawyers from both sides are to submit written arguments on Wednesday, and the court is expected to issue its decision in the next six months.
Frankenchrist’s Father Lives!
from the San Jose Mercury News
Dead Kennedys co-founder fiercer than ever at 50
Article Launched: 06/12/2008 01:35:47 AM PDT
Although his spoken-word engagements can extend beyond the four-hour mark, Jello Biafra has to watch what he says. 
He insists that all of his press interviews be recorded so he won’t be misquoted. And he refrains from answering certain questions so statements can’t be taken out of context for use against him.
But who can blame the guy? Biafra faced the prospect of jail time after being taken to court for distributing obscenity in 1986 in connection with the record “Frankenchrist.” He beat the rap and, turning 50, he’s fiercer than ever.
“As long as Americans go out of their way to make fools of themselves, I will never run out of material,” he says.
In 1978, Biafra co-founded the seminal punk-rock band the Dead Kennedys. A few years later, he co-founded a long-running independent record label, Alternative Tentacles, and has released eight spoken-word albums dealing with everything from censorship to crashing the Democratic convention to lousy band names.
Now, to celebrate the big 5-0 and the 30th anniversary of the Dead Kennedys, Biafra will do a pair of shows Tuesday and Wednesday at San Francisco’s Great American Music Hall.
“When I saw Iggy Pop and the Stooges on Iggy’s 60th birthday, they were so awesome,” Biafra says about his inspiration 
for the upcoming shows. “I made a vow to myself that I better do something on my birthday. If it’s just a tenth as good as Iggy, I’ll feel triumphant.”
Biafra will perform with the Melvins, as well as a new band that features members of Victim’s Family, Faith No More and Sharkbait.
Now that he’s into middle age, you might think he feels like taking things easy. But no.
“I’m not one of these people who are going to suddenly declare myself a mature adult artist in order to make excuses for wimpy, empty music,” he snarls. “There are tons of songs I’ve never recorded. I figure it’s time I got rocking again.”
Even though he’s known for rapidly jumping in and out of bands, 
Biafra argues there is a certain continuity in his albums.
“Everything I’ve done, from the Dead Kennedys to Lard to the Melvins and even my spoken-word – it’s all one big body of work. I try to keep expanding the base of the pyramid, and add some cool frosting on top. It’s going to have a sharp set of teeth.”
By “teeth,” Biafra means sarcastic wit and outspoken opinions.
Indulgence Of The Day
Just turn off the goddamn phone!
from Parrot.com via MediaBistro
This video is part of a marketing strategy for a company called Parrot.com to raise the awareness of the new laws in California, as well as, to raise the brand awareness of their hands-free mobile devices in the US. Parrot funded the production of the video.
The video is not scripted. The company installed hidden cameras in the car and hired “John” to test the limits of these driving instructors using his cell phone.
Your Honor, may I approach the udder (and hey, let’s trade pix after trial)
Alex Kozinski suspends L.A. obscenity trial after conceding his website had sexual images
The 9th Circuit chief judge admits he posted some of the explicit content. He says he didn’t think the public could see the site, which is now blocked.
By Scott Glover
Los Angeles Times Staff Writer
June 12, 2008
A closely watched obscenity trial in Los Angeles federal court was suspended Wednesday after the judge acknowledged maintaining his own publicly accessible website featuring sexually explicit photos and videos.
Alex Kozinski, chief judge of the U.S. 9th Circuit Court of Appeals, granted a 48-hour stay in the obscenity trial of a Hollywood adult filmmaker after the prosecutor requested time to explore “a potential conflict of interest concerning the court having a . . . sexually explicit website with similar material to what is on trial here.”
In an interview Tuesday with The Times, Kozinski acknowledged posting sexual content on his website. Among the images on the site were a photo of naked women on all fours painted to look like cows and a video of a half-dressed man cavorting with a sexually aroused farm animal. He defended some of the adult content as “funny” but conceded that other postings were inappropriate.
Kozinski, 57, said that he thought the site was for his private storage and that he was not aware the images could be seen by the public, although he also said he had shared some material on the site with friends. After the interview Tuesday evening, he blocked public access to the site.
The judge said it was strictly by chance that he wound up presiding over the trial of filmmaker Ira Isaacs in U.S. District Court in Los Angeles. Isaacs is on trial for distributing sexual fetish videos, featuring acts of bestiality and defecation. The material is considerably more vulgar than the content posted on Kozinski’s website.
The judge said he didn’t think any of the material on his site would qualify as obscene. “Is it prurient? I don’t know what to tell you,” he said. “I think it’s odd and interesting. It’s part of life.”
Before the site was taken down, visitors to http://alex.kozinski.com were greeted with the message: “Ain’t nothin’ here. Y’all best be movin’ on, compadre.”
The sexually explicit material on the site was extensive, including images of masturbation, public sex and contortionist sex. There was a slide show striptease featuring a transsexual, and a folder that contained a series of photos of women’s crotches in snug-fitting clothing or underwear.
Kozinski told The Times that he began saving the sexually explicit materials and other items of interest on his website years ago. “People send me stuff like this all the time,” he said. In turn, he said, he occasionally passes on items he finds interesting or funny to others.
Among the sexually explicit material on his site that he defended as humorous were two photos. In one, a young man is bent over in a chair and performing fellatio on himself. In the other, two women are sitting in what appears to be a cafe with their skirts hiked up to reveal their pubic hair and genitalia. Behind them is a sign reading “Bush for President.”
“That is a funny joke,” Kozinski said.
The judge said he planned to delete some of the most objectionable material from his site, including the photo depicting women as cows, which he said was “degrading . . . and just gross.” He also said he planned to get rid of a graphic step-by-step pictorial in which a woman is seen shaving her pubic hair.
Before suggesting that his son might have been responsible for posting some of the content, Kozinski told The Times that he, the judge, must have accidentally uploaded the cow and shaving images to his server while intending to upload something else. “I would not keep those files intentionally,” he said. He offered to give a reporter a demonstration of how the error probably occurred.
James Frey Interview on THE HOUR (Toronto)
Census Suggests Artists Have More Sex Than Lawyers
Census Paints Picture of Artists
By Jacqueline Trescott, Washington Post Staff Writer
Although it may not appear that way here in Washington, there are more 
working artists than lawyers in the United States, and their numbers are growing.
A study of census data released yesterday by the National Endowment for the Arts found that nearly 2 million people earn a living as artists, compared with 1.7 million who listed artist as an occupation in 1990. (The country has 1 million lawyers.)
The Washington region has the fourth-highest number of artists among the top 50 metropolitan areas in the United States, trailing Los Angeles, New York and Chicago. More than 47,000 people — out of a civilian workforce of 2.7 million — work as artists in the Washington area, according to the study. By comparison, there are 140,000 working artists in the Los Angeles/Long Beach area.
Artists now represent 1.4 percent of the U.S. labor force, said Dana Gioia, the NEA chairman. 
In 2000 the census counted 1.93 million working artists. Follow-up studies from 2003 to 2005 raised that number to 1.99 million.
“Artists now represent a major economic occupation,” Gioia said. He estimates that the aggregate income of artists is now $70 billion.
Artists, despite being twice as likely to have a college degree as other workers, are seriously underemployed and earn less than other professionals. For instance, 55 percent of employed artists work full time, and 28 percent work fewer than 35 hours a week. Nearly 35 percent are self-employed.
The number of artists more than doubled between 1970 and 1990, two decades that saw growth in museums, theaters, small symphonies and dance companies in many regions of the country.
The rate of growth has now slowed, he said, “because we may have reached a point of stability. It reflects the maturation of American culture.”
Pan for Onion
from the San Jose Mercury News
DVDs: ‘Onion Movie’ doesn’t hold together
IT’S NOTHING MORE THAN AN EXCUSE TO MAKE FUN OF STUFF
Article Launched: 06/12/2008 01:35:20 AM PDT
“The Onion Movie” isn’t a movie, exactly. It’s more of a dated, satirical train wreck, centered loosely on the 
Onion brand and comprised of random comic vignettes that mock such up-to-the-minute targets as Britney Spears and Al-Qaida. But it’s also oddly fascinating, if only as an example of how an attempt at Hollywood synergy can go drastically wrong.
Written by Onion veterans Todd Hanson and Robert Siegel, “The Onion Movie” was filmed in 2003 and slated to be released in theaters by Fox Searchlight. Fans of the popular fake newspaper, which has given birth over the years to such brilliant headlines as “Gore Already Regretting Promise to Help Clinton Move Out,” were a little perplexed about what a film version might entail. Would it be a cinematic take on the book “Our Dumb Century”? 
A moving, coming-of-age tale inspired by the article “Attempt to Impress Becky Lundegaard Undermined by Interloper”?
For a while, it seemed we would never know; Fox yanked the movie from its schedule, then kept it tucked away on a shelf until it finally has emerged on DVD.
So what is “The Onion Movie” about? The plot, such as it is, focuses on an aging network news anchor who gets increasingly disgusted by Corporate’s focus on promoting its ancillary products, including a ludicrous action flick starring Steven Seagal.
But really, it’s just an 80-minute excuse to make fun of stuff.
The Godfather’s Goods Should Be Going to The Smithsonian Not Auction
Ain’t It Funky Now: James Brown items for sale
By Chris Michaud
NEW YORK (Reuters) – Fans of James Brown will have a chance to own some of the legendary soul singer’s funky stuff when Christie’s puts hundreds of items up for sale on July 17.
The auction house said on Tuesday it will sell some of his instruments, hand-written lyrics, awards and grooming artifacts among 320 lots to be offered at “The James Brown Collection,” estimated to take in about $1 million.
A leather belt with a red-and-silver rhinestone buckle reading “Sex Machine” and tooled “We Love You James, Blue Express” is seen fetching $2,000 to $3,000.
The figures are just estimates. The personal effects of the late “Godfather of Soul” have commanded prices two, three and even 10 times expectations.
Among the highlights are Brown’s Kennedy Center Honor from 2003 ($10,000 to $15,000) and his 1986 Grammy Award for “Living in America” ($15,000 to $20,000). His jumpsuits, many priced around $5,000, are grouped with other clothing in the sale catalogue by color.
Brown’s Yamaha baby grand piano and his Hammond B-3 electric organ with Leslie speakers are each expected to fetch $15,000 to $20,000.
Fans with more modest budgets can consider some photos, hand-written notes and letters estimated at only a few hundred dollars. Other lots such as an engraved silver plate, or sets of cufflinks and studs, are similarly priced.
Brown collected presidential paraphernalia, and the sale will include photos and letters from Presidents Reagan and Bush, as well as a Republican Presidential Task Force Card priced at $200 to $300.
The sale also includes rollers, picks, hair products and a dome hair dryer from the salon in Brown’s South Carolina home. Furniture, sunglasses, hats, scarves, bow ties and shoes round out the collection.
Brown, whose hits included “Papa’s Got a Brand New Bag” and “I Got You (I Feel Good),” died at 73 on Christmas Day 2006 of congestive heart failure.
His estate has been the subject of much dispute and legal wrangling involving members of his large family, including several adult children, ex-girlfriends and ex-wives.
Court-appointed trustees for his estate, variously reported to be worth between $100 million and $200 million, filed a lawsuit in South Carolina earlier this year against Brown’s business managers, former estate manager, a law firm and the investment bank Morgan Stanley.
The trustees allege a conspiracy to defraud the singer and accuse the bank of not preventing fraud by the managers.
(Editing by Daniel Trotta and John O’Callaghan)
Maybe if you would show yours, too, we could save the world.
I Don’t Wanna Be Your Amputee
Brace Yourself! Kinky Amputee Drama Spins My Wheels
Another fabulous performance by the underappreciated Vera Farmiga. Plus, the tale of literary lion Christopher Isherwood’s longtime union with a willing boy-cub
zeitgeistfilms.com
Pull up a seat: Farmiga and Stahl play a somewhat perverse pair.
Quid Pro Quo
Running Time 82 minutes
Written and Directed by Carlos Brooks
Starring Nick Stahl and Vera Farmiga
Look high and low, but you won’t find a weirder movie than Quid Pro Quo. In 1989, a high-speed car crash kills the parents of a boy named Isaac Knott, leaving him an orphaned paraplegic. Eighteen years later, confined to a wheelchair, he’s a 26-year-old investigative reporter who tells odd stories of life in New York City on public radio. (Same job Jodie Foster had in The Brave One, which should have been a warning. Must be a dangerous career choice, because this one also leads to trouble.) Tracking down a story about a man who pays a doctor to cut off his perfectly good leg, Isaac (played by the gifted Nick Stahl, from In the Bedroom) discovers a sordid underworld of fetish freaks who get off on amputations.
What a story. “Wannabes” who want to be paraplegics just like himself! But Isaac isn’t your typical invalid. He swims. He works out. He stays strong. He can have sex. He gets a mysterious e-mail tip signed “Ancient Chinese Girl.” 
But when he meets her, she’s a vibrant blonde named Fiona (played by the feral and fascinating Vera Farmiga, who made a lasting impression as the prostitute opposite Jude Law in Anthony Minghella’s doomed Breaking and Entering). Fiona leads Isaac to a pathetic subculture of perverts divided into three groups: the “devotees” who live in wheelchairs but are merely phonies; the “pretenders” who wear their braces but don’t belong to the “cause” in any authentic way; and the “wannabes” who crave disabilities and amputations. “I’m already paralyzed,” says Fiona. “I’m just trapped in a walking person’s body.” To Isaac’s horror, she likes to strut around her apartment in her lingerie with her shapely legs strapped into torturous, medieval “Milwaukee braces.” According to this film, there are thousands of these wackos, wearing prosthetic devices in secret and dreaming of being paralyzed. It’s described as a strange new American dream—a way to improve yourself, one dead limb at a time. Up to this point,Quid Pro Quo reminded me of Crash, the nauseating 1997 David Cronenberg horror show about lunatics addicted to broken bones acquired in deliberately planned collisions, wrecks and highway fatalities (not to be confused with the overrated 2005 Oscar winner with the same title by Paul Haggis). But just when you think you can’t bear another minute of this dismal self-indulgence, the film hangs an abrupt left turn and heads in another direction, as the suspense builds like a racing car with both doors open.
Seduced into a sexually charged affair with Fiona, Isaac suddenly experiences a miraculous “cure” when he dons an odd pair of “spectator shoes” that give him the power to walk. While his healing is a cause for joy, her downward spiral into deformity is just beginning. Unfortunately, when he throws away his crutches, it coincides with her withdrawal from normalcy and her decision to live in her own wheelchair 24/7. He feels normal when he walks. She can’t feel like a complete person unless she’s paralyzed, too. So she steals his magic shoes and threatens to cut them to shreds unless he finds a way to cripple her permanently. Research reveals several ways—including puncturing the vertebrae with a four-inch spinal drill, a fate from which we are fortunately spared. She settles on a drug called “Ginger Jake,” which is supposedly used to soften plastic.
(Listen, I don’t make this stuff up; I just sit there in the dark, taking notes.) Just when the film looks like it can’t get any more squirrelly, it takes another right turn in the direction of coherence. No spoilers, please—but when you find out why Isaac is crippled, and why Fiona wants to be, you’ll be floored. Solving the mystery, Isaac gets the best story of his radio career—himself!
Inspired, no doubt, by the alarming art of Hieronymus Bosch and the kinky writing of everyone from Tennessee Williams (One Arm) to Chuck Palahniuk (Snuff), this freshman feature by writer-director Carlos Brooks shows both style and imagination.
I Don’t Like James Frey’s Beard / Nor Do I Love Osama’s
by Debra Di Blasi
www.debradiblasi.com
The Man Who Loved Women (With Technicolor Measles)
The Painter Who Adored Women
“Roy Lichtenstein: Girls,” at the Gagosian Gallery, presents 12 of Lichtenstein’s early paintings of the female creatures otherwise known as women. Based on 
cartoons and mostly blond, they are anonymous, beautiful and often unhappily bothered, usually by men. Or, if you like, by boys.
After all, as Dorothy Lichtenstein, the artist’s widow, remarks in an interview in the show’s catalog, “Roy adored women.” And the anonymity of his subjects has exceptions. The smiling woman in “Sound of Music” is clearly Julie Andrews about to burst into song as musical notes stream through the window — although her cheer is undercut by the sharp black shadow that divides her face into areas of red and blue, not unlike the stripe of green in Matisse’s Fauve portrait of his wife in a hat.
Mrs. Lichtenstein notes that Lichtenstein painted on an easel that allowed him to turn each canvas so he could be sure that its power operated in all orientations. It had to work abstractly, in other words, in a way that couldn’t be missed.
In the earliest works here — “Forget It! Forget Me!,” “Little Aloha” and even the classic “Masterpiece” (where the female lead speaks the prophetic words “Why, Brad darling, this painting is a masterpiece!”) — the dots are faint and uneven, not quite pulling their weight. But they quickly gain size and substance and diversify. For example, women’s lips are often rendered not in solid red but in Ben-Day stars, stripes or little bow-tie shapes that stand out from the Ben-Day dots of the faces.
The Ben-Day dots allow Lichtenstein’s painting to look both more and less artificial. They signify mechanical reproduction, but they also add suggestions of light and reflection, shifting colors and variations in touch. The reflections would eventually lead to Lichtenstein’s many portrayals of mirrors, but first they seem to have spawned ceramic sculptures and works in porcelain enamel on steel, a small selection of which is included in the Gagosian show. On their shiny surfaces, fake reflections and shadows — like the aggressive, tattoolike scattering of Ben-Day dots on “Head With Red Shadow” — compete with real ones.
Mrs. Lichtenstein’s catalog interviewer is, perhaps appropriately, the latter-day Pop artist Jeff Koons, who as usual alternates a golly-gee robotic air with genuine perceptions. Sometimes he blends the two, as when he says: “I always loved how Roy’s work really challenges life force because it tries to compete with life force in the realm of the artificial. He would try to have the artificial keep up and challenge the power of life.”
This is another museum-quality show from Larry Gagosian’s gallery, and, as is often the case here, everything has a double function, like serving up artists that any dealer would like to represent. Not only is there Mr. Koons’s interview with Mrs. Lichtenstein; Richard Prince, who just left the Gladstone Gallery and is about to have a show at Mr. Gagosian’s gallery in Rome, contributes a small inserted brochure. It juxtaposes each of 22 steamy pulp-fiction covers of books (all titled with female first names) with a Lichtenstein woman painting. The illustrations of scantily clad, curvaceous femme fatales would seem to be the last thing Lichtenstein had in mind.
What he had in mind was form, a transformation of the terms of real and fake that, as Mr. Koons suggests, was beyond either, a thing in itself. This show makes especially clear how Lichtenstein’s work functions as a kind of primer in looking at and understanding the grand fiction of painting: the thought it requires, its mechanics, its final simplicity and strangeness. These great paintings convey all this in a flash of pleasure, compounded by the thrill of understanding.
“Roy Lichtenstein: Girls” continues through June 28 at the Gagosian Gallery, 980 Madison Avenue, near 77th Street, (212) 744-2313, gagosian.com.
Kiss With A Fist
by FLORENCE AND THE MACHINE
Dumb Question
What the Internet is doing to our brains
BY NICHOLAS CARR
Is Google Making Us Stupid?
“Dave, stop. Stop, will you? Stop, Dave. Will you stop, Dave?” So the supercomputer HAL pleads with the implacable astronaut Dave Bowman in a famous and weirdly poignant scene toward the end of Stanley Kubrick’s 2001: A Space Odyssey. Bowman, having nearly been sent to a deep-space death by the malfunctioning machine, is calmly, coldly disconnecting the memory circuits that control its artificial brain. “Dave, my mind is going,” HAL says, forlornly. “I can feel it. I can feel it.”
I can feel it, too. Over the past few years I’ve had an uncomfortable sense that someone, or something, has been tinkering with my brain, remapping the neural circuitry, reprogramming the memory. My mind isn’t going—so far as I can tell—but it’s changing. I’m not thinking the way I used to think. I can feel it most strongly when I’m reading. Immersing myself in a book or a lengthy article used to be easy. My mind would 
get caught up in the narrative or the turns of the argument, and I’d spend hours strolling through long stretches of prose. That’s rarely the case anymore. Now my concentration often starts to drift after two or three pages. I get fidgety, lose the thread, begin looking for something else to do. I feel as if I’m always dragging my wayward brain back to the text. The deep reading that used to come naturally has become a struggle.
I think I know what’s going on. For more than a decade now, I’ve been spending a lot of time online, searching and surfing and sometimes adding to the great databases of the Internet.
I’m haunted by that scene in 2001. What makes it so poignant, and so weird, is the computer’s emotional response to the disassembly of its mind: its despair as one circuit after another goes dark, its childlike pleading with the astronaut—“I can feel it. I can feel it. I’m afraid”—and its final reversion to what can only be called a state of innocence. HAL’s outpouring of feeling contrasts with the emotionlessness that characterizes the human figures in the film, who go about their business with an almost robotic efficiency. Their thoughts and actions feel scripted, as if they’re following the steps of an algorithm. In the world of 2001, people have become so machinelike that the most human character turns out to be a machine. That’s the essence of Kubrick’s dark prophecy: as we come to rely on computers to mediate our understanding of the world, it is our own intelligence that flattens into artificial intelligence.
Secret Video of Italy Training For The Euro (old yes yes, yet still funny as The Pope)
A Lit Drunkard’s Night Dream
A Night Out That Became a Night In. In the Bar.
Richard Perry/The New York Times
Kyle Hausmann spent hours longer than he intended at Trophy Bar in Williamsburg, Brooklyn, after being locked in overnight.
The singer R. Kelly wrote a popular R & B opera about being trapped in a closet. Nicholas White became a minor celebrity after security cameras caught him stuck in a Manhattan elevator for 41 hours. Add to these annals of urban misfortune the tale of Kyle Hausmann, a mild-mannered paralegal who recently found himself locked in a Brooklyn bar.
The night in question started innocuously enough for Mr. Hausmann, 24, a Harvard graduate who lives with a roommate in Bedford-Stuyvesant, Brooklyn. 
It was May 20, a Tuesday, and Mr. Hausmann’s roommate was the D.J. at Trophy Bar in Williamsburg.
Mr. Hausmann got to the bar at 8 p.m. It was a spirited night. There was dancing. There was drinking. Mr. Hausmann downed a few more drinks than he normally would.
“Really sweet guy,” Mandy Misagal, one of the bar’s three owners, who was bartending that night, said of Mr. Hausmann. “Really wasted but super nice.”
The hours melted away. Four a.m. approached, closing time, so Ms. Misagal tallied the night’s receipts as a worker cleaned up. Mr. Hausmann was milling about with the last stragglers. Then, around 4:30, he went into a bathroom. And for reasons that are unclear even to him, he stayed in there for quite a while.
The bar emptied. Ms. Misagal flipped off the light in one of the bar’s two bathrooms, reached for the doorknob of the second bathroom and found it locked. “Curious,” she thought. Seeing no light coming from the bathroom, and hearing not a peep, she figured that the other bar worker had accidentally locked it behind him. Then her car service showed up and honked. Ms. Misagal went outside. The other worker pulled down the security gate and padlocked it from the outside.
They both left.
A few moments later, Mr. Hausmann opened the bathroom door. That is when he realized he was locked in the bar.
“The lights are off in the bar, and the chairs are up. And I wondered, ‘Where did everybody go?’ ” Mr. Hausmann said.
A faint light was coming through the windows — it was about 5:30 a.m. “I thought, ‘I guess I’m going to be late for work,’ ” he said.
“My working theory was that I had gone down a wormhole,” he continued. “Someone pointed out that perhaps I had gone to Narnia. But I would’ve remembered Narnia. So it must’ve been a wormhole.”
Mr. Hausmann tried the front and back doors, but they were locked and needed keys to be opened. The windows had bars. Mr. Hausmann deliberated whether to pour himself a drink. “And then I decided that I didn’t really want one,” he said.
Calling the police seemed extreme, so instead he dialed up friends on his cellphone. But no one picked up — it was 6 a.m. Finally, a friend who was staying at his apartment in Bedford-Stuyvesant answered and tried to shake Mr. Hausmann’s roommate awake. “Kyle’s stuck somewhere; he needs your help,” the friend mumbled. But the roommate slept on and the friend fell back asleep.
Next, Mr. Hausmann picked up the bar’s phone and hit redial, inadvertently calling the mother of one of the owners in Las Vegas.
“How did you get this number?” the woman asked. “You can’t be calling because you’re locked in a bar.”
Mr. Hausmann hung up. He wandered around the bar, trying to figure out what to do. Then he happened on a laptop on the bottom shelf of the D.J. booth.
“I checked my e-mail,” he said, “which was completely not helpful. My friends were planning a get-together. And I wrote back, ‘Yes, this will work. If only I could figure out how to escape from the bar I’m trapped in.’”
Next he did a Google search for “what to do if you get locked in a bar.” “But Google did not have any good answers,” he said.
And then — hallelujah! — he found a spare set of keys for the bar. Believing escape was near, he penned a note to the bar owners on a paper towel, saying he had gotten trapped and was letting himself out and would return the keys later that day. He ended on an affectionate note. “The mystery only adds to my fondness of the bar,” he wrote.
But there was that security gate beyond the front door, padlocked from the outside. And yet there was still another possibility of escape. Trophy Bar has a garden patio, and now that he had keys, Mr. Hausmann could get back there. He went out, climbed on top of a picnic table, surveyed his options and worried about what the neighbors might think.
“There were a lot of fences to go over,” he said. “But I wasn’t worried about going over. I was worried about being seen going over. Because it was first thing in the morning. And people might wonder ‘what’s going on here?’ and call the police.”
So he tried another round of phone calls. Finally, he reached a friend who agreed to come to the bar. The plan was for Mr. Hausmann to slip the keys under the security gate, and for the friend to open the padlock. The friend showed up, and began calling Mr. Hausmann’s cellphone and banging on the security gate. But by that time Mr. Hausmann had fallen asleep on a bench out back.
Mr. Hausmann eventually woke up and again called his friend, who agreed to come back. It was around 8:30 a.m., 12 ½ hours after his night at the bar began.
Then Mr. Hausmann heard some clanking, and the security gate went up.
Jim Rowe, another of the bar’s owners, walked in.
“And there was Kyle standing there,” Mr. Rowe said. “He was pretty smiley. I couldn’t believe it. I asked, ‘Are you hung over? Are you O.K.?’ ”
Mr. Hausmann replied: “I’m fine, I just got to go to work.”
“I really love your bar,” Mr. Hausmann continued, as Mr. Rowe stared at him, dumbstruck. “I’ll be back.”
Mr. Hausmann’s mini-saga might lack the melodrama of R. Kelly’s fictional musical epic, and it was vastly less harrowing than the grim ordeal endured by Mr. White. But it has made Mr. Hausmann something of a cause célèbre at Trophy Bar, where the owners gave him nods on their MySpace page.
And just as he promised, Mr. Hausmann has gone back to Trophy Bar. He celebrated his 24th birthday there last Tuesday.
When the party was over, Mr. Hausmann walked out, unimpeded, into the night.
Method #507 For Evading The Wife – Buy camo & a bad couch
James Frey Hailed as the Barack Obama of Literature by The Zsa Zsa Post
In Defense of James Frey and Memoir by Lisa Dale Norton
As a writer and teacher of memoir I am bombarded by moderately-informed people spitting out the name James Frey whenever the topic of memoir comes up, eyebrows raised, fire on their tongues. It’s true Frey’s debacle made headlines, yet there are many misconceptions about what he did or did not do. I’m certainly not condoning his actions, but there are other memoirists since his tussle with Oprah who have committed far greater sins. (Margaret Selzer for one.) And, yesterday and today, many of the misunderstandings about what defines specific genres of books have sprung to life with the comments aimed at Scott McClellan and What Happened?
So, let’s take a step back and figure out what memoir is.
A good place to start is to clarify what memoir is not: It is not journalism, history, biography, or even autobiography. Memoir is the close inspection of some slim aspect of one’s lived experience in which the writer uses every writerly technique available to craft a compelling story that explores the human dilemma and in the process unearths some truth central to his life.
Memoir is not accumulation of fact at the expense of this truth. The memoirist is committed to emotional truth, and because memoir is an art form that end is achieved through artful means. Consequently, what I find most disturbing when discussing memoir with people is that very few understand this.
If our society and the publishing world are going to attach the word “memoir” to everyone from Barbara Walters and Julie Andrews to Scott McClellan and Barack Obama, they had better be prepared for the truth. People think memoir all true, as if the memoirist projected a flashlight through his ear and out played a movie onto the page. Pure fact. That’s not a memoir.
There is further confusion in the marketplace. While I am not apologizing for James Frey, I feel driven to point out this imbalance: As recently as May 18 Janny Scott, writing in the New York Times, noted Barack Obama’s use of composite characters in his memoir:
“Reporters have questioned Mr. Obama’s use of fictional techniques like composite characters, but some editors and critics say that is common in memoirs.”
Why does Barack Obama’s use of fictional techniques merit such little outcry? Why do we continue to beat up on James Frey for utilizing fictional techniques? Why is no one in the streets working up a lather and berating Obama for his blurring of the genre lines? Instead, quite the opposite. Large portions of America herald Obama as a force of change. And a gifted writer.
The fact is Barack Obama and James Frey are both gifted writers.
Frey’s new book Bright Shiny Morning — a novel, not a memoir — is another example of great moments of craft. The guy knows how to write. Why can’t we just get off the Million Little Pieces bandwagon and praise Frey for being a gifted writer, someone who knows how to use the techniques of writing to his advantage, like Obama?
Part of the reason is that few people actually understand what memoir is. Let’s remember: Memoirists conflate time. They combine characters. They make truths that speak to their hearts, often at the expense of the details of fact. That is the art of memoir, where the point of the genre is to make a truth about a life lived that resonates in the bones of the writer and sends out shock waves of recognition to readers.
Both Frey and Obama have done this in their memoirs, as have a long list of other fine writers.
So let’s get off James Frey and get on with something else, like educating more people about what memoir really is.
More in Entertainment…
“There’s only three things I’ve ever been afraid of – electricity, heights and women…”
Johnny Is Still Rotten
Sex Pistols’ Johnny Rotten Sued for Assaulting Assistant
Stop press! This guy may be angry and violent!
There may be problems ahead for Sex Pistols mouthpiece Johnny Rotten (or John Lydon, if you’re not nasty), as the perennially assholish punk icon has been sued by a (presumably former) assistant, Roxane Davis. Yesterday, TMZ.com reported that a lawsuit filed in Los Angeles County Superior Court claims that “the Sex Pistol singer allegedly beat the crap out of a female assistant after calling her every horrible name in the book after the taping of a television show in 2007.”
The suit suggests that Rotten “cocked back his fist … and punched her in the face” when Lydon found himself in a hotel room at the Ritz Carlton that, for whatever reason, didn’t share a door with another assistant named Rambo. It was then that Rotten and Rambo allegedly starting berating Davis verbally. Davis reportedly brought this incident to the attention to her supervisor on the show Rotten was working on at the time, but her complaints were ignored.
No word yet on whether this suit will affect the Pistols’ plans to tour the world this summer. And on June 30, Fremantle Entertainment will release a DVD of recent live Sex Pistols performances entitled There’ll Always Be an England.
(This video has nothing to do with Rotten allegedly beating the crap out of any assistants, however, it’s a swwww interview from The Greatest Talk Show That Ever Was, and this is only Parte Primo – be sure to check Partie Deux when you’re done diddling with One.)