Pro-cat-stination

So the silliest thing happened the other day. We finished eating lunch, which always signals the return to the work day, and we were both facing annoying tasks. Cal was on my lap, as he usually is during meals. He doesn't try to eat the food, he just sort of likes being food-adjacent. Lately, Cal's developed some natty dreads in his coat, and I was pulling on them and trying to separate them. He also has dandriff, which all the other cats enjoy making fun of him for. They brush his shoulder when they stand next to him in the elevator.

Anyway, so I said, "Let's give Cal a bath!"

And when weighing bathing the cat or doing the eighth rewrite of some outline, she said, "Hell yeah."

So instead of working, we bathed the cat. He really didn't mind very much. He's a very mellow cat, except when he's not. He didn't really like the blow dryer very much, but no guys do. The only thing, we couldn't find the cat shampoo, so we had to use some Pert Plus. So Cal and I both smell the same right now. I don't know if that's reflects well on him, or poorly on me.


The screening of BUTTLEMAN the other night went really well. It's a very swanky place that shows movies while you eat dinner. There really is no need for that kind of swank, but what can you do. It's LA. People like to sell 12 dollar hamburgers and bring you an eight dollar bottle of water when you just asked for tap. The hostesses' nipples pointing out of her tiny shirt was the only thing pulling focus away from her silver Bindi, as she bitchily told us she had no record of our reservation. It was okay, though--I went and got her in trouble. Stupid Bindi head. We had a full house and people seemed to like the movie, so that was good.

Beforehand, we met a friend of mine from school who moved into a new house near the theatre. His place... my God. It's not far from my old apartment in the ghetto of the Hollywood Hills, but it's far, far nicer. It's a really old semi-recovered condemned building that used to be Clara Bow's house. But now it's seven different apartments. His is the top floor 2 bedroom with gorgeous views of the hills (and the 101 freeway). The living room is the biggest I've ever seen. There are balconies and skylights and he pays less than we do. The best thing: his roommate is only there a week a month. He owns a company that sells meat door to door and is often travelling. (Yeah, meat. Door to door. Seriously.) Anyway, my friend always lucks into places like this.

However, the one thing that would make me very nervous about living in the place: it's directly over the fault line that goes under the Capitol records building on Vine, and it's already just about the least archetecturally sound building I've ever been in. The floor to the bathroom slopes about six inches down. The whole thing just feels unsturdy as hell. And while the views are great, the way it's built into the hills, it would be a loooooong drop if the balcony happened to give while you were out having a smoke break.

So while I'm jealous, I do enjoy the notion of not falling through my bathroom floor. I'm just weird like that.

These Are The People In Your Eddie Izzard Concert

The other day pamie posted a cryptic Blind Item entry about the random celebrities we saw at the Eddie Izzard concert last Saturday night.

No one had any idea who we were talking about.

We thought they were pretty easy, but apparently, we overestimated our Blind Item abilities. Or anyone's interest in trying to guess stuff.

So here are the answers:

This newly-single Mensa maven followed the wrong instinct when she slowly strolled into Hollywood's Wiltern Saturday night wearing almost the exact same get-up as the man of the evening, hairstyle included. Only the older diva had slightly smaller breasts.

SHARON STONE. See, she's in Mensa. She's older. She was in Basic "instict". Uh... okay, maybe this was pretty hard. She also now has short hair. She didn't quite look like herself. Or perhaps I just haven't seen her in a while. So yeah. Sharon Stone. Maybe we should have said something about "Cold Comfort," but apparently no one was aware that movie came out last weekend. Moving on.

This unmatched power duo seemed to be unclear on the concept of "intermission," as this couple left the screamingly funny first act only to take a couch right inside the lobby for a power sit, ignoring at least one of their famous friends...

COURTNEY COX and DAVID ARQUETTE. Surely this was easy. "Scream-ingly." One of the famous "Friends." No? Yeah, the couple got out of their seats during intermission, went to the lobby, and sat down. I never quite understood that. Perhaps he has a bad back from that wrestling movie. Or the dog movie. Or she can't stand up for a long while because of the whole lack of food thing. I've seen these two before. She, we saw having a business meal about some cable decorating show she's doing. It was at an outdoor restaurant on Melrose. We were inside a rare book store with my mom. While my mom scanned for first editions of something or other, I stared through the window at Courtney sadly eyeballing the carb-y bread. Him, I've seen twice. Once on a very sketchy corner of Hollywood Blvd. just standing there. He looked like he was researching the role of a junkie street hustler. Or merely reliving his partying days. The other time I saw him at a toy store buying a telescope. Arquette/Cox neighbors: close your blinds.

... who spent his Emmy-eve triple-taking and hob-nobbing in the smokers area. Apparently the one with the addictions still has a couple to overcome. (Sources noted he craned his neck over the crowd on more than one occasion, searching for his ex-girlfriend, a certain newly-exposed recap-stealer.)

MATTHEW PERRY. This came of the "Friend" clue from the end of the last one. Also he does a lot of "triple-takes" on the show. Plus, he went to Promises for his "back medicine" addicition. Also they name each "Friends" episode, "The One With The..." See? The parenthetical is an inside reference to the last time we saw him, at a burlesque joint called "Forty Deuce" where we took the visiting AB to a friend's birthday party. A very drunk AB ended up harassing Matthew Perry in the parking lot during smoke breaks. The other time I saw him was in New York about seven years ago. Me and my girlfriend at the time passed him on the street. "Matthew Perry" we both mumbled disinterestedly, as if we'd just seen a pigeon or a bus stop. We didn't even break stride for him, which we then cracked up about later.

This former VJ/comedian made sure nobody got any home video of him as he strode with purpose to the bathroom during intermission.

JOHN FUGELSANG. Who? Exactly. He used to date a friend of mine, so I know a lot of details about him that I wish I didn't. We saw him do stand-up at the FAKE gallery recently. Not terrible. Cocky as hell, but I guess that's his "thing."

The boss of the mezzanine was this petite cutie, fresh from her stint on The Ortegas, charming the first three rows of fans. She dashed from one side to the other, flashing her collection of skin ink, ready to jump into any open arms for a hug.

ALYSSA MILANO. She's on "Charmed." "Who's the Boss?" See? Has lots of tattoos she likes to display. We saw her guest star on "The Ortegas" the other day, when we went to see Todd guest star on the show. She has huge teeth. Todd might have said she smelled bad, but that's a terrible rumor I refuse to start.

The god of the majestic lobby had no qualms standing solo before the show, wearing a mask of warmth and a cloak of untouchability. He had one thing in common with ace reporter and author/journaler who purposefully stood beside him: hatred of a certain Roxie with Botoxed moxie.

JIM CARREY. Yeah. The "God" thing was of course about Bruce Almighty. The Majestic? Remember that movie? Of course you don't. The Mask. He hates his ex, Renee Zellwegger, who played Roxie Hart in Chicago? The clues are all right there, people! Anyway, yeah, Jim Carrey just stood silently with his friend in the middle of the lobby. Obviously, he's learned either not to give a shit about fans starring at him, or he loves it. Nay, he needs it. You make the call.

Come See Stee

So, the movie I'm in, BUTTLEMAN, is playing this Wednesday. It's a very cool film screening at a neat venue in Hollywood. (And I'm not half bad in it!) Here's the info:


Wednesday, September 24th, 8 PM

“Dinner and a Movie” Series at CINESPACE

6356 Hollywood Blvd, Los Angeles, CA

FREE w/ one drink minimum
Reservation # for the screening of BUTTLEMAN: 323-817-FILM.

The movie's website is here.


Rock.

Item!

Stee and Pamie went to Eddie Izzard and saw lots of silly stars. Guess who?

It's Good To Be Wayne

Take the curious case of Wayne Brady.

I really liked him in "Who's Line...". Very talented improv performer, and not just at the songs, as some have claimed. And then he had his prime time show, which I watched with a look of... I don't know what it was. Fear? Confusion? Sadness? Loss? And suddenly I didn't like him quite as much. But hey, he was trying something new. Well, not new at all. But different, I guess. Right? He tried something different.

Now it's hard to know exactly when you stop liking someone if everyone else around you hates him. My girlfriend hates him because a lot of people she knows used to work with him, and they say he's a douchebag. But I didn't work with him so that means nothing to me. I should ignore that, right? Despite the nagging feeling, when watching him, that he is just that. A big honking douchebag. And then I go to underground comedy shows at FAKE in LA, or Tinkle in New York, and the comedians, comedians I respect, take endless jabs at Wayne. And do I let that infect my view? Maybe a little. But he's still talented. A big talent. And maybe all the signs of douchebaggery are false. Maybe he's a great guy. Maybe people are just jealous.

And if that's so, maybe Helen Hunt and Mike Meyers and John Cameron Mitchell and J. Lo aren't the right assholes they're famously known to be. (And conversely, maybe Alicia Silverstone and Henry Winkler and Heather Locklear aren't the nice, gracious people they're known for being.) And so perhaps the bad word on the Wayne is just the product of jealousy and heresay.

And then he says something like this, upon winning the Emmy last night:

"I deserve this, and it feels so good; I love this business, man!"


Douche.

Friday Night's Alright

Most weekend nights I have nothing to do. That's not entirely true, but usually I have to create things to do. Invite people places. Get in the car and go see a movie. Instigate and hunt and devise. Well, tonight, for some reason, there are about nine things I want to do/have been invited to do. Maybe not nine, but a lot. And I've known about all these things for a while, but have sat, paralyzed into indecision. Because I want to do all of them. Here:

The Giants are playing the Dodgers. The Giants just clinched so it's not that important, except for the fact that it's always very important to beat the Dodgers. I could, however, go see the Sunday day game...

Grandaddy is playing a concert with Super Furry Animals. I have no friends who like Grandaddy, so this I might go alone to. Which I'm fine with. I don't have to worry about short people who can't see and I can stand and rock out like a dork without anyone making fun of me. I love Grandaddy. They're weird and environmental and from Modesto. They write theme albums about computers and the forests. They also make strange videos in which they look like psycho farmers or dress in scary animal costumes.

A friend is having a birthday dinner. He's going to a Mexican joint. I like tequila.

The Neu Tickles (friends' band) are playing their final performance ever at Molly Malone's. They are very funny and they are breaking up. This is the swan song. Like going to the Beatles at Candlestick. Except this time you'll be able to hear the music over the screaming and fainting girls. I hope.

A friend from college is having a party. A chance to see people I haven't seen in a long time. Or a chance to stand around bored. Could go either way. It's a 50-50 chance.

There is a poker game. I love playing poker. I've been watching tons of poker on The Travel Channel. Lying on my couch I just know I could beat Howard Lederer and crew. Except that once I get off the couch and actually sit down and play, I'm really not that good at all.

Okay, so that's only six. Six is not nine, but it's much more than one. (Yeah! Who says public school kids can't do math?)

Who are we kidding, I'll probably just stay at home watching porn.


In 80's movies news:

You people have named over 200 different 80's movies you love. I've been tallying the votes and my Excel spreadsheet is growing longer every day. I'll post the results soon.

Who knew no one loved Back to the Future?

Johnny Number 5 Is Alive!

So I'm working on something about cheesy 80's movies and would love your input. I guess I'm trying to figure out what 80's movies people hold the most dear, or simply remember because they were so silly and can't believe they went to the theatre to see them ten times.

For me that was Popeye. Not a good movie. Not at all. And yet for some reason, I loved that fucking thing. And of course Top Gun. I wanted Tom Cruise's haircut. I never got it.

And I loved Hardbodies, but for different reasons.

Please let me know which 80's movies did it for you.

Word of the Day: Attrition

def. "A rubbing away or wearing down by friction." "A gradual diminution in number or strength because of constant stress." "A gradual, natural reduction in membership or personnel, as through retirement, resignation, or death."

So of course John Ritter and Johnny Cash died. ("He Cashed in." "He did one final pratfall." I've seen both terrible jokes made already today. Be ashamed of yourselves.) It's very sad. But others who have a more personal connection to both have already said it better. So I will not try.

Instead, I will talk about the phone call I received this morning from my agent and manager!

A screenwriter writes scripts at home, hoping to sell them to someone. This is what the lottery mentality of screenwriting -- as sold in constant spam, in ubiquitious screenplay competitions, in magazine articles -- teaches us that screenwriting is.

The true employ of a screenwriter, however, is mostly the following: you take a meeting with a producer. They have an idea/article/book/script they're not happy with, and they ask you do "develop" it with them. (Or they ask many writers to develop it with them -- and the best man wins out, after all do work on it.) So what "develop" really means is "do free work." The reason for doing this instead of writing a script by yourself at home is because generally, producers (the LITTLE GUYS with NO MONEY) have pre-checked the idea with the studio (the BIG GUYS with MONEY) plus they're more invested since it's their idea or they've already developed the unsatisfactory script with another writer. With a spec script, the producer(s) may just be taking it into the studio without having any true passion for it and without any notion of whether or not it's something the studio wants to buy.

Indeed, many top screenwriters never ever write original scripts. Why write something for no money when you can rewrite something for a big six figure payday? goes the theory.

The downside of all this for the writer is as follows: you take a meeting, you make an outline, you get notes, you do another outline... all of which is time consuming, and none of which you get paid for until they deem the project ready to bring it into the studio. And since the business loves nothing more than to speak in Baseball Metaphors, this is called "Getting Up To The Plate." You get up to the Plate of the conference rooms of a studio, and you give them your Pitch (see, again, with the baseball).

But the real downside is that you usually don't even get up to the plate.

Why?

Well, developement is molasses slow, and the long time standing on the on deck circle, gives rise to tons of stuff going wrong. I've had everything happen to me from they hire another writer, to I get another job and no longer have time for that, to the head of the production company suddenly decides it's not a project they want to take into the studio at all, to another project gets set up somewhere else that's too similar. Etc. Etc. Etc.

But today. What happened today is pretty special.

About six months, company X liked a script of mine and wanted a meeting. They brought up a general idea that they thought I'd be good for "developing." I liked it. They brought it to another production company, company Y -- an even bigger company. They liked the idea too and already knew me, and so we were all going to work on it together. So I wrote an outline. They gave notes. I wrote another outline. They gave more notes... On and on for 8 drafts. Meetings and outlines and phone calls and outlines and notes. A bit excessive in this case, but nothing too far out of the norm. Then the summer hit and no one works in August and so we chose to wait before going to the Studio -- a studio that already was looking for something like this, a studio where company Y has their deal. Perfect! Everything was good to go.

Then company X started to collapse.

Or at least the people I was working for chose to leave. Something. So we had to wait to find out where those people were going to "land" before proceeding... Fine. No problem.

But then this morning word came down that company Y was losing their studio deal.

Oh yeah, also, the studio executive who would have bought this, probably getting fired.

So.

In the course of working on this idea, ALL FIVE PEOPLE involved, from THREE COMPANIES, all switching/losing jobs. That my friends, is some fucking attrition.

(So what happens to the idea? Well, in theory since I wrote the whole 15 page outline, it's mine to do something with. But my manners force me to wait until company X guy who came to me with the idea lands somewhere, and get him involved again. So in reality, probably nothing will happen to it. It'll probably go on my shelf of 10 other projects I helped develop with people, only to die slow... sad... tree-in-the-forest... deaths.)

IN BETTER NEWS...

Tonight we're going to see a friend guest star on The Ortegas. An NBC sitcom staring Cheech.

I hope he's over Chong going to jail by taping time.

Pixies!

A Pixies Reunion!

Frank Black: Hey Perry, it's Frank.

Perry Farrell: Hey man, just a sec. Let me put the monkey back in its cage... Okay. How's it going?

Frank Black: Good. So I was just wondering... how's the reunion thing going?

Perry Farrell: Great man! We're really jiving and having a good time. Musically it's really all coming-

Frank Black: What I'm really wondering, how much money are you making?

Perry Farrell: Shitloads.

Frank Black: (beat) I gotta go make a call.

Ouch! Wham-O issues a warning

This might require registration to read, but the makers of the Slip 'N Slide have sued the Dickie Roberts movie because it shows David Spade using the Slip 'N Slide in an incorrect manner, and it worries that people may try to copy the dangerous maneuvers.

I don't think they have to worry about anyone trying to copy anything they see in a David Spade movie.

Xtina's Cockhole!

What? Yeah, it's that time again. Stee and Pamie recap the MTV VMA's.

Beware. It's the longest, dirtiest recap in the history of the world.

ALF Dad, bad!

I think I talked about when the ALF dad, Max Wright, got busted smoking crack a while ago. Well, he's in trouble yet again. Drunk driving and taking out a mailbox. I love that he claimed he was trying to mail a letter.

Two years later and I'm still having trouble picturing the ALF dad smoking crack...

Yahoo! News - Londoners Hurl Taunts, Eggs at Illusionist Blaine

Why did New Yorkers not do this? I guess we believe the magic is real, while they think it's shite.

The "So Where The Fuck You Been?" Entry

Okay. So about two years ago I wrote my last entry. Somewhere after 9/11. You can blame it on the terrorists if you like, but for a while I'd grown weary of writing in the journal. It mostly came out of the fact that I was no longer sitting in my Herman Miller chair in my cubicle-by-the-IT-room at Disney, where I worked for the duration of my journal experience. But you knew I was at Disney, right? I think I told you all as much.

Well, yeah. I worked for the Disney Catalogue. The paper catalogue that maybe they mail to your house. The thing that allows you to buy Mickey PJ's and Mulan plates and Tigger Flip-Flops (stubbornly/ignorantly called "thongs" until at least 2000 -- boy did we have fun with that one) over the phone. I had the Chandler Bing job; none of my friends understood what I did. And I kid not when I tell you: I'm not exactly sure what I did either. I was in the ITEM SET-UP department, which had something to do with data entry and maintaining the databases that allowed the call center in Indiana to see the correct product on their computer when they got a phone call and typed in the ITEM NUMBER for the Toddler "Sleeping Beauty" Thong. Also, I think we did the forecasting software that helped to predict future sales based on past zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz...

Yeah. The job was great. Great. So great, in fact, that I could not leave it. There was no reason to. Unless I got a job acting or writing, there would/could be no job that paid me as well and allowed me basically to do nothing. That's right. I did nothing. Like, really nothing. Like, most days I did 45 minutes of actual Disney work and 8 hours of email and writing and web surfing and popcorn making and song downloading and co-worker flirting and script Xeroxing. I had the greatest group of coworkers -- people that helped me to fly under the radar and exist in that wonderful temp limbo for over three years. These are people I still consider friends. These are people whose weddings I go to and whose babies I see. One of them has become the defacto music composer for me and other filmmaker friends. One has gone on to costume for The West Wing. One has become Mr. Mom, which suits him very well. One, who I dated for a while, she is now in grad school on the East Coast. One still works at the very Disney Catalogue from which I was fired in April of 2001.

Yeah. They canned me. (A long story. None of which involves me doing anything more wrong than usual. Only normal Human Resources yawnery. I talked about it here.) And so I slung the 5-foot tall Mickey Mouse plush that sat in my cube gathering recycled North Hollywood-air dust over my shoulder like a fallen comrade (which in a way he was; in another way, he was the figurehead of the company who'd fired me) and walked out of there for good.

Then I went on unemployment.

And so the journal became a casualty of my life changing. Sorry for that. It sucks when something you like goes away, and I thank everyone for expressing to me that they missed reading me daily. It meant a lot. The great, wonderful thing about the journal is that it did for me everything I wanted it to do, and so much more. The number one thing it let me do is something ephemeral but true: It made me hone my "voice." Being forced to write every day or so, allowed me to find what I found funny. It made me unafraid of writing, which, in truth, I was. And it gave me confidence that I could do this. Maybe for real. Maybe for a living. It also very tangibly lead to my career. I met my first agent through the site – she was a reader. And that lead to my manager. And that lead to stuff you know about from reading the final entries.

And then…

So with unemployment running out and my credit cards getting their swipe on, I kept writing and writing screenplays. And then one day in November of 2001, I decided to go to an NYU event held at the DGA. It was a Job Fair for Hollywood folk. But I didn't have that in mind -- I just wanted to go for the free drinks and maybe to see some people I went to school with in New York and lost touch with. Also, it was within walking distance of my girlfriend's house.

I got free drinks. I got reacquainted with some people I'd lost. I saw some people I didn't really ever need to see again. But also. Also, I waited in some lines at tables and talked to some producers and execs and agents. And I went up and talked to an agent from a great agency -- an agency I'd long dreamed of being with, sitting in my cube downloading the entire Beck album and collating my illegally-Xeroxed scripts. And I told them who I was and that I'd won X award and have relationships with Y,Z producers. (Seriously, "Y,Z Producers" are a great company. Meet with them if you can. They do fantastic work.) He asked me to send in some screenplays. I did. They asked to see more. And some plays. I brought them down there. The Big Agent read me and they called me and my manager in for a meeting -- which resulted in them signing me.

And that was beyond great. The agency I'd been with had never really committed to me, and so despite the young agent's utter devotion and hard work, I moved on. (But let me not underemphasize that. This town runs on "Evidence." No one will give you a second look unless they have corroborating evidence that you're worthy. [Sales, reviews, recommendations from their colleagues. Evidence.] In other words, even if someone likes your work, they won't trust that judgment. They think it's suspect until others have already made the leap and declared you "Worthy." It's a fucking deep chasm to traverse. [One that I fell into daily for almost four years.] And so to find someone like said Young Agent who said, "I believe in your stuff. I want to work with you," before anyone else did, is rare and wonderful indeed.)

And so right after I signed, I decided to try to justify their signing me, and I dilligently wrote a new script. It took me just 10 days (never again) and it was based on an idea my manager had. So I wrote it during Christmas break. And my new agents sent it out, and everyone rejected it. They all loved the shit out of it, but no one bought it.

But then two weeks later, a studio that had already passed, changed their minds and bought it. Whee!

So I sold a script! Yeah. It wasn't the millions that people seem to think scripts sell for; the lottery mentality that screenwriting has become for so many people. (Hell, it's what I used to think -- you sell a screenplay and move straight into the mansion and the hookers and coke descend from the recessed Bose speakers. Uh-uh.) But it was enough to not make me have to go back to temping for a bit. And for my career -- well, it gave me one, I guess.

(The tale of what happened to that script once I sold it, is for another time, my friends.)

And so the sale lead to meetings which lead to a producer suggesting I try adapting this short story that they liked. Which lead to pitch meetings which lead to us selling the pitch. So I got to write a football movie for a big studio. Yeah. Rock.

(The tale of what happened to that script it still being decided. I just handed in my second draft on Friday. So from here, it either gets shelved forever. Or made. Or they fire me and put a new writer on to rewrite me. Or any other myriad things. We shall see...)

So that was a year ago. In that last year I've moved into a house. Moved in with a girl. For the first time ever. (I didn't feel shackled or crowded! I didn't lose my sense of self! Neat-o!) I have a piano. I still don't have a dog, but someday.

And so in getting what I wanted, I felt (and still feel) like, "Okay, kid. You got out of the cubicle. Now you fucking use it." So I've spent the last year in a flurry of activity. I wrote an action script. An action-comedy. A sitcom. I landed a book agent and wrote a novel. I pitched a script. I pitched another TV show. (All of which, so far, no one has wanted.) I directed a play. I made two short films. I recapped my fool ass off. I edited a book that was published. I went on millions of meetings. I did tons of free work only to be ultimately rejected for many rewriting jobs. I spoke at Austin Film Festival. The movie I was in opened a film festival. And I co-wrote an indie sex comedy that we're trying to make (which I would be acting in). So yeah, I basically worked and worked and worked. And played a lot of Vice City, which I'm still not done with. Fucking game.

I'm trying to find a balance, but I feel okay about working really hard. When I feel overworked, I always think of coal miners. Now that's a hard job. Writing, not so hard, comparatively.

But still, there's the money thing. And after a year of writing and no one wanting what I was writing, I ran out of money. And I thought I might have to yet again go back to temping...

And then I sold a TV pilot. An hour long. To a network. So yeah, there's that. Now I get to write said TV pilot. I'm not sure how it happened. I got lucky. I have great agents. I had the right idea at the right time. And when I found out, I bought some champagne. Some Guinness. And went out with a big group of friends to see Freddy Vs. Jason. It's really all you can do when something like that happens.

So.

That's where I've been these two years. There's the update some of you have been asking for. The cranky guy got what he wanted. I supposed I should go thank that HR lady for booting me and forcing me to take that last leap. But I'm afraid that if I enter the building, they'll arrest me for the theft of the big Mickey.

I thank you for yelling and me and bitching that I don't write anymore. I'm going to try to keep y'all abreast of what happens, without getting myself in trouble. I know that a few years ago I would have loved to read the stories of some jackass who'd been able to make a living doing what he loves. I guess it would have made me feel like it was possible. And believe me, if I can do it...

Bill Murray: No Beef With Lucy Liu

This is just amazing. Big news. Big news, people. Almost as big as the article I just read entitled "Cuba Gooding Kisses Beyonce in New Movie!"

Speaking of which: Has anyone seen the billboards for the Fighting Temptations? Along with Diggstown and Wonder Boys, it ranks among the worst print campaigns for a film I've ever seen. With the "Yay!" look on Cuba's face and the Elbowy Raised Arms of Exuberance, I seriously thought it was an ad for his upcoming movie where he begs for an Oscar -- I mean, where he plays a retarded dude. (Radio is that one.)

But I'm sure there have been worse. Email me any print campaigns you think sucked more. I dare you.

Some things won't stay down...even after they die.