Michael Malice title

I really, really, really did not enjoy The Dark Knight. Very minor spoilers ahead.

A few points: Heath Ledger was easily the worst of the 3 Jokers. This Oscar talk is retarded and only a function of his death. His "brilliance" consisted of talking in a weird Pee-Wee Herman voice and constantly licking his lips.

The film is not a superhero movie. Besides the Batman character, it is an entirely realistically-styled movie about a city under terrorist attack. The Joker exhibits no crazy behavior at all besides his face paint. But what purveyors of comic book realism don't get is that if they want to go real, then the audience should judge accordingly. Meaning, if there's a terrorist walking around in daylight in facepaint, he will be taken down very, very quickly. He will not have the opportunity to plant bombs everywhere. When 9/11 hit, security instantly escalated extremely hard and extremely fast. The US went DEFCON. I don't think anyone was even musing, "Maybe if we give bin Laden what he asks for, he'll leave us alone." And bin Laden at least had a goal and a specific agenda.

The idea, also, that criminals and terrorists go hand-in-hand is nuts. A thug wants to get his cash. he doesn't want to freak people out or draw attention or escalate things with cops--especially the latter, since he will lose. The film forgets this.

There are no light moments. The film is completely intense. But intensity in fiction is only good when it has some life lesson or makes you think or even carries you through a major experience. This film did none of these things and for that reason is simply annoying (and easily an hour too long.)

Subject: Amazon compliment

The first review of Randy Couture's book compliments it by comparing it to the best MMA book so far: Made in America.

Best,
J [editor, Made in America]

Turning the corner from West Fourth and Broadway, I bump shoulders with a young hooligan. 10 times out of 10 this is someone else trying to prove something. A second pause, and then I hear a tinkle as something is dropped. "Oh, excuse me," I say, continuing on. I mentally check that my wallet is still ensconced in my pants pocket; oldest scam in the book. (It's in Genesis.)

I continue on to the supermarket, not looking back on purpose. 3 blocks later there is a tap on my shoulder. "You bumped into me back there and didn't say anything," the gentleman lets me now. He is chewing on his bottom lip to demonstrate his anger, but his body language is completely at ease. He is not invading my space, for example, or clenching his fists.

Mind you, I am not scared in the slightest to get the crap kicked out of me. For starters, this is something thousands of housewives deal with on a daily basis, and those bitches ain't got nothing on me. And #2, pain is annoying and a nuisance but not a huge deal. And finally, in the last year I saw two people get their asses kicked on a professional level and minute afterwards were sore and whatever but otherwise could deal with it.

But I digress. "Oh, I'm sorry," I said.

"Look, you broke my lenses," he says, whipping out a pair of glasses. The glasses have a gold frame and thick prescription. They are either worn at all times or not at all, and certainly would not be carried in one's hand; nor would the style be used for someone under 65. Finally, the crack is a 1/4 long, as if they were struck with a sharp point, not like they were dropped.

"Oh, that's terrible," I go on, in my best bleeding heart patois. "Let's go find the police, fill out a report, and get that taken care of." I immediately begin walking back to Broadway to find an officer.

"I gotta get these fixed."

"Oh, I know! Let's go fill out a report."

"Well, you shouldn't bump into someone and not say anything."

"Sir, [HAHAHAHAHAH] I did say 'Excuse me'. You just didn't hear me. I'm sorry. I'll say it again."

"OK, that's all right. It looked like you bumped into me and ran off." He then stretched out his hand to shake on it. Perhaps the extorting $ for "broken glasses" would work on someone else.

I go to the supermarket. They don't have the new Pepperidge Farms bread with apples in it that I like, but I realize that there are literally 20+ varieties of Pepperidge Farms and wonder how one would know the difference.

As I leave the supermarket and take the long route to the train, I see a thin woman in the distance approaching. I don't have my glasses on, but somehow my brain tells me, "That's not a woman, that's a tranny." Maybe it was the shoulders. I have no idea how I knew. Then I see her check herself out in the store window and play with her hair, something few women would do but which any delusional tranny would do. Sure enough, as I walk by her, she stops me. "Excuse me, but can I ask you a question?"

I stop, if only because most stories with a tranny in them end up being good stories. She was neither fierce nor fabulous, a Spanish guy in a long strawberry blonde wig with jacked, plaquey teeth and drink all along her fingernail beds. Short nails too, I might add. "What does it mean when a credit card says, 'Not approved'? Does that mean there's no more money on it?"

Somehow she could scent that I was a Jew, and a business major to boot. "Well, it could mean that. Or the card could have not been activated yet, or there could have been some suspicious purchase so they suspended it. You should call the company. [HAHHAHAHAHAHAH]"

"Oh because I went to Ricky D's [i.e., Ricky's] to buy some make-up and it wouldn't let me, but I just bought a plane ticket and that was OK." She is waving said card about, and at first it looked unsigned but then I noticed that there was, in fact, a signature.

"Yeah, maybe they think something is weird. You should call them."

"OK, thanks." She saunters off, and I go home.

Moral: watch out for West 4th & Broadway.

I haven't gotten new shoes in 2008, and I am remembering why. It's because buying new shoes is always a horrific scandal. I have a very specific flowchart for shoes:

* No black and never, ever white
* Conservative (if not downright retro) tame design
* Colored but not colorful

One would think I'd be like Imelda Marcos over here but finding a shoe that fights this short list is like finding a something-funny inside of a something-funnier. Do I love these? I dunno:

Wouldn't you know that whilst I was having my bday party, Dickon Edwards was blogging about being in NYC??? He's on my very short list of people-to-meet, though my boy Michael Grace met him already (pic below). I suspect that neither of us would know what to make of each other, since he's effete-effete and I'm faux-effete. I had gone to Mondo week and a half back and was musing that I was the most butch guy there--and everyone was straight. I don't know why I'm on such an indie kick of late. Maybe because I'm at a happy, positive point at present. That would also explain why at this moment 10+ plant species are en route to my house. I should be an engineer, that I'm managing to find space!

In other news, that new Scrubbing Bubbles action scrubber doesn't work all that hot, and it made my fingers prunce instantly. That can't be good, can it?

Love the proportions on this one.

I hadn't been going to movies for a long time, but saw two in the past week. Hancock was simply superb, and I am baffled how anyone can possibly not like it. (And I am of the Will-Smith-should-be-shot school.)

Hellboy II was very good as well. Dark Knight promises to make it 3 for 3, I'm sure.

I was on the phone with my buddy John of the band Aberdeen yesterday. The first thing we talked about--at length--is how hitting on indie chicks is different from hitting on normal chicks. There was something not quite clicking, and John didn't have an answer either. The premise that they're somehow wired differently on a base level I knew to be absurd, but somehow there was this wall I did not know how to surmount. I think we figured it out, in that they have a violent aversion to conflict and aggression. I am not really all that aggressive, but as a Board-certified shitstarter I think we have nailed the problem. Michael Grace, pictured below and always able to get the 10s in indiedom, will be at my bday party Saturday and hopefully will school me (after feigning ignorance for 20 seconds).

The other thing we talked about, which my better, bigger brain is excited about, is a book about Sarah Records. Sarah, along with Factory and Creation, is one of THE British indie labels (the US stuff came much later), and if Factory warrants a film, surely Sarah warrants a book. John, amazingly, was on the label back when Aberdeen started. He pitched the idea to founder Matt, who was like, "No one cares." (Plus, Matt didn't have a single extra copy of his zine Are You Scared to Get Happy? for me to frame.) The thing is, having a bestseller bizarrely gives me huge writing cred--probably because so many people claim to be writers and so few have succeeded even remotely. This would be about as opposite from my last book as can be, but I am now totally obsessed with the idea and am going to make this happen. Coffee table size, $75, signed by dozens of label-mates, strict limited edition, an oral history of a label whose idea was always better than the music and hence lends itself to a book.