Josh Safdie's The Pleasure of Being Robbed was the only American film selected for this year's Director's Fortnight in Cannes. More than that, it's the Closing Night Film! Congratulations to Josh and the Red Bucket Films team.

If you live in Los Angeles, do yourself a favor and go see Jeff Nichols' masterful Shotgun Stories, which opens today at the Sunset 5. It is as ambitious and perfectly executed and hauntingly beautiful as a film can be, no matter the budget. See this movie!

Lastly, no matter where you live, do yourself an even bigger favor and watch the new R. Kelly video for "Hair Braider." To quote the honorable Craig Zobel in an email yesterday:

The more I know about him, the more I don't understand. Is he like Andy Kaufman? Are we gonna find out in ten years, that R. Kelly was just an elaborate character. That he's actually a guy named Thomas who went to the experimental theater program at Yale?

Seriously, there is no need to parody this man. He transcends parody. One day scientists and geologists and historians and psychotherapists will be able to explain exactly what he meant to the planet, but for now, just watch this thing and be glad that you are a 21st Century human being who has the power to appreciate it...

I arrived in sunny Sarasota yesterday at noon, only to be met by my smiling, beautiful girlfriend. Last year around this time, I was flying down here for the sole purpose of screening Silver Jew at the Sarasota Film Festival. This year, however, I have a much greater, more inexpressibly lovely purpose. I don't know what I did to deserve such a dreamy, perfect girlfriend, but I will take it.

It's funny. Up until six months ago, I retained my staunch, stubborn belief that the only way to fall in love was for it to be at first sight. I didn't believe people who said they had been friends with their mate for quite some time before deeper feelings blossomed. I thought that was flat-out impossible, and in a sadder sense, believed it was somehow correlated to an admission of defeat in the quest to find true, burning, magical love. But now, thinking back to how we looked at each other one year ago versus how we look at each other now, I have to confess: I was wrong. For the truth is that this love is infinitely healthier, stronger, and truer than anything I could have ever imagined.

As recently as a year ago, I wouldn't have been able to embrace and appreciate a situation such as this. I would have fucked it up somehow. But for once in my life, the timing feels absolutely right. I will always continue to be an insecure, afraid, and nervous little boy, but I am also of an age where I am able to dismiss those worried thoughts and feelings and not let them interfere with the glorious reality that has shown up at my front door like the most amazing UPS shipment ever.

I know how gay (in a playground sense) all of this sounds, and it is. So I'll leave it at that. But I did want to give one last shout-out to the evil emperor they call Long Distance Love. Hey, L.D.L., guess what? We beat you, you sorry son of a bitch. Suck it 'til the sun don't shine!

***And now Boredom at Its Boredest will return to its regular cinematic roots. This year's Sarasota line-up is particularly strong, and I have already begun some pre-festival screening, so I hope to provide daily content between here and Hammer to Nail that will give you some cinema-centric edutainment as opposed to more corny and embarrassing personal disclosures that should be saved for my bedside journal. Sorry about this, but if you were feeling like I'm feeling you'd be proud of me for not writing posts like this every single day.***

For those of you who have seen Caroline Suh's FrontRunners, you are already well acquainted with the force of nature that is George Zisiadis. George is now a college freshman at Harvard who wants to land an exclusive summer internship with marketing guru Seth Godin. As part of his quest, he has started his own blog, The Exchange! George, His Mullet, and an Internship With Seth Godin, in which he discusses the multitudinous facets of the mullet, and in which he promises to cut off his mullet if he procures the internship.

If you are on Facebook, follow the links on George's blog to join his new mullet group, and keep checking back for more illuminating posts by Mr. Zisiadis. Go, George, go!

First off, since this is supposed to be a film-centric website, I feel it is my duty to point you all in the direction of tonight's 8pm screening of Tom Quinn's The New Year Parade at the IFC Center. I finally got a chance to see it in Austin and think it has some of the best non-actor performances I've seen in quite some time (most notably Jennifer-Lynn Welsh). Mike Ryan wrote a thoughtful review over at Hammer to Nail that you should read.

But enough about movies. This weekend was all about college fucking basketball. Here are some thoughts/highlights/notes from watching four full days of tournament action...

--Apparently I don't listen to my parents, because it wasn't until midway through the West Virginia/Duke game that I realized WVU's spark plug, Joe Alexander, actually went to my high school! That's right, Linganore High School in Frederick, Maryland. When I played basketball there we certainly didn't have any Division I ready talent, let alone someone who would swat shots and bark in opponents' faces. The fact that it was Duke made the revelation all the more incredible. Hooray for Joe Alexander!

--The unexpected flash cut to Adam Morrison at the end of the Gonzaga/Davidson game had me flooded with thoughts of Swedish black metal and Columbine and I don't know what. At the time, I didn't realize he was wearing a sweat jacket. It looked like a full-on fucking trenchcoat! Either way, he looks like Billy Crudup playing Damien Echols in the big-screen adaptation of Paradise Lost. Terrifying, but terrifyingly awesome. Here, see for yourself...

--Speaking of Duke, it was hard for me to feel legitimate mocking glee in their loss, for I can't shake the feeling that their program has seriously declined in a broader sense. Watching that team, I didn't feel like I was watching an ACC powerhouse. They look like Krzywwenwnuwhhheiuwhiuwh's old school, High Point. Don't get me wrong, they suck and are awful and it's hilarious that they pooped out early once again, but I don't feel the burning hatred that I used to feel for them.

--As for burning hatred, I have to say, for me the new Duke is UCLA. They are talented and arrogant enough to really make me despise their every win. For those of you who don't know anything about this stuff and think sports are stupid compared to music, let me explain. Supreme penis Mike Love, Beach Boys frontman, is the uncle of UCLA's star freshman, Kevin Love. The exceptionally gifted freshman Love has also seemed to inherit his uncle's exceptional air of maddening cockiness. Saturday night's game was a true heartbreaker, and reeks of one of those near-death experiences that helps to create a National Champion. (Note: As much as I hate UCLA, I have them losing in the final to Kansas.)

--Along those lines, why is nobody obliterating Ben Howland for having one of the most athletic and quickest teams and continuing to play slow-down, half-court basketball? All they did was turn it on a tiny bit in the end and they had A&M reeling. It's like Howland is committed to this bruiser style of half-court ball, but when you have a ridiculously quick squad, it feels unethical and stupid and wrong to not push-push-push for all forty minutes. Is this not glaringly obvious to anyone else?

--Watching head coaches Bo Ryan and Frank Martin go head to head in the Wisconsin/Kansas State game was like witnessing two crystal meth-fueled cops battle over who was responsible for cracking the high profile case. Those dudes should be forced to wear sunglasses. Their maniacal, poked out eyeball glares are absolutely insane and frighten me through the television. I can only imagine getting pulled over by someone like that late at night.

--It's always uncomfortable when the announcers have to plug next week's lineup of dumb-ass sitcoms. Usually, there's a moment of silence before the other announcer returns to talk of basketball. But every now and then one of them tries to overstep his bounds and discuss something related to the show, bridging that gap and maybe even sounding 'hip' in the process. This weekend resulted in my all-time favorite example of this. More specifically, why this is a dangerous, bad idea. I forget which game it was, and which announcer it was, but it went like this: The main announcer was talking about the hee-lar-ee-uss upcoming episode of Two and a Half Men. When he finished, there was a pause, at which point the other announcer said, as if thinking out loud and not considering what he was saying: "I wonder what college Charlie Sheen went to?" After an uncomfortable, awkward pause, he added, once again not seeming to consider what he was saying: "Ah, he probably didn't go to college." Genius.

--Do people who watch college basketball really buy that many cars? I don't watch television so I don't know anything about commercials anymore, but after four days of serious TV action I was stunned at the repetition in advertising and the nearly exclusive devotion to automobiles in CBS' March Madness advertising. Just a thought.

Six of my Sweet Sixteen teams are gone, but I'm still alive in the Final Four and beyond. While I'm glad there is a break in action, I'll also be ready to get it on come Thursday night.

Speaking of getting it on, I'm leaving New York City tomorrow until the end of May. So long, suckas!

Hopefully today's games will be better than yesterday's, but the fact remains that March Madness is here and I'm happy to put cinema aside to appreciate the true, visceral drama of college basketball, which, at its best, can be better than the very best movie. Many of you would scoff at that suggestion, but it's true.

Go U.M.B.C.!!!

After watching Maryland destroy Duke at 7pm tonight, be sure to flip over to PBS to watch the final two parts of PBS' acclaimed African American Lives 2 (9pm, East Coast). Tonight's first hour (Part 3) is especially exciting as it was directed and produced by none other than my gooder-than-good friend Jesse Sweet. I saw a nearly final cut a few weeks ago with a temp voice-over (you're no Skip Gates, Mr. Sweet), and I found it to be a fascinating and captivating document. This show is a true television event. I highly recommend that you and yours watch it. So do it! Visit the show's official website here.

My grandmother is dying. She's in her mid-eighties and she's lived a long life, but she is on her way out. Nothing can change that. This is my mother's mother, who grew up near us in the DC area (my father's mother passed almost ten years ago and lived in Ireland, so I only met her a few times). Since Christmas, she has deteriorated rapidly, to the point where I don't know if my arrival in Maryland on Monday or Tuesday will be too late. I'm hoping it won't be. Anyway, within the past few weeks my parents have relocated her to a nursing home very close to their house. But every day brings more somber news. The strain on my mother, an only child who lost her father when she was just sixteen, is extremely heavy. But she's hanging in there.

Flash to last night. Towards the end of one of the most exhausting days of recent memory (painting non-stop from 9am to 9:30pm), I called my mom to remind her to watch my good friend Jesse Sweet's African-American Lives on PBS at nine (though his episode doesn't air until next week). She seemed distracted at first and then informed me that she was in the midst of watching the Maryland/Boston College game online, because they weren't airing it on local television for some absurd reason. (Let it be known that the absurdity of the following dialogue didn't hit me until after I had gotten off the phone. In the moment, it was perfectly normal and natural.) And now, I present to you, an example of fandom that is destined to go down in history as one of the all-time greats...

INT. BEDROOM -- NIGHT

MARY ANN is sitting at her computer, watching the Maryland/Boston College game on the internet ticker as it builds to a very dramatic finish. While this is happening, she is talking to her son, Michael, on the telephone, giving him a sorrowful progress report on her mother's/his grandmother's impending collapse.

MARY ANN: (somber) So, I don't think Grandma's gonna make it to Easter, even. She's just... (excited) GET THAT REBOUND!!!!... (somber) She's in the hospice and she's weak and not eating anything and... (more excited) OH, HE MISSED, GET IT!!!!!... (somber) You and Karen might be the last to see her alive... (excited) THEY FOULED HIM!!!! GOOD!!!! (somber) And she's not really alert... (excited) THAT'S IT, GIST!!!! HE JUST HIT A FREE THROW!!!!

Once the game is safely in the Terrapins' hands, Mary Ann relaxes.

FADE OUT.

I write this not to expose how weird my mother is. I write it for many reasons, which I will list right now:

1) If you ever see me acting strangely over a Maryland Terrapins basketball game, now you know where that passion comes from.

2) There is such a fine line between sorrow and hilarity, and it is at times like these when laughs are the most vital and necessary.

3) I will miss my grandmother, but death is inevitable and her ultimate release will take an incredibly heavy load off my mom, as strange as that sounds.

4) Maryland won another game!

The funniest part to me is that as it was happening I thought nothing of it. It wasn't until I hung up the phone and returned to my quiet brain that I realized how beautifully bizarre that juxtaposition was. I can't think of a better way to celebrate the complexicatedness of life than by sharing this story with the world.

Since getting back from Park City, my life has been on-da-muhfukkin-GO, yo. I moved into a new place, only to discover that very day that I have landed my dream room at Marlborough Farms, which I have admired from afar (and sometimes inside) for the past ten years. Now, if and when I leave New York City, I can say that I fully lived it up in style because on March 1st I will officially be a house member at the Farms. (Most of you don't know what I'm talking about. You indie music nerds, on the other hand, should.) It wasn't fun to break the news to my new roommates, but they are sweet and understanding, so I lucked out.

Everyone needs to buy the Quiet City/Dance Party USA DVD.

The SXSW lineup looks crazy cool, and now that I have officially watched Mary Bronstein's Yeast all the way through, I can safely say that it is one of the most exciting and electrifying feature film debuts you will see this year. I can't believe my clumsy hands shot so much of the footage. I've never been more excited to be a part of something in my life. Like the best Mike Leigh (Nuts in May, etc.), Yeast is simultaneously excruciating and hilarious. When we shot it I didn't know if the thing would be unbearable, but there's a humanity to Mary Bronstein's vision (and performance) that turns a horrendously off-putting character into someone you simply can't believe exists. She makes Margot look like your sweet ol' Grandma. But somehow it's always fascinating and never annoying. I don't know how Mary pulled this thing off. Even the supporting performances are incredible, every single one of them. The biggest compliment I can give Mary Bronstein is that she wrote, directed, and starred in almost every single moment of a film and yet it feels like a completely selfless venture. Independent directors, take note. Yes, Mary Bronstein is a female, and if you want to say that this is the most exhilarating female directorial debut in recent memory go ahead. I'll simply say that it's one of the most exhilarating directorial debuts period. Fuckin' Ronnie and Mary Bronstein. Settle down. You're nice, you're a cute couple, and you make insanely thrilling work. Jerks!

I haven't been blogging because I've been busy house painting. Ben Crum and I are the one-and-only Nice & Smooth Painting Company. Spread the word, because as tired as I am at the end of each day, I love doing this kind of work. And we're getting pretty good at it, too.

In two days and twenty minutes I will be descending an escalator and seeing a face that might make me release yellow all down my drawers.

Did you vote today? You should have.

Don't think that the minimal posting over at Hammer to Nail means we're slowing down. We're just getting started.

Good night.

I got back to New York City tonight and as soon as I stepped outside, I knew that I was right. It is at least 2.5 times colder than Sundance was. It's the motherfucking wind. I hate the wind. It makes me want to punch things. Aside from that first Thursday night getting to and fro the indieWIRE condo gathering, the weather in Park City was surprisingly comfortable for me. Or maybe that's just because I was warmed by the presence of my impossibly perfect girlfriend. I don't know what I did to deserve her, but I'm going to do whatever I can to keep her. I've been fluffy about corny relationship stuff on this site before and I thought I'd learned my lesson by now, but I also thought that I'd never feel this way again, and now that I'm feeling it stronger than I've ever felt it before (for this one is r-e-a-l), I must express it. Never in my life have the head and heart and body been so perfectly intertwined. I didn't think it was possible. Apparently it is. Now if only we could figure out a way to live less than a thousand miles away from each other everything would be fine. Yes, my friends, I am truly, madly, deeply in love. But I promise that this is the last of it you will hear. I just wanted you to know. Do not hate me. Be happy for me. Holly, Holly, Holly, Holly, Holly is her name. Lucky, Lucky, Lucky, Lucky, Lucky is mine.

Clearly my week in Park City was a dreamy time. But I wasn't just there to hold hands and be ditzy-in-love with my impossibly perfect girlfriend. I had a job to do. And do it I did. I only went out on Main St. two nights early in the week, and even then I kept my debaucherous tendencies in check. I know that watching a butt-ton of movies sounds like a breezy, easy job, but it's not. Even when the movies are exceptional. This week, I saw twenty-eight titles, and I can safely say that at least sixty percent of them were unexceptional (like, shockingly so). It's unfair to filmmakers to have their work screened in this high-pressure environment, because a critic can't help but become more impatient and critical when she is on her sixth movie of the day. But that cramped schedule aside, some of these movies were just really, really awful.

But not all of them were awful! All of a sudden I'm having trouble keeping my eyes open, so I think I'm gonna cut this short. I'll write a more thorough wrap-up later. For now, read my official review of Azazel Jacob's Momma's Man over at Hammer to Nail. If you are anywhere near Rotterdam, make sure to check it out! I haven't heard anything about this, but I'd bet my left pinky nail that Momma's Man will be at this year's New Directors/New Films. If it isn't, I give up once again.

Tomorrow morning I'm back to my real life as an apartment painter. Livin' the dream, y'all, livin' the goddamn dream...

You've been waiting for it. Here it is. Ladies and gentlemen, I present to you the second best show on television, just a few tiny inches behind The Wire. That show is called:

Love Always, CHARLESTON

It's The Days of Our Lives meets Trapped in the Closet. It might be better than that. It might not be. Only time--and more viewings--will tell. For now, all I can do is watch.

A bit of an explanation. Love Always, CHARLESTON is a cable access soap opera that is shot in Atlanta and Charleston. It airs every weekday at 4:30 in those two very lucky communities. I watched my first live episode today, and it left me breathless. One character's wireless mic was displayed prominently in a close-up, one scene was shot with no regard for the 180 degree rule, and as for the dialogue and acting... well, a mere mortal like myself cannot do justice to the experience of witnessing it with one's very own eyes. So how can you do that? Thank Christ Almighty for the world wide web, that's how. Do yourself a favor and visit the film's official website and MySpace page right fucking now to watch several clips of magic. If this doesn't make your impending weekend about fourteen trillion times better than it was just two or three minutes ago, perhaps you should consider skipping off a bridge.

When I finally finished fine tuning and posting my "The Year in Film: 2007" wrap-up earlier this week, I had this crushing sense of embarrassment, like I had just wasted a lot of time on something completely insignificant. But I'm here to thank everyone for all of your incredibly kind words. It even makes me feel like the effort was justified. My first thought after posting it was, "I'll never do that again," but now I'm not so sure. I can't deny who I am. I love movies. I am a nerd. I will continue to be who I am in 2008. If you can't take the steaming passion for cinema that Boredom at its Boredest generates, then crawl up out the kiln and chew on some ice cubes, ya bozacks!

Um, yeah. Anyway, if I may take the cue of the few kind bloggers out there who linked to my piece, I would like to link to a piece on another site. My Cocaine Angel partner-in-crime, Damian Lahey, wrote this remarkably honest piece for Indie Slate about how difficult it is to exist as a truly independent filmmaker. This should be handed out in film schools all over the country on the first day of class. Mandatory reading for anyone who is about to embark on the brave, terrifying journey of low-budget filmmaking. Bravo, Damian. And, don't worry, you'll make another movie.

I am writing to you from the abnormally chilly--yet still much warmer than the mid-Atlantic and beyond--world of Sarasota, Florida. It's very nice. And while I would love to write about my most recent revelation, one which might honestly change my life forever, I am going to wait until I arrive in Charleston, South Carolina on Tuesday, where I will be mansion-sitting with my sisters on Kiawah Island. At that point, my life will be 100% devoted to this revelation. You'll understand when I unleash the genius. For now, sit tight!

Until then, I imagine all of you out there are as excited for Sunday night's premiere of The Wire: Season 5 as I am. Sarasota isn't my town, but I have located a residence with HBO, which is where I'll be at 9pm to sit back and experience the final season of tragic magic set in the city where I rung in 2008: Bal'more!

It's hard not to call in sick to life and waste the entire day microscopically dissecting the 2007 indieWIRE Critics' Poll, but that will have to wait for another day (don't get me wrong, I just spent at least thirty minutes poking around, but I'm talking about dissecting it). I know there are thousands of you out there saying, "Well, yes, there seems to be a lot of interesting input, but where is Boredom at Its Boredest's comprehensive The Year in Film: 2007 wrap-up???" I'm here to assure you that it's coming, and it promises to be as ridiculously thorough as last year's. Maybe even more so. Yes, I know I'm a nerd. Thanks for reminding me.

Unfortunately, today is going to be devoted to packing and (hopefully) storing my shit in the basement at my current digs, which is a sad day indeed. I wish I could live here forever, but a change had to be made. Tomorrow begins a low-key jaunt to Maryland and beyond, at which point I hope to relax, make music, and write more words. But I'll be back in NYC by mid-January, in order to figure out where in the hell I'm going to be living by February 1st. Thanks to everyone for forwarding me room/apartment leads. Please keep doing that, as I've yet to solidify anything except my current state of confusion. I've got that shit on lock down.

One final note of inspiration. I've decided to embark on a stoopid musical experiment called "Netflix Songs," which basically consists of me writing songs while watching movies at home. If it's something I really care about, I won't interfere with the experience by picking up a guitar, but I'm talking things like APOCALYPTO and BREACH and HALLOWEEN. And I'm not talking about something as outright hokey as plot songs (though maybe I'll throw one or two in there), I'm just trying to see if I can condense the mood or atmosphere of these movies into three-ish minute ditties. Anyway, I wrote one that other day that I thought had a lot of potential, but when I looked at the scribbled lyrics yesterday I simply couldn't remember the chords or melody. My current state of stress and confusion had blocked my ability to recall it. Too much going on. But I knew it was in there. And I knew that it was something I wanted back pretty badly. I spent all day and night trying to recall it, but my constipated brain space kept getting in the way. Anyway, this morning, I woke up, cleared my brain as much as possible, and after only a few seconds, it appeared. Suck it, stress and confusion. "Netflix Songs" is back!

Some of you may know that I'm moving out of my swank digs at the end of this month. With my current lack of one solid steady job (this week I have three different ones), the monthly strain of paying the rent has begun to annoy and exhaust me. Of course, the bills do get paid, I just feel like it shouldn't be this difficult. That's why, after many weeks of deliberating, I decided to take the plunge and move out. A major shame, because my current situation is pretty incredible, but it's just too pricey. Or I figured that if I did want to continue paying around a thousand dollars a month in rent, I could do that and live alone. However, my hope is to continue to live with other people, just on a much cheaper scale.

So here I am to put out a public plea. If you have heard of any rooms available in or around Fort Greene, Park Slope, and Kensington, please let me know. Beggars can't be choosers, but I would really love to be living in these parts of Brooklyn if at all possible.

One other potential issue is that I'm hoping to move in on February 1st, not January 1st, as I'm going to be away from NYC from December 22nd until at least January 18th. It would be great to relieve the burden of rent for at least one month, if at all possible.

If you hear of anything, let me know sooner than later. I'd love to find a reasonable situation paying somewhere between 600 and 750 a month. Again, the situation will dictate this, but that's my ideal plan.

Thanks!

Ladies and gentlemen, I hope your lights are turned on and you aren't the only one home. Ken Create has coined the art of Creative Dance, and while his intentions were almost certainly innocent, noble, and clever, why do I feel like I just woke up in a dark and musty New Jersey garage, unclothed, gagged, and sore all over?

Yesterday afternoon, while on the A train, I had an experience like none other in my decade of riding the subway. Normally, when the doors close and the train begins its slow crawl out of the station, there is one distinct voice that emerges. It's either a poor person asking for change, or a musician breaking into song, or dancers getting funky, or a kid selling candy. In all my time riding the subway, I have never been in a car in which simultaneous spiels erupted at the exact same time. I suspect that these individuals are hypersensitive to that potential conflict, and wait on the platform before the train arrives, making sure they will be the only performer in that particular car. But yesterday, that didn't happen.

I was standing a few feet away from a beggar who was so afflicted with cerebral palsy (or something with a similarly dramatic physical effect) that he could barely control his body. As he boarded the train, he apologized to people in order to find a place where he could begin. And just when he started to speak, in an extremely distorted voice that I won't begin to phonetically transcribe for fear of sounding insensitive, he was interrupted by another louder, clearer, more confident voice from the other end of the car. This voice belonged to a teenager who was selling candy for a dollar. When this poor man heard the kid begin to speak, he stopped in mid-sentence and said, with a heartbreakingly retarded voice filled with epic defeat, "Oh, give me a fucking break!"

Here's this guy who clearly hadn't had the best string of luck in the world, and now he was competing with a kid who was handing people candy when they handed him money. All this guy had to offer was a deformed thank you.

When it happened, everyone on the train burst into sympathetic laughter, for it was impossible not to feel that poor man's pain, but it was also flat-out hi-lar-i-ous. The best part is that the man seemed to have a sense of humor about it himself, muttering something about how he couldn't catch a break as he made his way towards another car where I'm sure all of us prayed that he might find a tiny glimmer of luck.

Life... it's fan-tas-tic!

I just finished rereading THE COLLECTED STORIES OF RICHARD YATES, which never fails to deliver. With the knowledge that Sam Mendes is brutalizing REVOLUTIONARY ROAD and also the realization that there is an adaptation of THE EASTER PARADE in the works (perhaps an even worse idea, cinematically speaking), I wanted to devise my own way to pay tribute to Yates on the big screen. After stirring on that one for a while, I had a strong hunch that the answer might lie somewhere within the sad and tragic world of his short stories. After reading story after story and thinking the same thing--"brilliant, but better left on the page"--I had a minor epiphany along the way. I actually have an idea of combining a few of the similarly situated short stories, ala SHORT CUTS, that could result in something striking and profound. Rather than humiliate myself even further by expounding on that epiphany--I might as well retitle this site "More Useless Daydreaming About Ideas That I Will Never Actually Realize"--I figured I'd at least post the quotes I pulled from the collection, to get you feeling extra happy and hopeful for the holiday season:

"A man could drive himself crazy trying to psychoanalyze himself in the middle of Lexington Avenue, in the middle of the afternoon." (A Glutton for Punishment)

"He almost never lied, and it always surprised him to discover how easy it could be." (A Glutton for Punishment)

"And great God, what a sickly, intricate thing a writer’s heart is!" (Builders)

"Girls. Would they always drive you crazy? Would their smiles of rejection always drop you into despair and their smiles of welcome lead only into new, worse, more terrible ways of breaking your heart?" (A Natural Girl)

“Harry had cried because he wanted his mother to leave him alone; Russell had cried because he didn’t—and therein lay the very definition of a mother’s boy.” (Trying Out For the Race)

“’Oh, I don’t think anybody in the whole world ever wants to be alone at night. Do you?’” (Liars in Love)

“’When you’re old, you want so much for the people you love to be happy.’” (Liars in Love)

“How miserably premature could a premature ejaculation be?” (A Compassionate Leave)

"Had anybody yet confessed to being dismayed and bewildered and bored by this whole fucking place, and lonely as a bastard too?" (A Compassionate Leave)

“We had been married at ages we both now considered too young, and for reasons we both now considered inadequate.” (Regards at Home)

“’How can you be a father,’ he asked, ‘when you still look like a son?’” (Regards at Home)

“’If your life’s ready to fall apart, it’ll fall apart anywhere.’” (Regards at Home)

“He assumed he’d be able to find a better place and perhaps even a better life when his book came out, but he was mistaken: though it won general praise, the novel sold so poorly that only a scant brief trickle of money came in during the whole of its first year in print.” (Saying Goodbye to Sally)

“All the way home—and the ride seemed to take no time at all in the new-fallen darkness of this still and fragrant night—he wanted to laugh aloud because this was the way things should always have been in his life; this was pretty nice: good money coming in, a weekend coming up, and a girl coming out to love him at the shore of the Pacific Ocean.” (Saying Goodbye to Sally)

“All his life, it now seemed, he had spoiled things for himself by worrying too soon.” (Saying Goodbye to Sally)

“You could drive yourself crazy taking little things so hard; he would have to pull himself together.” (A Convalescent Ego)

Yesterday's bus ride to Maryland wasn't nearly as memorable as this one, but it began with some genuine weight. I wisely arrived almost forty minutes early to make sure I had a decent seat (when we pulled away every seat was taken). As I was getting settled, a woman a few rows in front of me started a conversation with a girl across from her. It was the woman's first time in New York City, and she was still buzzing from having taken the plunge. She came from my hometown, Frederick, and made the nerve-wracking journey to meet a man she'd met online. I can't convey this in one paragraph, but suffice to say, this exchange was one of the most fragile, heartbreaking, and human things I've experienced in a long time. There was no irony or condescension in my appreciation of this woman's plight. She had been dating online for over three years, and finally thought she'd found a "good one." But listening to the situation from a few rows back, it gave me an objectivity that she couldn't see. Her deep, sincere wish to find someone was clouding the frank realities of the situation (the long distance problem, they still didn't really know each other, etc.). It stirred me unexpectedly, yet it also inspired me. For it reminded me that this is the world that I want to represent on film, a world that is profoundly human, an indescribable blend of ugly and pretty, sad and funny, hopeful and hopeless. Life is all of those things at the exact same time, and that has become my primary mission as a filmmaker, whether it be fiction, non-fiction, short, or whatever.

It's perhaps fitting, then, that the Netflix rental I chose to watch last night was Ermanno Olmi's classic IL POSTO, which does the aforementioned things and a whole lot more. I have to confess, I felt a hearty letdown when I realized that the romance had reached an earlier conclusion than I had expected, but of course that was the point of the film. Adulthood arrives, and those magic feelings become nothing more than fading memories. Thanks to Brendan McFadden for making me bump IL POSTO to the top of my queue. It really is one of the greats.

Aside from seeing my nieces, and my parents' food, I had one other very important reason to return to Maryland:

I'm worried that tonight might get really, really ugly, as the Terps play number two UCLA. While UCLA will be without Darren Collison, they are completely loaded and have one of the best freshman in the country, Kevin Love. If that last name rings a bell, yes, it's true. Kevin Love is the nephew of former Beach Boys frontman and absolute douche bag, Mike Love. I'm surprised that the offspring of such a douche bag wouldn't go to Duke, but it actually sounds like Kevin Love didn't inherit his uncle's douche bag-like tendencies. I guess all of that is to say that I'm terrified for what might happen tonight.

Go.... Terps..... Please..... Don't.... Be..... Too.... Ugly.....

In my current state of shameful unemployment, I had an admittedly desperate, but potentially interesting, thought. Though this might seem like a humiliating step to take, I've thought it over and decided that it's worth a shot. If anything, it's an interesting experiment. Or at least that's what I'm telling myself.

While walking around for the past several days wondering why I can't seem to figure out a way to get paid for my creative outlets--seriously, it's like there's a block on anything that I write that renders payment a ridiculous impossibility--I came back to this site time and again. And then it hit me. Why not try to get paid for all the writing I do here?

Of course, I’m not going to turn Boredom at its Boredest into a pay-only site, for that would be ludicrous and idiotic. The fact remains, however, that I have devoted many, many, many hours of 2007 trying to spotlight some of the things that inspire and excite me. So I came up with an idea, which was inspired by Radiohead’s novel concept (and now Saul Williams). If you can say yes to any of the following questions, keep reading the below paragraph. If not, don’t bother. The questions are, as follows:

-- Did you read this site on a somewhat regular basis in 2007?

-- Did my words entertain/engage/enlighten you in any way?

-- Has reading this site turned you on to something that you otherwise hadn’t heard about (a movie, a musician, a book, etc.)?

Okay, that’s all I’ve got. But I think that’s enough. If you can answer yes to any/all of those questions, then why not let me know by compensating me for all of my hard work. I’m not talking major compensation. I’m talking between five and ten dollars, or whatever you think it warrants (I wouldn’t suggest more than that, but who knows what kind of swollen bank accounts some of you have out there). It’s just about the end of 2007. Why not take a few moments to think back on all the funny, witty, clever, impossibly brilliant posts you read on this site since January 1st of this year, and let me know that you don’t think my writing is a complete waste of my time. Because while I’ll certainly keep posting on a consistent basis, in these major bouts of confusion it always seems to me like I’m devoting too much useless energy to this kind of writing.

There, I did it. In one sense, a pathetic plea. In another sense, a very reasonable one. And just in case you think I wouldn’t return the favor by contributing to many of my favorite sites out there, think again. I would gladly do that--provided those individuals stoop to my level and put out a general plea as I’ve just done here.

You can contribute by going to Paypal and donating to mynameismichaeltully-AT-hotmail, or if you don’t do the credit card/bank account thing, write me for my mailing address and send something to me that way.

In all seriousness, it would be a real thrill if I could make a major dent on my December bills with money that I earned by expressing myself on this website. That said, don’t feel guilty about not contributing (not that you would). I’m just intrigued to see how this plays out. And you can mark my words, I won’t do this type of plea for at least another year!

The next presidential election is looking as embarrassingly bleak as the last one. Is there ever going to be a candidate who transcends party lines and cuts through the politics to address universal human issues that matter to those of us who aren't stubborn conservatives or condescending liberals? Because democrats need to realize that none of their candidates have enough cylinders firing to win over the other side. The same goes for the red guys. It's the same fucking shit as last time, a grab bag of play-by-the-book blandness that blurs together into one boring, robotic suit. It's disgusting, and it makes me not want to care.

So who am I voting for, then? Ladies and gentlemen, my vote for the next president of the United States of America is this person.

No, I'm not kidding.

It doesn't make much sense for me to participate in Stu VanAirsdale's Totally Unrelated Blog-a-Thon, because about sixty percent of the time this site is already a Totally Unrelated Blog-a-Thon. Okay, maybe forty percent, but still, anyone who checks in here even somewhat frequently knows that I write about subjects that have nothing to do with cinema, whether it be my own heartbreak or college basketball or music or who knows what else (I was going to link to past posts here but the thought of rereading them almost made me brown my boxers). But I'm going to rise to Mr. The Reeler's challenge anyway. And so, let us begin with our first installment...

Here's a poem I wrote when I used to write poems:

Vacation Days

We read thick books by the broken moonlight,
And laid like cadavers under the swollen sunlight.

I caught stunned fish for breakfast.

We listened to the endless wash of waves,
And grinned as the breeze spun the world through the sky.

The grill glowed like a dollhouse sunset.

We spoke to no one, and watched nothing,
And promised not to ever wake up.

Our drinks clinked like xylophones.

We stayed behind to witness the hurricane,
Ignoring the sirens that begged us to flee.

You laughed like a giddy tornado.

We awoke the next morning and knew it was over,
As harsh sunrays burned through the glass.

Our zippers dragged like sad violins.

Nothing personal CMJ, but I'm leaving town this year and won't be able to appreciate you. Because of that, I've done no real investigating into who's playing. However, I do have a few recommendations for y'all...

Union Hall is the place to be this week. Wednesday night catch The Ladybug Transistor, The Rosebuds, and others. Saturday night check out The Mugs. But, most importantly, Friday night is your latest chance to see Ola Podrida, who are scheduled to go on at eight o'clock. Earlier in the day, David is playing a solo acoustic set at Piano's at 1:30, so you should check that out too. Hopefully by then he'll have recovered from last night's debaucherous session of Kuntry Karaoke at Hank's Saloon. My head is still pounding. O-u-c-h.

Don't forget that CMJ also has films screening as part of the festival. If you have to see only one Bob Dylan movie, I command you to skip I'M NOT THERE and instead see Murray Lerner's electrifying THE OTHER SIDE OF THE MIRROR: BOB DYLAN LIVE AT THE NEWPORT FOLK FESTIVAL 1963-1965. Even though it's coming out on DVD this month, it deserves a theatrical viewing (Thursday, IFC Center, 11:15am). And if you think you've seen all the footage before, you haven't. Seventy percent of it is brand spankin' new. And it is all very, very, very good. It's almost incomprehensible to watch Dylan transform from a seemingly shy, innocent Midwesterner into an evasive, otherworldly presence in the span of three years. Must see viewing!

I'd also like to recommend Bob Ray's really interesting HELL ON WHEELS (Friday, IFC Center, 11am), which profiles the recent rebirth of the roller derby phenomenon. It's somehow fitting that it all started back in 2001 in Austin, Texas, with a bunch of rowdy females who were determined to turn a seeming pipedream into a bone-snapping reality. And when i say bone-snapping, I mean bone-s-h-a-t-t-e-r-i-n-g. There's an injury in the movie that makes Joe Theisman's leg break look like a joke. But the film isn't all just an action-packed thrill ride. A majority of it focuses on the complicated struggles these women went through to legitimize their sport, trying to learn the laws and regulations and not kill each other in the process. Years later, the roller derby phenomenon has spread like wildfire, and there appears to be no end in sight.

Also, DARIUS GOES WEST (Friday, Tribeca Cinemas, 12pm) is a crowd-pleaser if there ever was one. Those guys are all great, so you should support their movie too!

Lastly, in non-CMJ cinematic events, Ti West's TRIGGER MAN opens at the Pioneer Theater. To be honest, this film worked more for me in theory than it did in execution, but there's something about it that proves West knows what he's doing.

Peace out, New York. I'll see ya next time I see ya...

Saturday night was as inspiring as a night can get. Of Montreal played to a packed house at Roseland and had the entire place dancing and cheering for the duration of their hit-packed ninety minute set (for those of you keeping score, yes, that was Craig Zobel on stage during the dramatic fight scene!). Every time they blow through NYC I think, "It can't get any bigger than this," yet each time they manage to shatter their previous exploits. This time was no exception. I witnessed the spectacle from above, and it had my head spinning. Jamey played the drums more than he has recently, which needs to keep happening, because it keeps the sonic presentation more organic and fresh. I remember many years ago when the band first went to Japan. Kevin's brother Dave recounted how Kevin had the entire crowd cheering along and dancing at the post-show party and Dave thought it was great to see his brother getting the recognition that he so deserved, since it didn't appear that they were going to break out in the States in any major way. Or maybe we both were just worried that Kevin's genius would slip through the cracks. Fortunately, the other night confirmed that supernatural talent, an insane work ethic, and an unflinching commitment to one's true calling, well, put those three things together and the world will eventually take notice. Which it has. I can't wait to see what happens next. Madison Square Garden? Bring it on! After the show, we all headed to super-producer Lisa Muskat's for an impromptu after-party. It made me very happy to see how humbled and excited Kevin was by the show (which he said was the biggest indoor show they've ever played with them being the main attraction). Somehow, I feel like Kevin Barnes is just getting started. Settle down, hotshot.

Before that, Todd Rohal and his lady friend and I went to see Paul Schneider in LARS AND THE REAL GIRL. Check out this LA Weekly article about Paul. It definitely captures his feisty spirit. As for the movie itself... hmm. Kinda like MANNEQUIN meets WEEKEND AT BERNIE'S meets GOOD WILL HUNTING meets THE STATION AGENT meets a Big Pile of Poop. But the theater was just about filled up and everyone seemed to like it. Really??? Lea said that in the ladies' room after the movie all of the women, young and old, were talking about Paul and how handsome he was. Nice! As for the movie itself, be very careful out there.

Speaking of Todd Rohal, I have seen (and seen and seen and seen and seen) the latest installment in the Ola Podrida video project. His video for "Lost and Found" might very well be my Favorite Music Video Ever. I'm not exaggerating. If all goes well, it should be hitting Pitchfork and other music blogs within the next few days. I'll let you guys know when it happens for sure. I'm actually going to watch it again right now. It's indescribable and incredible and a ton of other words like that.

I have also seen a short film that will be wowing festival audiences everywhere next year. It's called THE ADVENTURE, and was written and directed by Mike Brune, star of Alex Orr's batshit insane BLOOD CAR. The first day of the shoot, Bergman died. The second day of the shoot, Antonioni died. When you see it for yourself, you'll understand why this doesn't just feel like a coincidence, it feels like something much more omniscient and profound. It's a striking work on its own, but that connection elevates it into greatness.

Oh, one last thing. A hearty congratulations goes out to Jeff Nichols, whose SHOTGUN STORIES won the Grand Jury Prize at the Austin Film Festival. SHOTGUN STORIES is without a doubt one of the best films of the year, and is a remarkably assured debut. Like I said after I saw it in Newport, I don't think the movie has one false note. And I've also said this before, but Michael Shannon is a rare, special presence on the big screen. The world needs more Michael Shannon now, damn it!

Two years ago on this very day, at an NYFF press screening at Alice Tully Hall, I experienced the magic that is Philippe Garrel's REGULAR LOVERS. The film moved me in a way that doesn't happen very often, and now that two years have passed, I still consider it to be one of the decade's finest achievements.

But that wasn't the only thing that happened that day. Just before midnight, I took a train out to J.F.K. to begin what I still consider to be The Greatest Week of My Life. Now that two years have passed, I can confirm that this week was one for the ages.

I would like to pay honor to Garrel's film, as well as the glory that was my connection with The Prettiest Girl in The World, by reminding you to rewatch this clip. I could watch it forever and ever and never get bored.

Maybe I'll never feel that way again, but at least I felt it for a little while...

Here is an objective, matter-of-fact list of what I consumed this weekend (Saturday and Sunday). Is it just me, or is this is pretty majorly unhealthy? Or maybe I'm just being insecure. I dunno. You tell me...

INVENTORY OF CONSUMPTION:

10 piece buffalo wings (celery, carrots, blue cheese), 20oz. bottle 7Up, small bag peanut M&Ms, pulled pork sandwich, french fries, can of root beer, glass of lemonade Gatorade... (thus concludes Saturday)... apple, glass of lemonade Gatorade, two chocolate frosted donuts, one coffee Coolata, three cups coffee (with LOTS of sugar), one tall Hefeweissen, one medium popcorn (salt, no added butter), s-e-v-e-r-a-l more Hefeweissen, half of one Tecate can.

The fact that I played tennis for an hour and fifteen minutes with Jane doesn't matter, does it? No, I don't think that it does.

But why am I talking about that? Let us discuss SUPERBAD, the most pressing pop culture topic of conversation at the very moment...

SUPERBAD is superfuckinfunny. No question about that. I worry that I was a tad too overhyped and the thing felt much too sitcom-y for my tastes (it's your fault, Nate Meyer!), but the fact remains that I laughed my ass off and loved almost every single minute of it. Everyone I know who's seen it has focused their gushing attention on Michael Cera, who is on a completely different planet when it comes to the art of comic delivery. Kevin Bewersdorf said it best when he pointed out Cera's eyes and how his seemingly subtle glances and looks and whatevers are remarkably rare. They're indescribable, really. You don't direct that behavior. You cast an incredibly gifted young man and let him take it to a whole 'nother level. I want to see a Danny McBride/Michael Cera buddy movie. That would be like nothing the world has ever witnessed. It would be like a new human language. Let's make that happen, someone!

Until that does become a reality, I would like to point you in the direction of an early Michael Cera short, directed by Matthew Lessner, whose BY MODERN MEASURE might very well end up on my top ten list of 2007. Mr. Lessner's short is called DARLING DARLING, and it finds Cera in the mysterious zone between ARRESTED DEVELOPMENT and SUPERBAD. But as bizarre as the plot is, no one can deny that it is Michael Cera doing his Michael Cera thing. If you are even somewhat intrigued by Michael Cera--and if you're not don't bother trying to think that anything is funny--check out DARLING DARLING on iTunes. It will make you a more enlightened, entertained, baffled, impressed, intrigued, confused, and better person. Seriously, it will.

I just saw DANS PARIS finally. To be completely honest, it was a little too self-aware and a lot too jazz-scored for my 33-year-old self (at nineteen I would have totally dug it). Seriously, remove that score and I think my reaction would have been almost all the way different. That isn't to say that I don't recommend it. I'm a huge fan of Romain Duris and Louis Garrel, and there are many inspired moments. But as a whole, I found myself on the outside more than on the inside, so it didn't affect me the way that I hoped it would. In THE BEAT THAT MY HEART SKIPPED I couldn't stop comparing Duris to Paul Thomas Anderson, but with the beard in this thing it felt like I was watching SILVER JEW producer Matthew Robison speak with an incredibly convincing French accent.

Oh, I should also mention that seeing the trailers for QUIET CITY and the "New Talkies: Generation DIY" series got me incredibly excited. Congratulations to everyone who has put time and energy into shaping and building this program (C. Mason Wells, I'm talkin' about YOU). Not that I haven't supported and dug these movies for quite some time now, but watching those ads made me think, "This really IS a new wave of vital, relevant filmmaking that will make its way into the history books." Really, really, really good stuff. Next week should be an absolute blast. I can't wait for Wednesday night!

Before the pre-weekend wrap-up (that sounds like an oxymoron to me but I think it makes sense), I must do some more shameless COCAINE ANGEL plugging. It has come to my attention that the more people there are who request the film on Netflix by hitting the "Save" button on the film's page, the more orders will be placed for the film itself. So even if you don't plan on renting it but you do have a Netflix account, please go there and "Save" it into your queue. That would be a very nice thing to do!

Okay, now we can get to the good stuff. Friday night promises to be one of this summer's best, as The National are playing a free show at South Street Seaport at eight o'clock. I went to a show there last year, and it might very well be my favorite free outdoor music venue in NYC. I have David Wingo to thank for urging me to keep listening to "Boxer." While I was fine with it from the very beginning, it didn't really reach a special place for me until last week. It might honestly have been the eighth or ninth listen. But at one point it just c-l-i-c-k-e-d and I now consider it to be a bona fide epic. Funnily enough, the same thing happened to me with The Walkmen's "Bow + Arrows." At first I found it to be a tad repetitious and whiny, and then one day it just c-l-i-c-k-e-d and it now stands firmly as my definitive New York City record. The feeling I get from listening to "Bows + Arrows" is how I want people to feel when they walk out of DAYDREAM. But the more that I listen to "Boxer," the more perfect it becomes. Perhaps I just roll in environments with similar tastes, but if this week's chatting has been any indication, everyone in New York City is going to be at this show. I know I will be.

In cinematic news, the undeniably awesome (I mean that in the arcade sense) THE KING OF KONG: A FISTFUL OF QUARTERS makes its theatrical debut. I attended a special screening on Tuesday night at the AMC Empire, which was followed by a reception at Dave and Buster's where Steve Wiebe showcased his skills and I drank a mug of Coors Light that held as much beer as a party ball. Instead of writing a review of my own, I would rather point you in the direction of Alison Wilmore at the IFC Blog, who once again says it better than I ever could. Seriously, between Alison and David Lowery, I never have to try to express another opinion again. Thanks, guys!

I'm also rather amped for SUPERBAD, though I can't shake the desperate wish that THE PINEAPPLE EXPRESS was opening this weekend instead. But I'll take what I can get. I'm quite excited for it.

The End.

1am. Saturday night. Outside a deli on 7th Ave. in Park Slope. A guy is about to go inside, but at the last second he stops and turns to his girlfriend, who's waiting outside with her little dog:

Guy: "What genre of food do you want?"

For those of you who read this site and live in New York City, you stupid fuckers dropped a big, heavy ball on both of your feet by missing the Ham1/Liz Durrett show last night. Watching Jim Willingham and the crew rock out was like experiencing the thrill of Elephant Six in its heyday, when Neutral Milk Hotel, Elf Power, and Of Montreal played electrifying shows together and smeared big shiteating grins on the faces of everyone in the audience. It was a truly life-affirming spectacle, but more than anything it just straight-up rocked. I'm very, very, very disappointed that they won't be playing a Ham1 set tonight, but I still highly recommend checking out Liz Durrett at The Living Room at 9pm. Her voice is breathtaking, but she has the melodies and lyrics to back it up.

But before that, you have an appointment at the Anthology Film Archives at 6:30. I will say this as politely as possible: while you are an absolute idiot for missing Ham1 last night, if you don't attend the final screening of MAIDSTONE as part of the Norman Mailer retrospective, you should probably just give up right now. Give up writing, give up reading, give up watching, give up listening, give up everything. Seriously. Give up.

Everybody's goin' on about "Ingmar this," "Bergman that," "Swedish film master," "best director ever," blobbity-blobbity-blah. Well, I figured I'd weigh in with my own death tribute for those of you who, like me, spent most of the 1980s collecting football cards and watching the NFL. Peace out, Bill...

Thanks a lot, Danielle. Since it appears the other tagged individuals are actually stepping up to the plate, I guess I will too. Let it be known that I'm probably not in the best frame of mind to be participating in this exercise, but I'll do my best.

Rules:
1. We have to post these rules before we give you the facts.
2. Players start with eight random facts/habits about themselves.
3. People who are tagged write their own blog post about their eight things and include these rules.
4. At the end of your blog, you need to choose eight people to get tagged and list their names. Don’t forget to leave them a comment telling them they’re tagged and that they should read your blog.

EIGHT THINGS ABOUT MIKE THAT HE PROBABLY SHOULDN'T BE TELLING YOU

1. In fifth grade, I auditioned for the school talent show by singing REO Speedwagon's "I Can't Fight This Feeling Anymore." During the instrumental break I just stood there. Not wanting to hurt my feelings and reject me outright--even the retarded kid who performed a flailing, impromptu karate dance made the cut--the powers-that-be suggested I try another song. They were kind enough to grant me a last-shot audition in front of the entire fifth grade a few days later. This time, I decided to go uptempo. I chose Billy Ocean's "Carribean Queen." At that point, there was nothing else they could do but spare me further humiliation and reject me once and for all.

2. In seventh grade, I had the most perfect opportunity ever to make out with a girl that I had a butterfly-inducing crush on, but I was too scared to take the plunge and so I did nothing.

3. When I was twenty-one-years old and about to graduate college, I shat my pants one day in the campus parking lot, in broad daylight. Yes, I was stone-cold sober. Don't ask.

4. I have woken up and not remembered driving home. More than many times.

5. In the past seven days I have thought to myself, "Maybe I should try acting."

6. I would rather watch Maryland win another National Championship than win my very own Oscar.

7. Until a year ago, I was 100% convinced that I would find that special someone and have a pleasant future with a wife. Now I'm not so sure.

8. Deep down, I really do like my life.

And now I must keep the wheels spinning (though there are only six of them)...

Josh Aiello
Michael Lieberman
Randy Kim
Andrew Krucoff
Dennis Crowley
Wendy Mitchell (come out of blogger retirement for this!)

"He wished he had that time now, that time spent poring over unfinished thoughts he had hoped would somehow gain him the respect of people he did not and probably would not ever care to know."

--from "Morpheus Summer," a short story written by my buddy Rob

Yet another of the North Carolina School of the Arts' Genius Gifts to Humanity, Tyler Baum is the closest thing to Andy Kaufman that I've ever met. And now he has his very own website. Poke around and check out some of his advertising work, in addition to a few other hilarious things...

www.tylerbaum.com

Then visit this page at the IMDB, where he's on a one-man crusade to inspire, offend, and discombobulate nerds everywhere. A perfect example: check out his comment with regards to KNOCKED UP, as well as the thread that his comment inspired...

nickel_slots_addict on the IMDB

Read this piece written by Richard Yates biographer Blake Bailey concerning the long-brewing big screen adaptation of REVOLUTIONARY ROAD. For the record, I'm still obsessing over this situation.

I was going to write my own poem called "Self-Portrait at 33" today, but then I realized that it would be too depressing. Instead, I will link to this poem by David Berman, which is one of my all-time favorites.

Then watch this, just to get a taste of Danny R. McBride before he becomes the next official Hollywood megastar (which has already happened, it's just that nobody knows it yet):

[NOTE: I just realize that embedding that one short funked up my program, so I'm going to link to it right here and embed another clip instead. This footage, shot by Todd Rohal in Holland, captures the twisted magic of Danny as well as anything ever will...]

I saw Flight of the Conchords last night at the Gramercy Theatre. Strange stumbling into a minor phenomenon without having known anything about it previously. They were very funny. This Sunday night their series premieres on HBO. You can find out more information and watch the entire first episode right here. I quite enjoyed it. The charming Jemaine Clement can also be seen this weekend on the big screen in EAGLE VS. SHARK, which opens in New York (and beyond?). This guy is definitely on the fast track to stardom.

I have $13.03 in my checking account. This weekend should be rockin'. It's funny how when it comes to a cash only world, I'm on par with a homeless, shit-stained hobo, drooling over the thought of a slice of pizza. But if I decide to go to a nicer restaurant that takes plastic, I'm a mack daddy pimp and money is not an option. This is the exact mentality that credit card companies want in a customer. Though I used to be completely responsible when it came to breaking out my Visa, now I simply don't care. The only thing to do in a hopeless situation is live the driggy-driggy-dream. I am going to be a dead pile of bones one day. But while I am living and breathing, if my stomach yearns for sushi, that's what it's gonna get, goddamn it!

Who would have thought a Chinatown bus ride from NYC to Baltimore during rush hour could turn my foul mood all the way around? Maybe it hasn’t rejuvenated me completely, but something happened along the way this evening and now I feel like a completely different person. As recently as noon, I was feeling as confused, depressed, and frustrated as I have in… well, let’s not kid around here… since last month’s cycle of funk stu