Hello and welcome to Crasstalk. Hope all of you are having a great night and are ready for the end of the week. Since most of you are socialist hippie clowns, here’s some damn hippy music. Now get off my lawn and get a hair cut!
I would hate to leave out our few Crasstalk conservatives, so this is for you guys.
Have a great night.
Reality. It hit my mother like a punch in the gut. Reality. Freedom’s ugly, selfish, ankle biting cousin. She slammed the door on my father and the past but, when she greeted her new found freedom, it let her down. Freedom meant taking care of a 3 year old by herself. It meant working full time, finding a place to live, hiring a lawyer, and paying him. All in a country that was not her own with a language that was hard to master.
Freedom was overwhelming, sometimes miserable, often exhausting. My mother struggled, I know she did. I remember a lot of tears, followed by yelling, followed by sleep. My father just made everything worse by fighting her every step of the way.
Before we get to the juicy, albeit crazy, details, I need to explain something to you about my mother. She spends the majority of her life on a moral high horse. She will argue a point into the ground and would prefer to always come out smelling like a rose. She cannot stand, what she perceives to be, any injustice aimed at anyone she knows, let alone her own judgement.
Enter the private detective. The pit bull lawyer my mother found through a friend suggested she needed “evidence” to strengthen her case. He knew the salacious information regarding the mistress would only be bolstered by photographic evidence and first hand testimony. So, the train wreck that was my parents divorce, began.
I’ll be honest, I don’t remember much. I remember it was cold and snowing and somewhere around Christmas time. I have a vague recollection of the doorbell ringing at an ungodly hour, my mother bundling me up like the Michelin Man and strapping me into my car seat in someone else’s car. The private detective’s car.
We were going for a ride! To Switzerland. Yup, Switzerland. Which, from Germany in the winter of 1973, was no small feat. My father had decided that spending the holidays with his girlfriend and her daughter in the snow sounded downright cozy. And my mother, well, she saw this as the perfect opportunity for evidence gathering.
So, off we went, the three of us in the cold, with cameras in hand and a thirst for revenge in our hearts. It turned out, however, to be much more difficult than first anticipated. We were exposed by a friend and my dad moved his whole party to a different chalet. This, unfortunately, did not come to anyone’s attention until we’d spent an entire night staking out an empty cabin.
In hindsight, I don’t think Magnum PI was really up to the job, but he was all my mom could afford. Finally, on night three, paydirt! From what my mom tells me, things were seen, pictures were taken, words were exchanged and police were called. The three of us beat a hasty retreat and escaped across the border without being caught. I guess the Swiss do not look favorably upon spying through people’s windows and photographing the action. Who knew?
Fast forward several months. We settled into a new apartment, my mom found a job and someone to take care of me. She purchased her first car (a Citroen Deux Chevaux) and made a few friends. But, the divorce was still looming large. There was the matter of alimony and child support as well as custody arrangements. The custody thing turned out to be the easiest to deal with as my father was not really equipped to raise a child, nor did he have any desire to do so.
The money was a different story. My parents fought tooth and nail. To this day, with all the evidence gathered and presented, I am still baffled by the outcome. The judge presented my mom with a whopping $200/month child support and no alimony. She was devastated. You see, my father had made quite a name for himself in the commercial photography business thanks, in no small part, to his mistress/rep. Money was not an issue for him, except that he hated to part with it.
So, after all the craziness and sleepless nights, my mother’s moral high horse was put out to pasture, at least temporarily. Her new reality was survival mode and she dove in head first. You see, no one would ever convince my mom that she’d made a mistake, that she was not capable of doing this on her own and being successful.
She was determined to turn the chaos into calm.
Then, one day, when I was nine, my mother made a decision that would alter our lives forever…..
Cormega photo via the excellent photoblog G M D Three. Please go check him out!
Is there any other music scene that obsesses over mass appeal quite like hip-hop does? There’s a whole ecosystem of rap terminology related to fame. Now you’re famous? You just blew up. Having trouble getting radio airplay? Man, they’re sleepin on ya.
So who are the all-time most slept-on MCs? Me personally, I still absolutely love the mid to late 90s rhymes, so my list is big on East Coast mixtape heavy hitters and battle MCs. These are the best of the best, the ones who should have been household names, but no, you just had to have your PM Dawn and Kriss Kross.
(Warning: This is not an invitation to post awful Kriss Kross or PM Dawn videos in the comment section. If you do, I will personally ridicule your questionable taste. This is the GOOD HIP-HOP THREAD, not one of the many, many threads devoted to lame guilty pleasure music! I’m serious.)
In no particular order:
Ras Kass has been putting out albums and mixtapes for years now. The L.A. rapper definitely has a hardcore cult following, but despite a Tupac-esque snarl and wicked vocabulary, he’s never been able to really break out. It may partly have to do with the fact that a lot of his songs reflect on deep, centuries-long themes such as colonialism and racism. For some reason, rap was way more political in the 90s.
Oh, what could have been. Cormega was actually an original member of The Firm, along with Nas, Foxy Brown and AZ. The Queensbridge rapper unfortunately had a falling out with Nas early on, then left the group, then had a legendary beef with him, then went to prison for a little while. What a shame. Cormega has one of the greatest rap flows of all time. His voice is super nasally and actually kind of soft in a way that conveys a certain vulnerability that all the great rappers have had at one time or another (Tupac and Li’l Wayne come to mind).
They call him Giacanna because he’s about as close to a rap godfather as there will ever be. Kool G. Rap had a few minor hits in the early 90s, then saw his brand of cocaine raps blow up with Pac and Biggie. Today basically EVERY rapper from Rick Ross to Young Jeezy to Waka Flocka Flame can thank him for taking rap to new heights of drug-trafficking braggadoccio. Also, he has an absolutely DOPE New York flow that’s deep and rich and funky.
This is probably one of the saddest rap stories of all time. Big L was young and on top of the world, with his debut album getting love… and then in 1999 he was shot to death in his Harlem neighborhood. To this day there are hip-hop heads who still haven’t gotten over it — with good reason. Check him out freestyling with a young Jigga and see if you can really tell which one would be the star.
Jada has had one semi-big hit (“Why”) but the man is always named when talking about rap’s most slept-on. His rhymes are so rough and gravelly it’s like the devil himself is coming out the speakers. Jada may never have the mainstream appeal of Jay-Z or Kanye, but good luck finding another rapper with this level of street cred. He’s also got some of the most famous rap freestyles of all time… fast forward this video to the :30 when Kiss takes it to another level.
Here’s another Roc-A-Fella veteran who never quite blew up. Even Jay-Z has said he could never understand how Bleek wasn’t a bigger name. Here he is on “Change the Game.” Bleek comes on at the 1:00 mark and just destroys it.
Third Degree was a group of rappers from San Antonio with pretty much a strictly Texas following (I’m pretty sure they’re no longer recording together). I have no idea how I discovered them (probably on some Houston mixtape). Anyway, I love them and how could you not? They named one of their mixtapes after their love of gold teeth, rapping and the Purple Drank: “Grills, Skills and Purple Spills.” Texas rap is just criminally underrated.
Rah Digga was (and still is) the total package. She had the dope voice, the dope flow AND the dope look. And she did it all without being a chickenhead like Lil Kim or Nicki Minaj. She was knocking on the door of superstardom in the late 90s as a member of Flipmode (Busta Rhymes’ posse) but for some reason it never quite came togther. Anyway, I love her. R.D., I’m single now. Call me!
What a great voice. I always kind of lumped him in with EPMD, Redman and Def Squad and I guess he sorta got lost in the shuffle of dope New Jersey rap flows. It’s too bad because he has some sick, sick rhymes.
Papoose was born about 15 years too late. He would have been HUGE in 1992! He’s a pure battle rapper. (Warning: Old Man Rant coming up!) Unfortunately these days the rap game is all about who can sell the most ringtones, so things like lyrical skills don’t really matter. Here he is alliterating his way through the entire rap alphabet.
I’ve had a rough couple of years. Between a divorce, a complete mental breakdown, three major appliances crapping out on me and getting laid off from my job I managed to get myself arrested for a DUI. I’m not here for pity though. I will briefly explain what happened that led to my run in with the law, what fun the legal system is and the soul crushing bullshit that is probation. It’s all public record so what’s there to be embarrassed about? Just don’t tell my parents. Shhhh…yes, I’m too old for this to be a real issue. It’s for their peace of mind.
I am not not not encouraging anyone to drink and drive. Not even after a couple casual drinks apparently (Grumble…). I realize I will be judged for what I did. This was emotionally hard to write. Partially because of just that and partially just because, do me one favor, remember we all make mistakes/ judge not lest/he without sin blah blah. If you’re perfect, lambaste away. Complaining and criticizing are easy. Also, I have some loaves and fishes you can go feed the village with.
A little more than a year ago I was despondent over some of the aforementioned messes (especially the marital “bliss”) and went to have a couple after work drinks (I had found a job by then.) with a friend. We did just that. Couple drinks, some conversation, I think I may have had a cry, gave my friend a ride to another bar, dropped him off and headed home. Then I got hit by a truck. An 18-wheeled delivery lorry to be exact. I won’t go into the details of the wreck but it was determined to not be my fault and I was not ticketed for it. What I was ticketed and arrested for was the couple of drinks in my system that I was stupid enough to tell the cop about.
I am of slight build and had been involved in a wreck so I had no chance. Between officer’s discretion and the fact that I was going to blow around the limit (Which I did.) I was headed for jail. First lessons had already arrived. Ladies, you have no chance of not blowing close to the limit with even one drink in your system. Biology is just biased that way. Everyone, don’t tell the police anything, ANYTHING except your basic information before you speak to a lawyer. Yes, they will get mad at you. Yes, they will threaten you. Just remember your Miranda rights and be polite.
My second set of lessons arrived with the field sobriety test and Breathalyzer. I passed the field tests but according to my lawyer, it was a risk even taking them. Don’t. You’re just giving them evidence and frankly you could fail them sober if you’re a klutz or tired. Next came the Breathalyzer. Again, don’t take it. You don’t have to. You will lose your license for refusing but guess what? That’s going to happen more than likely anyhow. Here are some states that have slightly different penalties… refusal of breathalyzer …basically same idea though. Really just the duration and fine differ. I didn’t refuse. However being as that I had a cold I was having real problems getting enough air into the bastard thing to register thusly the cop in charge of administering the test was getting quite pissed at me. The obvious solution to his frustration? To scream at me of course. I realize he is probably used to people faking problems but he was just giving me a panic attack. Maybe I should’ve passed out. Since they wouldn’t let me take my prescription (Prescription! Prescribed to me by a doctor!) I suppose it was an option.
Well after being yelled at, I went to jail. Honestly, so long as you’re not in some scary maximum/city jail, jail is a cakewalk. Don’t be an asshole, don’t ask other people what they’re there for, hell don’t speak unless spoken to and leave your politics at home, including vegetarianism. The food is the worst part. I really hate grits but jail grits…wow.
After getting out the next morning I had life to deal with. Hire a lawyer, get my temp permit license (They take it from you, no matter what, guilty or innocent, upon arrest.), ask friends for help (This town runs on DUIs. No problem finding people who’d been there before.) and of course, pull money out of my ass.
My court date was about a month after my arrest. My lawyer managed to keep my driving permissions, on permit, for going to work, school and medical. We don’t have much in the way of public transportation or cabs that are worth a damn here so I would’ve been screwed. A bike ride through the ghetto to work doesn’t sound too awesome either. There was someone murdered a couple blocks from my work not so long ago.
I was sentenced with the usual crap and my new life as a stain on society began.
Being a parolee is a life of paperwork, appointments and bullshit. For myself I had to…
…All of these things were supposed to be done in a certain order which they, in hindsight, unsurprisingly, failed to tell me or put on my paperwork. Yay system. All of these things cost more money along with ticket fines and lawyer’s fees I was 10 kinds of broke and I still had to get my car fixed. Which brings me to another lesson. Pay everything ASAP. It’s really all your parole officer wants and then they ignore you largely. Also, if you’re late with any payments you go back to jail. Take out a damn loan. Sell a kidney in Eastern Europe. Seriously.
Going to see a shrink may have been the worst part. Invasive questions about my family life on a form seemed off subject and wooden but whatever. The socialism-hating flag-waving idiots in my town voted for this crap, right? This was neither helpful or really punishment. I wasn’t asked any questions that I see being any help to the legal system or society. If I had exhibited signs of serious alcoholism would’ve they made me go to one more session perhaps? Maybe a shrink who gave a shit would be able to help people. My burnt out public servant just had me fill out forms (Which are standard). These are not helpful therapists. It was like going to therapy at the post office on tax day. Awesome. Pointless. What do I know?
All in all it was a stressful nightmare. I was made to feel like a child molester or a child (I can’t decide), I was broke, everyone I met seemed to hate their jobs and I now have a serious disdain for how the legal system operates as I’ve seen it first hand. It’s depressing at best, a logistical nightmare at worst. It is a mistake you will pay for dearly and no one cares what the circumstances were. No grey areas. The legal system makes the DMV and IRS seem friendly and well-run. They have customer service departments even if they are crap.
I am lucky in certain ways though. As an artist, chances are it will never affect my ability to be hired anywhere. Though I will sit here and swear to you that I was not “drunk” I’m still happy to have not hurt anyone except myself. I did get hit by a damn 18-wheeler after all. I have a decent job so I was able to muddle through the costs. Had I needed to I’m sure my family would’ve helped as well. Again, they’re happier not knowing, I promise.
If it happens to you I’d say the two most important things to do are hire a lawyer and hang on to every single stupid piece of paper they hand you as filing mistakes are often, often made. And if you have any extra cash, get on some anti-depressants. Me? I’ll likely never go to another happy hour again, or have wine at a restaurant with dinner, or a champagne at a wedding, or a beer with my dad…because these are all situations where I wouldn’t be able to find a ride I’m sure and fuck it, I don’t want to know what happens to you for a second one.
A good joke well told is a thing of beauty, even when it keeps piling outrage upon the obscene upon the inconceivably lewd, as anyone who has seen The Aristocrats will attest. This crazed masterpiece of comedy showcases both a classic joke and the many ways its various retelllers embroider it. If your head doesn’t explode in the first fifteen minutes or so, you will be transported to a world of funny you never even suspected.
It’s my experience that most of the very best and funniest jokes aren’t really appropriate to tell at Thankgiving dinner; they’re irreverent, or raunchy, or so totally over-the-top you’ll never be invited back. But here’s one that really isn’t. Your grandmother — or even a Mother Superior — is unlikely to take umbrage … but everyone will laugh.
Les Trois Freres Francais
Bon, bien alors: we ‘ave three little French boys, zey are brozzers. Zere is Jean – he is ze tout petit, il n’a que sept ans … he has only seven years of age. Zen come Louis, who has eight years; and finalement zere is Pierre, ze ainé — zis is in English I think, ze “eldest”. Pierre has nine years.
So, ze three young garcons are walkeen down ze street, and le petit Jean, he is liking to peep in ze windows as zey pass by. And at one window, he look in and zen shout to his brozzers: “Ey, Louis, Pierre, come look!! Ze lady and gentleman, zey are fighteen.”
Alors, Louis look also in ze window, and he say, “Jean, you are still a bebé, and per’aps not even French; zis lady and gentleman, zey are not fighteen, zey are makeen love.”
So, Pierre – he has nine years – he peep in ze window also, zen turn to Jean et Louis, and say wiz utter Gallic scorn, “And very badly, too”
**************************************************************
Now, we ‘ave skip 70 years to see again Jean, Louis, et Pierre, who are now debonair boulevardiers of long standing . And when we find zem at the Café Royale, zey are discussing savoir-faire.
“Oh”, says Jean (he is, souvenez-vous, the youngest brozzer), “Oh,” he says, “I have not for nozzing spent 73 years as a Frenchman: of course I know what is savoire-faire. It is when you come home, find your wife in bed wiz anozzer man, and you say, ‘Oh, pardonnez-moi!”
“Ahh, Jean, mon p’tit frangin,” replied Louis, “‘ave you learned nozzing whatever since that day so long
ago when you sought ze lady and gentleman were fighteen?? Once more, you are incorrect; allow me.”
“Savoire-faire,” Louis said, “is when you come home and find your wife in bed wiz anozzer man, and you say ‘Oh pardonnez-moi, please continue.’
“Helas, mes frères,” says Pierre, “I fear our papa et maman must have adopted you two in Belgique; surely you cannot truly be French. So I shall explain to you yet again:
“Savoir-faire is when you come home and find your wife in bed wiz anozzer man, and you say ‘Oh, excuse me, please continue – and he continues …
zen he has savoire faire.
Like everyone, when things go wrong in your life, my first thought is to turn to eHow.com to offer clarity in this mixed up world. Today, let’s learn what eHow suggests when you have discovered a skin thingy and need medical attention.
First off, you should know that eHow gives you the option of Tweeting this knowledge so you can keep your friends in the loop on your skin dramaz. Or you can send it via a Facebook message, as the most public and passive-aggressive method of letting Christy we can all see her funky forehead bumps.
The highlights: eHow teaches us what a dermatologist is, just in case you’ve always had a hankering to see one without being quite clear on what it is. For the purposes of this example, the doctor will be a man, because female doctors are called nurses. (Zing.)
EHow rates this as Difficulty: Moderate. But with a little forethought and elbow grease we can dial that difficulty level to simple and make you the pimp of pimples.
Instructions
1. Ask the doctor’s office staff about his credentials before making an appointment. Schedule an exam only if the doctor is certified by the American Board of Dermatology.
This is a great first step! Much like you’d never go to a restaurant without demanding to hear about the chef/Sandwich Artist’s childhood, don’t let that smug Dr. Zizmor uses his Rainbow of Skittle Vomit™ to his dig around your inflamed pores before first berating Tammi the receptionist for not being able to send a picture of the good doctor posing with his transcript and a newspaper with the date. If she can’t fax over the doctor’s med school transcripts, you have no choice but to drive over there yourself until she’s located his yearbooks and you’ve independently verified he was German Club president and heard a few heart-warming anecdotes about him calling spaghetti “pasketti”.
Remember: Certificates of live birth and diplomas from Arizona State don’t count.
2. Learn about your condition before meeting the doctor so you can ask informed questions and thoroughly discuss treatment options. If you have been treating your condition at home, write down the names of products used in the past along with their effect on your health.
I’m not going to lie, this is going to require you to Google Image some nasty things. You’re probably avoiding your own reflection by the time your condition has gotten doctor-worthy (thanks a lot, Obamacare!), so you may want to enlist the help of the next person who blanches at the sight of you.
This can be accomplished in several simple sub-steps. You’re minding your own pimple/rash/cyst business when an unsuspecting stranger’s monocle drops. Just remember the acronym ARG!
2a. Ask: “Would you say my face looks offensive in a small red bump way or more or a puss-filled mass way?”
2b. Refuse: to stop using the salad bar tongs to scratch.
2c. Google: Once you’ve been kicked out of the Ponderosa (fascists!) rush home and fire up the Googles.
Gather up all the infomercial skin products you’ve purchased, along with the skimask you generally wear in public these days.
3. Inquire about the doctor’s level of experience with your condition. If he lacks specialized knowledge in the necessary area, ask him to make a referral. If your dermatologist biopsies a mole and diagnosis you with skin cancer, he may refer you to an oncologist for further treatment.
We’re back with Tammi. March in that office like a boss, slam your fists down and demand answers. There’s no time for niceties! You have a skin thing, dammit! Tammi will be flattered about your attention to detail. (Note: See if Tammi is single.) Once Dr. NotGoodEnough moseys in, he’ll likewise be excited to hear you’ve made an appointment to determine if he’s worthy to look at your infection.
4. Talk to your dermatologist about prescription medication. If he prescribes a prescription cream to treat acne, for example, ask about side effects. Some oral medications for severe acne can cause dizziness or sensitivity to the sun, so it’s important to discuss your lifestyle with your doctor to determine what type of treatment is best for you.
Once the doctor has answered your riddles three and been allowed to gaze upon your blemishes, you’re going to want to get naked. Shit’s about to get real, people. Tell him all about your love of “Estty Lauder” cold cream you get in Chinatown and your penchant for scratching with salad buffet tongs. Brag about your year-round base tan and investment in the Sun Suite Tanning franchise in the strip mall. Try to get him to invest, painting it as the potential for more business.
Once it’s been determined what the hell your problem is (skin version) and the doctor has given you a prescription, you’re going to want to second-guess everything he says. Practice a disappointed, “Hmmmm, I don’t know about that. Will it make me faint if I’m exposed to sunlight?” When he – arrogantly! – dismisses your concern and makes a suspicious note on your chart, look out the window, shout out “HEAVEN FORFADE!” and swoon to the floor.
5. Ask about preparation, recovery and success rate if your condition requires surgical intervention. The doctor should inform you of all possible complications and risks involved. Dermatologists often perform small procedures in the office using local anesthetic.
Once you’ve come to, ask the doctor to give it to you straight. You know your odds: You have a skin thingy, for God’s sake. You’re wasting precious time! You’re probably not getting out without amputation. Demand surgery. Preemptively contact your parish priest, rabbi, imam (hedge your bets), next of kin and attorney. Yell, “Tell the world my story!” and change your will to note you’d like Dana Delaney to play you in the Lifetime movie. Grab the mask and knock yourself out.
6. Watch closely if your dermatologist performs a skin exam. If you have moles that have changed size or shape, the doctor may remove them in her office. She may ask you to watch particular areas of skin, so discuss with her how to spot suspicious moles.
Get the dried ice and carrot peeler and go to town. Learn too late what a freckle is. Congratulations, you don’t have any left.
7. Look at before and after pictures for your procedure. Keep in mind that everybody reacts differently to treatment and that your outcome may not resemble those in the doctor’s portfolio. Speak with the doctor about how he thinks your results will compare to those in the photos.
Get vain! It’s now safe to look in the mirror again! Force strangers to admire your variety of exciting new scars and compare them to your baby photos, which you’ll take to carrying around. Update your Facebook status with pictures. Hold your head up high and go win your job back at Ponderosa. Then file a motion to sue the doctor.
Fearing that the Republicans would stop looking for excuses to attack him, and desperately in need of the attention, the President jumped into the 2012 campaign on Monday. With a paltry 19 months to go until the election, Barack Obama released a short video on his website announcing that he and Vice President Biden will seek reelection against ”Koch Brother’s Puppet Candidate TBA.”
In addition to announcing his re-election bid to the world, the Obama campaign machine has already swung into full fundraising mode. Appropriating a version of an old Democratic strategy, it seems like Obama and Co. are asking donors to “give early and give often.”
Given that some estimate that the campaign will need close to $1B (yes, that’s a ‘B’, as in ‘billion’), it is a sensible move. If I want to pay cash for a medium ticket item next year, I’m smarter to put $20 a week away starting now. There’s not exactly a credit card for big media buys that I’m aware of.
So, it was little surprise to me when the package asking for money for the campaign landed in our mailbox this week. After all, Organizing for America (the outfit that the 2008 Obama campaign morphed into) scarcely goes a week without emailing me, hat in hand, for cause ‘x’.
What may surprise Obama/Biden 2012 is this: My wallet is closed to them for the foreseeable future.
Why? Simply put, he campaigned as a progressive Santa Claus, and gave me a Blue Dog for Christmas the last two years. Sadly, I’m just not excited about a watered down health care bill or milquetoast finance reform, which were two big issues for me in 2008. Add in zero movement on gay marriage and the disinterest in paring back a bloated military, and I question what side the guy is even on sometimes. The Great Tax Cut Capitulation of 2010 made me want to strip the “Yes We Can” sticker off the bumper of my neighbor’s Prius.
Before someone throws the “What the f*ck has Obama done so far” website in the comments: I get it, he’s gotten further on some important issues than Clinton ever did. He also folds like a Walmart tent the face of even token GOP opposition. That’s not the guy I thought I was voting for, or donating to, in 2008.
He’ll undoubtedly get my vote, and that of my spouse. We live in a battle ground state that went all crazy red in 2010, and I’m not dumb enough to risk throwing double-digit electoral votes to Mittchelle Huckawlenty (the GOP-zombie creation who appeals to creepy Evangelicals and big-business) in service of my progressive pouting.
Rather, I’m voicing my displeasure in the same way I do when my favorite sports teams make a series of moves I dislike. Taking money out of their pockets, or rather, refusing to ever put it in there in the first place. It is the only other way I know of to get a politicians’ attention. Watch the way the 2012 campaigns (or any recent campaigns, for that matter) court the big money, and you’ll get evidence of this in abundance.
Do I expect that the loss of whatever relatively paltry sum my family would donate will have much effect on the Obama campaign? Am I suddenly going to get an audience with the big guy to air my grievances? No, of course not.
Yet, between a still-sagging economy and a general malaise among progressives, I sincerely doubt that we’re the only small money donors from 2008 whose checkbook stays on the sidelines in 2012.
Besides, if there’s a GOP victory in 2012, I’ll need to save every cent I can to pay for my privatized Medicare.
Wouldn’t it be cool to have an eccentric, rich, childless uncle die and leave you something awesome in his will? Why don’t uncles ever turn out like that? I would love to be that one uncle who dies and leaves my nieces and nephews with all my awesome toys classic automobiles. Which brings us to today’s QOTD….
What classic car have you always wanted to own?
There are so, so many tough choices here. Would I love a Mustang GT Fastback like McQueen in “Bullitt”? FUCK AND YES. Would I thoroughly enjoy driving around in a Mercedes 300SL with the gullwing doors? GOOD LORDY I WOULD.
But there’s one car that I would murder an autistic child to get, and that’s a 1973 Porsche Carerra RS with the the classic Fuchs wheels. Here, I even found a picture. SHE SHALL BE MINE, SOMEDAY.
So what would you put in your fantasy garage?
Good morning Crasstalk. Here are the things I know that you love.
Please forgive me Uncle Swifter. Have a great day.
Ah, the Three Stooges. Countless hours of my formative years were spent watching their short films, usually on high-numbered UHF stations that mostly aired re-runs of “Get Smart,” “The Beverly Hillbillies,” “Petticoat Junction,” “That Girl,” “Green Acres” and “The Flying Nun.”
Did you know that a “Three Stooges” movie has been in pre-production since 1998? This is something I learned today, courtesy of Deadline.com. The film, which is scheduled to begin production this month, has announced that Sean Hayes is signed to play the role of Larry Fine, and Will Sasso will lend his complex multi-talents to the role of Curly.
The question remains — who will give life to the surly, menacing mug of Moe Howard? Rumors have been swirling around this project for longer than the entire span of Miley Cyrus’s career. Will it be noted Stooges fanatic Mel Gibson? Not a bad choice and someone we wouldn’t mind seeing on the receiving end of some physical abuse. Not a bad choice at all.
Will the next “face of Moe” be Sean Penn? He was originally slated to play Larry Fine, which does not make sense, because he’s got a mug that only a mother could love, and a bowl cut wig would go a long way towards making us believe that Moe had come back to life.
Interesting to note is that many actors have been attached to this project over the last decade — Benicio del Toro, Jim Carrey, Johnny Knoxville, Andy Samberg, an Australian actor called Shane Jacobson. Johnny Depp and Paul Giamatti have been attached to this movie as well, but later dropped out of the project.
Mel Brooks attempted to write and produce a Three Stooges movie in the 70’s, but said his effort fell short because there was no way he could sustain the action for 90 minutes. The film would have starred Mel Brooks as Moe, Dom DeLuise as Curly, and Marty Feldman as Larry. When the writing just wasn’t working, Mel turned the project turned into the unique “Silent Movie.”
Apparently the Farrelly brothers have solved Mel’s conundrum — they decided to divide the movie into three 27-minute segments which complete one story arc. This should give the audience a breather in between all the action, so when Mel Gibson gets crowned (please, please, let him get crowned) for the umpteenth time, we’re still cheering for more.
Also of note — this is not a biography of our beloved Stooges. This is a newly written story of the Stooges’ antics. Should be interesting to see if it is set in modern times or in the 1920’s or 1930’s.
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