Houston News Blog

​I'm going to step away from the sarcasm for a minute and present you with an honest overture that will hopefully foster understanding and goodwill between yours truly and certain segments of the Hair Balls readership. To wit: can somebody -- anybody -- tell me what tell me what the big deal is about the whole Twilight phenomenon?

The buzz about New Moon, the second movie based on the Stephanie Meyer series, has been building since before the original left theaters. It's already sold the most advance tickets of any movie in history (beating Revenge of the Sith, the latest Harry Potter, and the original Twilight), and nearly every midnight screening is reportedly sold out.

Clearly I'm missing something.

At first I thought it might be an age thing. I'm an old(er) dude, and have therefore become even snottier about high school-themed entertainment than I was when I was a (snotty) teenager myself. But as reliable news sources inform me, older women are just as into Edward and Jacob and the gang as their kids. At least Miley Cyrus is on my side.

I like vampires. Sure, I've lamented their transformation from fearsome predator to emo doofus in this very blog, but I still appreciate the concept. From Nosferatu to Dracula to Christopher Lee to 'salem's Lot to Near Dark, I'm with you. Hell, I like werewolves too, and putting them in the same movie should be an easy win for me, if my affection for The Monster Squad and the first Underworld is any indication.

Or maybe I just have an affection for Kate Beckinsdale in leather.

Photo courtesy ABC

​I've been watching V: The Series, more out of nostalgic fondness for the original than any hope the remake would be worth a damn (and I prefer a long-haired Morena Baccarin anyway). Despite solid efforts by Elizabeth Mitchell (Agent Evans) and Alan Tudyk (whose recent string of bad-guy roles threatens to tarnish my fond memories of Steve the Pirate and Wash), the feeling I've come away with after two episodes is a resounding "meh." I'm sticking with it because I simply have to see how they're going to update the immortal guinea pig scene, and also because I want to know how far they're going to take this "liberal socialist aliens offering universal healthcare" plotline they've got going on.

I for one welcome our lizard overlords...but only if they lower my premiums.

So far the show appears to be on the right track. And by "on the right track" I mean "portraying extraterrestrials as remorseless villains out to enslave humanity." The creators of the original series understood the danger presented by movies like E.T. and TV shows like Star Trek, which depicted aliens we could befriend and explore the universe together in peace.

Fuck that. Our own history of colonialism, genocide, and slavery should make it patently obvious that any so-called "visitors" from beyond the solar system aren't going to be cute, meatloaf-headed muppets with glowing index fingers, but rather slavering, many-tentacled monstrosities from the Sodomy Nebula. You can laugh, but remember that the Pioneer (10 and 11) and Voyager (1 and 2) spacecraft are about to exit our solar system, and all four contain helpful schematics of the human body as well as a goddamned map of how to get to our planet. Thanks a pantload, NASA.

​Arguably more obnoxious than the actual on-field behavior of New Mexico soccer player Elizabeth Lambert -- immortalized for her rampage in a match against BYU -- has been the reaction to it.

I'm not talking about the infantile sexual commentary accompanying the various clips posted online. They're unpleasant, but pretty much par for the course when it comes to YouTube. And anyway you can hear more of the same on "legitimate" outlets like The Late Show with David Letterman, which added a sexy voiceover to the footage.

No, what I'm referring to is the righteous indignation spewing from various editorial pages about her "reprehensible" behavior, with people calling for a lifetime ban from soccer, suspension from UNM, and even criminal charges. I suppose the team should be happy about the attention. Not being great generators of revenue, women's sports are overlooked by the media, with female athletes themselves given the short end of the stick with regards to scholarships and facilities. And yet, we apparently have no problem holding them to a higher standard of behavior. The resulting hypocrisy is staggering, like Cheney bitching about Obama not paying enough attention to Afghanistan.

​To think, I almost found myself agreeing with John Mayer.

His response to the simmering Britney Spears lip-synching scandal -- mocking those who expressed outrage at the fact Spears was faking it during her concert in Perth, Australia last weekend -- would appear to be dead-on. One could even take this train of thought a step further and opine that getting conned out of $1,300 (for some seats) might be considered getting off lightly for those who continue to refer to whatever it is that Spears does as "music," but far be it from me to take the low road.

And sure, the righteous indignation that always accompanies these stories was somewhat understandable back in 1989, when the world was awash in the optimism that only comes with the victory of trickle-down economics over godless Communism. It therefore came as a crushing blow to the country's confidence when Milli Vanilli, MTV darlings and near-permanent fixture at my little sister's slumber parties, were exposed as frauds by a skipping CD player. Our great nation reeled from the shock. After all, these were no mere flashes-in-the-pan, they were Best New Artist Grammy winners. Forget Watergate or the Kennedy assassination, 1989 was the year America truly lost its innocence.

​You used to be cool, John Cusack.

We first noticed it in the 1980s, when "cool" didn't have a lot of meaning. People used the word in connection with Jan Hammer, the Go-Bots, and Kirk Cameron, which should give you an idea how lost we really were. But somehow you dodged the pitfalls of The Breakfast Club and St. Elmo's Fire to appear in some of the best and most beloved movies of that era. Yes, there was also Hot Pursuit and Grandview, USA, but Better Off Dead, Eight Men Out, and Say Anything are as solid a resume as any from that decade.

You started the `90s off strong (with The Grifters) and continued a decent run on up until 1997. That year you made Grosse Pointe Blank, a movie very near to my heart, and also a Jerry Bruckheimer atrocity called Con Air. It seemed surprising, but also perfectly understandable. Toiling away at smaller, quirkier films for the better part of two decades, you were due a "paycheck" movie. And if, as you said, starring in a mindless action film would free you up to continue making those smaller, more intimate movies like Max, who would begrduge you?

Somewhere down the road, however, you either went deep into debt betting on monkey knife fights or decided you needed a few walk-in humidors, because the movies you've made lately have been -- not to put too fine a point on it -- craptastic. Your fans have been subjected to an rising tide of cookie-cutter rom-coms and brainless explodoganzas and for what? The cloying Martian Child? The ham-handed War, Inc.?

And now comes 2012, which looks like the single goofiest piece of crap to hit big screens since...well, Independence Day (both directed by Roland Emmerich, after all). I mean the trailer shows the White House getting destroyed. By an aircraft carrier. On a tidal wave. There better be a Tapeheads sequel coming out really damn soon.

In case you think I'm being overly harsh, here's a representative sample of your recent work.

It's Election Day in Houston, and as the city braces itself for the tsunami of indifference that always comes from knowing the one significant race this time around is going to end up in a runoff, we decided to take a look at some of the shadier movie politicians out there; men whose shenanigans far outweigh things like cozying up to the Latino community while adopting a hard-line ant-immigration stance (Roy Morales) or using your wife's money to try to buy an election (Peter Brown).

5. President Bennett (Donald Moffat) -- Clear and Present Danger (1994)
Jack Ryan, the last honest man in Washington, uncovers the connection between Bennett (played by that guy who kind of looks like James Cromwell) and the Colombian cartels. His decision to possibly torpedo his own career by testifying before Congress is only slightly less plausible than that scene where the 52-year-old Harrison Ford beats up a man 20 years his junior before jumping on a helicopter.

​Ohpleaseohpleaseohpleaseohplease:

The gossip apocalypse has arrived: Jon Gosselin and Nadya Suleman will be going on a date.

The Jon & Kate Plus 8 star has reportedly agreed to appear in a cheesy new reality show in which he'll date Octomom Nadya Suleman, former Cheaters producer Bobby Goldstein told In Touch Weekly.

"I heard that Nadya has an insatiable desire to spend time with Jon and to put their families together," Goldstein said. "And I had the idea that this could be a very entertaining fiasco."

Though reps for both parties deny that any show is in the works, Goldstein says he will produce the pilot, called Jon - Kate = Jon Octomom, with a former producer of The Jerry Springer Show.

Okay, so this sounds like about ten tons of bullshit, but if not...jesus jones. The mind boggles.

​I think I finally get Criminal Minds.

At first I assumed the people who watched it with any regularity were just sick freaks. Because while at first glance it isn't a lot different from the other seven hundred crime procedurals on TV any given week, what sets the show apart from the likes of Cold Case or NCIS isn't the multicultural cast or ridiculously high-tech facilities that would be more at home on Microsoft's campus than a federal government installation, but the exceedingly morbid nature of the crimes the BAU ends up investigating.

Past episodes have featured heartwarming storylines like: a couple receives a DVD of their daughter getting raped and murdered...a cult abuses and kills children...and then the latest offering: a guy who kidnaps women, impregnates them, then murders them after they give birth (the dungeon holding the victims was more reminiscent of an old Scorpions video than the writers probably wanted), and -- as in every show -- the women's particular agonies were extensively and almost lovingly portrayed for the viewing audience.

I was all set to indignantly ask if this parade of the grotesque really counts as "entertainment," before realizing it was a wasted exercise. The show averages almost 15 million viewers a week and is one of CBS' highest-rated series. More importantly (and my feelings about the increasingly snuff-like nature of the program aside) I realized the show's creators have struck upon a novel way of capitalizing on two distinctly American personality traits.

​I used to review movies (over here, if you care), an endeavor I had to quit for a variety of reasons: my hectic neurosurgery rotation, for one, as well as the increasing physical demands of the new Mrs. Vonder Haar, Carla Gugino. But among the non-imaginary factors influencing my decision was the way all those movies were starting to blur together. I attended, at most, three screenings a week, so it wasn't oversaturation. Early onset dementia? An attention span whittled to nothing by decades of television and self-medication? Or was it maybe that all the movies looked alike for some reason?

Part of the problem is that so many movies are sequels, remakes, or sequels of remakes, but that wasn't the whole story. I was missing something, and then it hit me. I don't remember what movie I was watching at the time, maybe it was the sixth romantic comedy in as many years starring Sandra Bullock, or Will Ferrell's latest exercise in insensate hollering, or that one movie where Nicolas Cage was in a car chase (no, the other one), but I finally figured it out: Hollywood doesn't have enough actors.

​Spike Jonze's live-action version of Maurice Sendak's Where the Wild Things Are led the box office this weekend, grossing over $32 million. Last month, another children's book adaptation, Sony Pictures' version of Judi and Ron Barrett's Cloudy With a Chance of Meatballs, scored similar numbers for its first three days.

WTWTA has earned mixed reviews so far, with most critics praising the impressive visuals while also pointing out the issues arising from expanding the sparse narrative into a feature film. Cloudy received better notices, which signifies little except that people are perhaps more forgiving of entertainment aimed at those without real buying power.

Both movies will break the magical $100-million blockbuster mark (Cloudy already has), proving that strip-mining our childhoods for profit remains an easy proposition. What's harder, and therefore less desirable from Hollywood's perspective, is using those same sources to make a movie worth watching. In the unlikely event any filmmaker out there wants to film a children's book adaptation that'll stand the test of time and not just score some quick bank and be forgotten, may I humbly offer the following suggestions:

1. Leave Dr. Seuss Alone -- The late Theodor Geisel is our most beloved children's author, as a quick gander at just about any five-year-old's bookshelves will confirm. His most celebrated books (How the Grinch Stole Christmas!, The Cat in the Hat) were converted quite ably into animated form by the early 1970s, not that this stopped an idea-strapped Tinseltown from going back to the well by making atrocious live-action versions of both (in 2000 and 2003, respectively). Seuss' whimsy and gentle humor are more than satisfying on their own, and require no further embellishment, whether in the form of the Grinch's tormented childhood or Mike Myers' poop jokes.

​So it seems Marge Simpson is appearing in Playboy:

Simpsons matriarch Marge Simpson is gracing the cover of Playboy magazine, becoming the first cartoon character in the publication's history.

The November issue sees Marge posing on a chair with the distinctive Playboy Bunny logo. It marks the 20th anniversary of The Simpsons, viewed as America's most dysfunctional family.

The move to put Marge on the cover is an attempt to draw in a younger audience for the soft porn magazine.

"We knew that this would really appeal to the 20-something crowd," said Playboy spokeswoman Theresa Hennessey.

It is not yet known how much of Marge will be on show inside the issue, but "it's very, very racy," said editorial director James Jellinek.

Hey, guess what else "appeals to the 20-something crowd?" Actual pornography. You know, the kind that's freely accessible to them 24 hours a day from the comfort of their parents' computers, which they're supposed to be using to look for a job, the slackers.

​For a Texas resident, I don't watch a hell of a lot of football. I went to UT, so I'll try to tune in for a significant Big 12 game as opposed to the annual Little Big Horns versus Louisiana-Monroe or Rice.

Being a Texans fan makes Sunday especially excruciating, and anyway I -- like many people -- usually have the convenient excuse of family obligations to prevent me from watching all that many pro games. I still follow the division races and always have an eye open for a fantasy sleeper (I'm 2-3 this season, thanks a lot Steven Jackson), but more often than not I see most of the action on Sunday night's news.

One of the main reasons I find it easy to avoid sitting down to watch televised games on Sunday is because they've just become too much of an ordeal. For a fun experiment, record a random NFL game some time and then, as you're replaying it, make a note of how much of the 60 allotted minutes of game time actually involve plays being run. It's bad enough that commercials and time-outs already bloat the proceedings to three-and-a-half hours, but for maybe 15 minutes of actual action? I may not be working on a cure for cancer, but even my time's worth more than that.

So I can feel comfortable saying that the NFL RedZone channel is the greatest thing to hit television since Cheaters.

It's October, so let's stay on the scary-movie theme and talk about another horror flick coming out this month: Paranormal Activity.

Shot entirely with hand-held camera (in the style of recent flicks like Cloverfield and [REC]), it's the story of a San Diego couple who have been experiencing some strange occurrences in their home: doors open and shut, water turns on by itself, and strange whispering and creaking can be heard at night. The man buys an elaborate video rig to capture the goings-on, never considering that such a move might actually antagonize whatever it is that's going 'bump' in the night.

It's a decent-enough little flick, and genuinely scary in some parts. Is it "the scariest movie of the decade" or even "of all time" as some critics are reporting? Eh...probably not. Its effectiveness is bolstered by the fact that everyone involved is essentially making what is their first movie (Texan Katie Featherston, who plays...Katie...was previously in the straight-to-DVD Mutation) and the $14,000 budget, which means they really have to wring a lot of anxiety out of baby powder and a swinging chandelier.

But comparisons to the giants of the genre are probably a little premature. Paranormal Activity has a great hype machine behind it (courtesy of Paramount, who picked up the distribution rights at Sundance), including a "demand ticker," where you can add your email address to the thousands who are trying to earn the film a wide release.

But the movies frequently cited as the most frightening of all time, like The Exorcist, Don't Look Now, or Alien, all have something more: a staying power. The dread lingers well after you leave the theater because it strikes a deeper chord than just making you jump when the drowned guy pops out of the water and grabs the girl in the canoe (spoiler for Friday the 13th). Paranormal Activity has some serious scares, and is better than it has any right to be, but you won't lose any sleep over it.

​Zombieland topped the box office last weekend with $25 million, a respectable haul for a relatively low-budget horror-comedy whose biggest star (Woody Harrelson) hasn't top-lined a movie in over ten years. By comparison, the first installment in the Twilight series opened a year ago to the tune of $69 million.

It would go on to gross almost $200 million domestically, a total Zombieland won't come within brain-eating distance of. I point this out in order to draw attention to the disparity in the current popularity of bloodsuckers and brain/flesh-eaters, and to explain why this is actually a desirable state of undead affairs.

Vampires have a much richer history, it's true. Ancient cultures like Persia and Rome all have some version of bloodsucking spirit, but the vampire in its current incarnation really became popular in Eastern and Central Europe during the 18th and 19th centuries.

Zombies, by comparison, didn't start showing up on our radar until the mid-1800s. But they were from the Caribbean, which makes them much more hip.

As far as movies and TV shows go, there's really no contest there either. Since 1922's Nosferatu, there have been nearly a thousand vampire movies (over 170 of these dedicated to Dracula alone). Sure, there are lots of zombie flicks as well, but the vast majority of these were released post-NotLD (1968's Night of the Living Dead).

Even so, the two were able to coexist in relative peace for twenty years or so. Zombies and vampires were kindred spirits, if you will, because both were monsters. Vampires were generally a little more savvy in the couture department (e.g. Blacula), and could mask their murderous intentions with good manners and a sexy accent, but -- as with their putrefying counterparts -- they left humans with but one option: swift and brutal extermination.

And then, in the late 70s, that all changed, and as with most other bad things in my life, I blame Anne Rice.

​The last twelve months have been a great year of "firsts" for yours truly: I saw my first midget wrestling match, broke my (left) leg for the first time, and -- finally -- saw the first episode of a TV show so bad I knew it wouldn't survive its first season.

I've heard of the phenomenon before, of course. Anyone who's read JumptheShark.com (or did before TV Guide destroyed it) knows about the category of "Day One," created-for-TV shows that were doomed to fail from the airing of the pilot episode.

Some programs just never had a chance, thanks to a ludicrous premise (Cop Rock), characters from a popular show that nobody really cared about (Joanie Loves Chachi), or half men/half animals (Manimal). Until last week, however, I'd always come across these train wrecks after the fact. I'd never had the privilege of being "present at the destruction," as it were.

The show in question? NCIS: Los Angeles.

One of the more charming aspects of American culture is our keen sense of prioritization. Take television as an example, where on any given night one can see eviscerations, rapes, autopsies, and more beat-downs than you'd find in the bleachers at an English soccer game.

Violence is one thing, but take the Lord's name in vain at an awards show or flash a boob during our annual celebration of steroid-ridden mayhem, and it's FCC Fine City. Our outrage barely drowned out by the sounds of hastily rewound DVRs.

Late night programming, though arguably more naughty than anything shown during the family hours, still has to follow the rules, which is why Jenny Slate dropping the f-bomb on Saturday Night Live last weekend had everybody in such a momentary tizzy.

​If you're into recycling, you're going to love the next few years. Starting this week (Fame) and going into 2012 and beyond, moviegoers will be "treated" to remakes of such movies as The Birds, Fahrenheit 451, The Swiss Family Robinson, The Wolfman, The Karate Kid (rechristened Kung Fu Kid), The Creature from the Black Lagoon, and Footloose, to name but a few.

Many more are rumored to be in the works (I can't be the only one looking forward to a new Silent Night, Deadly Night). And that's ignoring the dozens of do-overs that have been already released in the last decade.

Whatever your feelings on the matter, remakes serve an important purpose. They allow studios to rake in money without requiring them to put any effort into plot or script, for starters. Remakes also spare us -- the viewing audience -- the inconvenience of having to discover movies that were released more than fifteen years ago or try to comprehend anything more complicated than the half dozen plots we're already comfortable with.

Finally, without our love of making the same films over and over again, Eddie Murphy's career would have ended shortly after Coming to America.

Aside from old movies, Hollywood often looks overseas for their "inspiration." This is often the case with horror remakes, and specifically for Asian and European titles (though the passage of 20 years has made `80s flicks like Nightmare on Elm Street and My Bloody Valentine fair game as well). This was understandable when foreign titles were difficult to obtain domestically, but now the only justification appears to be a mutually agreed-upon laziness pact between filmmakers and audiences.

I say, enough pussyfooting around. Buying the rights to an obscure Japanese horror movie and signing some jerkweed music-video director to helm it is easy. What we need are movie producers like J.L. Warner and Louis B. Mayer: men with the balls to say, "If we're going to do this, let's go all in by God."

Here are a few ideas to get started:

Casablanca 2012
Set in Rick's, the hottest dance club in Miami, we follow the eponymous club owner (played by Jay-Z) as he attempts to reconcile with his old flame (Beyonce) as the world around them descends into chaos following the Heat winning the NBA championship. He receives advice from "Sam," a spectral presence only he can see/hear, played by a CGI Humphrey Bogart.

​Neal Patrick Harris' nifty opening musical number for last Sunday's Emmy Awards ceremony got some polite laughter for daring to rhyme "boob tube" and "Tony Shalhoub," but his extended plea to viewers to "put down the remote" undercuts the dismal apprehension that has paralyzed the major networks ever since Tony Soprano strangled Fabian Petrulio. Hamstrung by advertisers and the FCC, the Big Four have been preparing for what they believe is the Cathode Ray Day of Reckoning, when cable programming, the internet, and the death of all those old people who watch The Ghost Whisperer inevitably bring about the collapse of broadcast TV.

It's certainly easy to get that impression. This year's Emmy winners for Drama and Miniseries all went to shows playing on basic or pay cable channels, with stations not previously known for original programming like AMC coming on strong with excellent, intelligent offerings like Mad Men and Breaking Bad. Between the approximately eleventy bazillion satellite and digital cable channels, the ascent of TiVo, and the fact that many producers still consider Mama's Family the alpha and omega of situation comedy, it would seem a network executive Jonestown is just around the corner.

But don't start mixing that Kool-Aid just yet, Jeff Zucker, because in my exhaustive research on the matter (a marathon Hulu viewing session broken up by frequent drunken crying jags) I've discovered three areas in which network television is superior to its counterparts.

​Congressman Joe Wilson calls the President a liar; Serena Williams threatens to force-feed a line judge a tennis ball; Kanye West creates a media frenzy by interrupting a meaningless award presentation. And everywhere -- from USA Today to the Washington Post to The View -- America agonizes: "When did we become so rude?" "What became of common courtesy?" "What happened to our manners?"

I've been a little unfocused lately (what with feverishly anticipating a new season of Two and a Half Men) and my attention span has never been the best, so I must have missed the great Gilded Age of Politeness that Marco R. della Cava, Brad Hirschfield, and others are recalling with such melancholy. Could someone with a better memory than mine remind me of those vanished halcyon days? Regale me with stories of a bygone era when the good citizens of this Republic were able to purchase salt water taffy and visit the penny arcade without being subjected to the spectacle of such uncouth vulgarians.

Rep. Wilson is many things, but Congress' first jackass he ain't. Americans are unused to displays of violence like those seen every week in other parliamentary bodies across the globe (reps in India and South Korea seem especially fond of mayhem), but there were fistfights and foul mouths in Congress almost from the get-go. Preston Brooks going all Goodfellas on Charles Sumner is remembered best, but spirits were similarly "elevated" in the days leading up to World War I, in the McCarthy years, and during the debate over Civil Rights.

​Last week saw the commemoration of a dark milestone in our country's history. Millions of Americans used this anniversary as an opportunity to reflect on the misery and hardship many are still enduring as a result. In writing this, I hope not only to correct certain revisionist interpretations of the event in question, but also to alert my countrymen that the struggle is far from over, and that action to counter further hostility might be needed much sooner than we think.

I'm talking, of course, about the 40th anniversary of Scooby-Doo.

The damage was mostly done to my generation; the kids who grew up in the '70s thinking that watching 50 hours of TV a week could never lead to vision/attention problems or unrealistic expectations of adulthood. Scooby-Doo, Where Are You? and other Hanna-Barbera product like The Flintstones also introduced us to -- and then made us accept -- lazy, sub-par animation as the norm. Worse than that, the show's craptastic influence spread far beyond its own imprint. The airwaves of that decade were saturated with knock-offs in the same "teenagers + wacky [animal/automobile/Pleistocene hominid] solving mysteries" vein. In those primitive pre-TiVo days, sitting through Captain Caveman or Goober and the Ghost Chasers while waiting for your Looney Tunes fix was excruciating enough to make you chew through your Stretch Armstrong.

​Gentle reader, for almost two years now, I've been serving up hot dishes of pop culture snark and doing my best to keep you informed on the fascinating happenings occurring on the pop culture radar. It's been an absolutely fabulous time, and I'm grateful to the Press for giving me this forum.

But I must let you know that this will be my final post.

In a way, I'm all snarked out -- there's only so many times a gal can write about empty-headed starlets and deliciously bad reality television before she starts to feel dirty on the inside. Plus, I've got some other writing projects I want to focus on, and scribbling about the catfights on The View takes more time and energy than you might think.

But I do want to say thank you for taking the time to read and comment. And I do want you to know that even though I may not post here anymore, I will never be far from you.

Yes, whenever there's a fake breast exploding on Rock of Love: The Bus...I'll be there.

Whenever our Britney shows off her vagina/C-section scar combo...I'll be there.

​Have you seen that promo for KPRC news where Dominique Sachse and pals are wandering around a gigantic room, begging us to tell them what we want them to cover?

I've been searching for it on YouTube with no luck, but I think you know the one. Bill Balleza and Dom and the whole crew want us to e-mail them, to stop them on the street, to let them know what we want them to cover...because it's our news program. US! The citizens of Houston! We own those bitches!

And then there's all of this "Follow us on Twitter!" "Be our Facebook pal!" nonsense. It's certainly not just KPRC, I'm sure (although I'm admitting right now that those are my news peeps, yo). But honestly, doesn't it depress you a little that these journalists want us to tell them what to report on?

I don't think a brain surgeon would ask me to join him in the operating theater and suggest where to make that first incision. ("Doctor, I recommend cutting in the shape of a lightning bolt!") And I doubt an attorney would want me to waltz into court and offer up my advice. ("Try flirting with the jury members a little -- they look horny.")

​Okay, skinny-jeans-wearing early twentysomethings with dirty hair, get ready to stand in line at the movie theater and reminisce about your youth (a.k.a. last year) because the film version of Where the Wild Things Are is due out in theaters in mid-October. OMFG!

Apparently this movie is an event worthy of a hipster trifecta, with Spike Jonze directing, Karen O of the Yeah Yeah Yeahs working on the soundtrack, and King of Precious Twee Himself Dave Eggers co-writing the screenplay.  

I had the opportunity to catch the trailer this weekend (which recently dropped on MySpace much to the delight of the young'uns), and it caused me to realize something.  

The book Where the Wild Things Are annoyed the shit out of me as a young girl.

​Did the creators of this Melrose Place remake not take a note from the obvious failure of the "new" 90210? Did they not realize that you can only catch lightning in a bottle once?

Yes, friends, apparently the CW is bringing back the `90s soap in September, and I, for one, am disgusted by this turn of events.

I was so excited about the premiere of the REAL Melrose back in the day that I actually taped the first episode (okay, so I was 15 when it aired, gimme a break). I watched that first hour over and over, convinced that this was what my twenties would be like -- full of love, lust, intrigue, and Andrew Shue. (Wherefore art thou, Billy?) I still remember my father walking into the family room as I viewed the show's antics intently and hearing him say, "What the hell is this crap?"

By the time I made it college, Melrose had become a delightful, campy piece of filthy trash, complete with the infamous scene where Kimberly Shaw (all hail Marcia Cross) ripped off her wig -- awesome! The `90s version of Melrose -- the classic version -- lived and died by its own rules, and its spirit cannot be recaptured!

​For most kids in the Houston area, this week signals the return to reading, writing, and random drug searches of their lockers. Ah, modern times. The bell ringing us back to class got Miss Pop Rocks thinking of all the pop culture schools she wishes she could have attended.

Bayside High (Saved by the Bell)
With a principal like Mr. Belding at your beck and call (did you ever notice the man was not even important enough to have his own secretary?), how would you not want to go to a school like Bayside? Class time was mere background noise for a constant stream of school dances, field trips, music video shoots, and hangin' at the Max. Just don't ask where they hid Miss Bliss's body.

DeGrassi Junior High (uh...you know)
Canadians are just way cooler, you know? The kids at DeGrassi were so real man, with their real issues and their real probs and stuff. Teen pregnancy, drug abuse, being gay, divorce...this group of teens made the kids from Bayside look as naïve as kindergarteners. I love you, Spike!

​

Oh my God, Miss Pop Rocks, now you're going to pick on little people? HAVE YOU NO SHAME, WOMAN? 

Truth is, I don't. But hear me out. I am not picking on TLC's latest reality stars -- Houston's very own Jen Arnold and Bill Klein -- because they are small. I am picking on them because they are boring as hell and there is no need for them to be on TV. 

Bill's a businessman, Jen's a doctor, and they live in Sugar Land with their dog. I know, I know, it's crazy, right? I mean, they have a dog!?!?!? The bottom line is they are just very average suburbanites making their way through the world, and trips to the grocery store and cooking dinner together is simply not as thrilling as TLC would want us to believe it is -- even if you are under four feet tall. It would be like filming Mr. Pop Rocks and me as we ramble around our ranch house arguing about whose turn it is to clean the kitty litter. The only difference is we can store said kitty litter on top of the fridge. 

​OMG, where where where can I find a stewardess outfit like the one on Mad Men's premiere episode last night? And the hat? So cute.

Sigh...my favorite show is back with a vengeance, thank the fates. Retro overload is at work as the Machiavellian machinations of Sterling Cooper's ad agency circa 1960something sweep me off my 21st-century feet.  

Don't tell me you're still not watching this show!

For those who haven't yet seen the first episode of season three and don't want spoilers, do not read on. But for those who did...let's dish!

First of all, will Don ever keep it in his pants? Were we supposed to trust that little tearing up at the end as he and the preggers Betty told little Sally all about the night she was born? Perhaps. But I have a hard time believing Don didn't bang the nurses in the maternity ward on that very special night many years ago.

But didn't you love his face when he caught Salvatore in flagrante delicto with the bellhop in Baltimore? Deelish! For Sal's sake, he's lucky he got caught by Don Draper. Only a man who has more secrets than Sal himself could keep Sal's closeted homosexuality in, well, the closet.

As for Don's past, I'm becoming a little tired of getting hit over the head with flashbacks from his trashy childhood. Yes, yes, he was the son of a prostitute. Like he's the first? Come on, Don, get yourself into therapy and move on from this.

Still so much to discuss...Pete and Trudy seem to have reconciled since her Cuban Missile Crisis meltdown in the end of season two. Does she know about Peggy and Pete's love child? Did they ever end up adopting? And why is Pete so in a tizzy about sharing the head of accounts job? (Although personally I hope Ken gets the position in the end because it's just so much fun to see Pete squirm.) By the way, am I the only one who doesn't like these limeys taking over on our shores? I thought we got rid of those assholes back in 1776.  Hmm...

And Joan! Joan, Joan, Joan. She mentioned she's leaving Sterling Cooper. Because she's getting married...to the rapist? Is she knocked up? Who cares, she's gorgeous and I love looking at her. She better not go the way of Duck Phillips (`member him?) because Mad Men would not be Mad Men without that gorgeous broad.

All right, all right, I'm calming down...but I cannot wait for next week! Squeal!

​Who greenlit Aliens in the Attic? I mean, honestly, who? What film exec got tanked on margaritas at La Casa de Enchiladas and said, yes, let's make this film about aliens and a suburban family with Kevin Nealon as the put-upon Pop?

I thought we were in a recession. Shouldn't it take a LOT to get a film into production these days? Aren't we basically expecting the very best to rise to the top in this competitive market? How how HOW has this shit been allowed to filter through?

The premise of the aliens and the everyday family worked exactly twice. Once with E.T. and once with Gremlins. And frankly in both of those cases, the charm came with the fact that the aliens were real creatures. I don't mean real in the sense that they were actually aliens, but they'd been created by a team of make-up artists and puppeteers and they had personality. It wasn't all about their super special effects and their computer-created abilities. When Gertie dressed up E.T. or when Gizmo hummed a little tune, it was sweet for what it was - just a funny little character that amused us.

​I am not kidding on this one.  

Nadya Suleman, the mother of five billion children, belongs in jail.

Why? Because she recently signed a deal to have a reality show made about her life. Her moneymakers, including the world's only surviving octuplets, will get paid about $250 a day.

This woman is a pimp for children. That is all that she is.

Her kids should have never been allowed to go home with her in the first place, and the second the ink was dry on the contract, Child Protective Services should have come in and taken those little ones away.

Seriously. When are we going to learn a lesson from the Jon & Kate Plus 8 fiasco? How long will it be before the Gosselins and the Duggars and the rest of these kids who under no choice of their own have been exposed to the nonsense of constant media scrutiny completely lose their minds? What will the suicide rates be? What will the therapy bills cost? Google "Dionne Quintuplets" and find out how this story ends.

I am such a Johnny-come-lately to this party, I fear. But then again, perhaps it is for the best that I did not realize any sooner that Gwyneth Paltrow has what has to be the most self-indulgent, ridiculous website ever, and it's named -- for some reason -- Goop (with the tagline "Nourish the Inner Aspect").

Gwynnie has been on my shit list since she won that Oscar for Shakespeare in Love a few years back and did that "Oh me?" affected crying bit while gripping her statuette. She's always struck me as one of those New York City privileged types (which she is) -- someone who doesn't know what Real America is all about, yet sees fit to lecture all of us about organic fruit and why we should eat it. (Man, if I don't watch it, I'm going to start sounding like Richard Nixon talking about the Silent Majority.)

ANYway, Ms. Paltrow seems to believe she is an expert at, well, life, and her Goopy website is divided up into such categories as "Make" and "Go" and "Be" and "See." She uses words and phrases like "duality" and "spiritual disciplines within different religions" and "When I was ten years old, my father and I took a trip to Paris, leaving my younger brother and mother in London where she was filming a movie." (Yes, I can so relate.)