GooseTown: The Official Blog of the Memorial Day Weekend (TM)

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That's right kids, I've cornered, sponsored and trademarked an entire weekend. Get ready for some swearin' and some rantin', because, for Christ's sake, I have to make like I'm actually at the family picnic.

--Here's one thing I never want to hear from anyone again, ever: "You're going to wear THAT to the gym?" Never. Hear again. Ever. Who gives a crispy crap what the f*ck I wear to work out? My dad was classic for this. "How can you go out like that, in a maroon shirt and green shorts?" Are you kidding? I'm going to sweat and be nasty and stew in my own filth. The last thing on my mind is my textilular blending of the chroma scale. It's exercise, not an official Convening of Parliament.

--Two interesting Blog-related items:

1) Thanks to VP Walling for this link, which details the plight of the Blogger addicted to Blogging like Blogging is digital crack. He he he, losers.

2) Have you guys seen/read about this guy? He calls himself "Rance" (get it, Rance? Rants? F*ck off then) and is causing quite a stir here in town. Rance claims to be a very famous actor - once pointing out that he's seen he's face quite a few times on magazines - and wants to anonymously detail little interesting nuggets about Hollywood culture. People are taking this seriously, and industry opinion, by and large, is that this guy is for real. Guesses have been thrown out as to his identity, which he closely guards. These hypotheses run the gamut but the most popular seem to be Matthew Perry, Jim Carrey, George Clooney, and Ben Affleck. I spent an hour reading every post last night, and whether or not this dude is actually an actor, this stuff is fascinating. My guess? If he is what he says he is, I'd put my money on Jon Favreau. Just seems like his style.

--Next entry in my Why Would You F*cking Do That, You F*cking D*uchebag? Category (TM): the tool set I just purchased. Got this cheap 105-piece tool set over Amazon, $9.99, just in case things slip up around the house and I need to pretend like I know how to fix them.

OK, here's a simple question, kids: if someone were to buy a tool set, what would be their most likely reason?

Wait for it...

Wait for it...

Right. Because they don't have tools. Makes sense, no? There are no tools in my apartment. I order some. Tools arrive. I'm happy. Little snap case, everything I need, perfect. There's a rigid piece of plastic covering the open case. No problem, I'll just snap it off. I'll just sna...come on motherfu...why won't you...you've got to be kidding me. In a fit of genius, possibly to prohibit shifting and spiling of contents while in transit to my apartment, some gloriously fabulous motherf*cker took occasion to SCREW THE EVERF*CKING PLASTIC TO THE TOOL CASE. The problem, dear sir, lies in the fact that the very screwdriver needed to undo the deed is SEALED UNDER THE EVERF*CKING PLASTIC.

To call whoever did this the Prime Minister of Insane Clodhopping D*uchebags is an insult to clodhoppers, mental patients, d*uchebags, and Canadia. And I know exactly who this guy is. He's the same guy, who I've mentioned before, that designed the photo label on a folding chair I bought in college. Simple canvas folding chair with a cupholder. Hung on one arm was a photo label (which included the price tag) that had four time-lapse photos on it: 1) a person holding my chair; 2) the person unfolding my chair; 3) the person setting my chair on the ground; 4) the person SITTING ON THE GROUND NEXT TO THE F*CKING CHAIR.

It's the same guy, both times. I can just see this assh*le right now, sitting at a dive bar in Florida somewhere regurgitating ill-advised West-Virginia-incest jokes and bragging to three locals and a goat about what an assh*le he is. And he's right.

--My buddy Johnny One Lung is in a band. You should care.

--This week the Wednesday Night World Dive Bar Tour took a stop at The Starlight Room in North Hollywood. The best part of the night took place in the midst of a heated discussion. Before I get into the story, take into account that the place takes no credit cards, is roughly equivalent in space to a medium-sized apartment, and has a schizophrenic dartboard that shuts down for roughly five minutes after every game, refusing to start another unless someone agrees to push the "League" button, which as far as we could tell did absolutely nothing but extend the non-playing of darts further. Also take into account that, out of roughly 40 people in the joint, the Dive Bar Aficionados (mostly industry folk) made up a little over half of the crowd for most of the night.

My boss poses a simple question for me: "Geoff - Brad Pitt in Seven: Serviceable or Brilliant?" Some other people answer before I get the chance, but I agree with my buddy Rainbow Room Nathan, the biggest Brad Pitt fan alive (he's not gay, but...well, that's a story for another day) that he was serviceable only because Morgan Freeman stole the show. Twelve Monkeys? Brilliant. But while the room is embroiled in controversy, someone calls out, "WHAT'S IN THE BOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOX?" This starts a chain reaction. Suddenly, you have ten or so industry males recreating arguably Brad's most famous line in front of a bunch of burly (and rather stunned) locals. Immaculately entertaining.

This outburst is rivaled only by my buddy Kowabunga Dave who, upon Jeff Weaver's headshot filling the big screen at the Dodger Stadium, shot out, "It puts the lotion in the basket!" You can't beat that ad-libbing.

--I've begun tripping more often than I ever have in my entire life, and I'm not talking in the cool Jerry Garcia way. Like every remotely exposed crack in the sidewalk nearly puts me on my ass. Someone help.

--You know what? I'm going to talk about it and I don't give a f*ck who calls me a pedophile: I have seen the Lindsay Lohan breast pictures. I stared. I ogled. I was at first elated, and then I realized that her breasts are quite clearly of the silicone persuasion. People (including Lindsay herself) have decried that they could not possibly be fake, as she's only 17 years old. Guess what? Bullsh*t. It's not routine, but there are doctors that will put fakies in a 16 year old. And if you're famous? Get on the reality train, people.

I will say that, if they're real (and Christ knows there's every chance I'm wrong, I'm wrong a lot) they are the most impressive and beautiful mammary glands I have ever seen, and I yearn to touch them on any day of my life after July 2, 2004.

--Hot? How about every female in Troy, save for Hector's wife. Not that there was any thing seriously wrong with her, but she was too skinny and had this elongated neck-thing that made me uncomfortable whenever she was onscreen.

Speaking of movies, go see The Terminal. Absolutely phenomenal, save for the last five minutes. I won't spoil it for you, but suffice to say that while the God-awful ending doesn't spoil the rest of the fantastic film, it get agonizingly close. I actually sat through the credits, loudly voicing my displeasure and begging for the real ending to be shown. I even know of a perfect way to have done it, and Spielberg, much as I love him, screwed the pooch.

Seriously, is Big Steve slipping or what? His last three films (this, Catch Me if You Can and A.I.) have all looked so strong and then staggered into the last five-fifteen minutes. In particular, Artificial Intelligence (which I loved, much to the chagrin of...yeah, everyone I talk to) could and should have been one of the best movies of that year, if not ever, and Steve f*cked it up by adding an extended homage to Close Encounters, stealing away from the darkness and grit that Kubrick had intended for the film, and closing it with a sappy, family-friendly ending. Has anyone besides Jenna Jameson and Ron Jeremy blown more film endings recently? Methinks no.

Someone get the man an Aderol and tell him that we don't always expect films to end with the moon and stars perfectly aligned.

That's all I've got for now, except to tell you that this only the second cloudy day to befall Los Angeles since my arrival nearly two months ago.