Ceaseless Entertainment

Bravo for Superman Returns! I enjoyed it so much. See, Matt? I can like movies. I really can. And I did like this one. My one nitpicky complaint is that Kate Bosworth's wig action was pretty awful. But I didn't even care. And I don't like Kate Bosworth. And I REALLY don't like Kevin Spacey. And I thought Parker Posey looked terrible. But that didn't stop me from thrilling. And Ottman does such beautiful things with the parts of the original Williams score he repurposes. Such beautiful things.

Not everything was plausible. Not everything made sense. But the things I think were most precariously at risk were worried for on no account. What a rotten sentence that was. What I mean is: Brandon Routh was perfect. Even the re-envisioning of how Superman moves is especially wonderful. His physical abilities seemed so much less corny and clunky. His flight is balletic. He can turn over and do the backstroke. He can do anything. And I believed it. So, he didn't underact or overact. He didn't make it look like a sideshow. Gay, you say, Beulah? More like gay-REAT. Wait. That doesn't sound as good as I meant it to either.

When I was at the comedy theater over the weekend, I was talking about how bad X-Men: The Last Stand was, and I was accused of being unpleasable. But this was my point. Brett Ratner is no Bryan Singer, and never the twain shall meet. Except maybe at a disco party in the Hollywood Hills. Bryan Singer is a wonderful filmmaker. Whether you love or hate the superhero genre. Whether you think comic books are canon or crap-wiping paper. He makes movies that don't rely on the genre to tell their stories. I feel as if I'm about to compare him to Nicholas Meyer. Someone stop me before I drag Captain Kirk into this. But back to Bryan Singer. I don't know his actual influences, but you can appreciate him for the (early) George Lucas or the (early) Steven Spielberg in his work as much as you can for the William Wyler. Brett Ratner, by comparison, is good friends with Russell Simmons.

I'm sure there are things that will crop up if I see it again or discuss it with more people. Violations of the myth. Bum-outs over the crisis. Questions about the science of kryptonite. The friends I saw it with hashed through some of these things outside the theater, but then Kevin and I had to jet off to see Eddie Izzard, who was also impressive and hilarious and wonderful. He reprised one of the bits I remember from Sexy, which I saw in 2003 on three different nights with four different people. But it was nearly all new material, all delivered in his hallmark smart, endearing, tangential way. I will see him again this week. And I will marry him one day, if he will have me.

I have a review of the changes to the Pirates of the Caribbean attraction at Disney's Disneyland on deck, too, but I am very hungry.

I really admire Robert F. Kennedy, Jr.

It's a shame he's got that weird glottal stop problem when he speaks. Otherwise it would always be a pleasure to hear what he has to say. I guess that's why he writes books. It's a shame that beautiful and skillful elocution is a matter of such unfailing importance to the American voting public. When presidential campaigns happen on paper, boy oh boy, he's our man.

I consider it my sociocultural responsibility.

But I'm seventeen minutes into Dane Cook's Tourgasm, and I realize that the reason they called it "Tourgasm" is that, when you watch it, you can taste Dane Cook's jizz in your mouth. Two observations about Dane Cook's jizz? It's not funny. And it tastes like a bunch of other guys' jizz.

What's really appalling is watching these not-funny guys who are touring with him working out their relationship issues on the bus. If this thing doesn't end with footage of someone busting into the bus and spraying them all with a fatal burst of machine gun fire, I may have to cancel my subscription to HBO.

Somnolence is not indicated.

An anomalous Saturday. I woke up early. Way early for me on a Saturday. Like seven thirty. At first, it was because I had my windows open, and the ill-mannered children next door were playing basketball. But I realized I wasn't really sleepy. So, I took Audrey for a walk, and it was already hot out. Way hot. I thought about taking her to the park, but I ended up getting dressed and being very, very productive, errand-wise. I went to the post office and to the pharmacy and to The Grove, where I returned things and bought things, and then to Whole Foods, where I was made to feel pretty in my pigtails, and then back to the pharmacy, and then back home, where I walked Audrey again and found that it was even hotter. I have a little bag to carry her around in, but she's not into it much. This morning, I put her in it and carried her around my apartment for a while, hoping she would get used to it. But she's too smart for me. There's always lots of dogs at The Grove, and I always wish I could bring her with me, but I know that as soon as I have a bag to carry, she will be too much to handle.

My prescriptions cost me hundreds of dollars. I expected it. But still. I wish I had health insurance. I wish it made more sense financially to pay for insurance than to just pay for my hospital visits out of pocket. I guess I might be a socialist after all. And it's misleading for me to say, "I guess," before that sentence, as I know I've been a socialist all along.

When I was at Whole Foods, I was asking for a piece of the sliced London Broil they had in the prepared foods case. The fellow who helped me is very patient with me, as I always seem to end up fussing over which piece is the rarest, that being the one I would want. A guy in a cyclist's helmet asked me what kind of meat that was. And I said, "London Broil." It occurred to me later he might have been asking what actual animal it was from. But I guess if you can't recognize beef when you see it, that's your cross to bear. I bought tofu, too, but not for the sake of the ecosystem or anything. I buy what I like. And it seems as if I have to kill at least one moth a day in my apartment. That's plenty cross for me.

No one I called today answered. That's just the way it is sometimes.

Press to play. Wait! Not record! Dammit!

You just erased my copy of Kenny Rogers and Dolly Parton singing Islands in the Stream! Now, what am I going to ride my exercise bike to?

I have always maintained that Soundwave is the lamest of the Decepticons. I have also pretty consistently said that Michael Bay is the lamest of the Directorcons. So it is with delight that I link my solidarity brothers to Michael Bay's Transformers in Car Mode. Martín, I know you disagree with me. But even the Decepticons don't like Soundwave. It's time to let go of your childhood and realize that grown-ups own CD players.