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I splurged last week and bought all three seasons of DEADWOOD on DVD (they’re pretty cheap on Amazon right now). I won’t bother telling you how brilliant the show is. If you’ve seen it, and “got” it, you already know.

One of the special features in the first season set is a 45-minute interview with David Milch, conducted by Keith Carradine, who played Wild Bill Hickok in the first few episodes. It’s an amazing interview, and Milch proves to be one of the flat-out smartest writers I’ve ever seen interviewed. His understanding of human behavior and social dynamics — and, by extension, character development — is absolutely mind-blowing at times.

At one point, the conversation turns to the nature of celebrity, and the way people feel toward famous people — that fine line between adoration and contempt. It’s a subject I’ve been really fascinated by lately (which will someday manifest itself as a story) and I was anxious to hear Milch’s thoughts on it.

In particular, they were discussing a scene in which Wild Bill, busy doing carpentry work with his new friend Bullock and enjoying a rare moment of peace, is interrupted by an annoying fan. Hickok is exasperated. He suffers the idiot for a minute, then he just can’t take it anymore and tells him to go away. Immediately the man, who had up to this point been heaping praise on Wild Bill, turns on him and screams “I hope you fucking die! And I hope it happens in this camp!” (Very similar to that scene in THE KING OF COMEDY, where the sweet little old lady wishes cancer on Jerry Lewis’s character after he apologetically denies her an autograph.)

Milch’s comment:

“Nathaniel West wrote, I thought, beautifully about that syndrome, and W.H. Auden, the poet, wrote an essay about West’s analysis of that syndrome, which he called ‘West’s Disease.’ It’s about people who, for whatever reason, are unable to turn wishes into passions in their life, and lacking that capacity, sit passively in mute outrage, anticipating disasters. They go to fires. Any sort of natural disaster attracts them. And in the absence of a natural disaster, they sometimes try and create disasters. And they hate the people whose lives, whether successful or not, are pursued with passion. At first they idolize them, then they want to destroy them. They want to appropriate the vitality of those people.”

Pretty damned astute, no?

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‘10,000 B.C.’: Time Bomb, By Kurt Loder

The new Roland Emmerich movie “10,000 B.C.” can be recommended to those who have (1) never seen Mel Gibson’s vastly superior “Apocalypto”; (2) never seen the matchless “Lord of the Rings” pictures; or (3) never seen a movie before in their lives.

Heh.

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Always good for a quick laugh.

This year’s nominees for Worst Movie are:

Bratz
Daddy Day Camp
I Know Who Killed Me
I Now Pronounce You Chuck & Larry
Norbit

I Know Who Killed Me, a thriller about a murdered stripper who has a psychic twin or something, leads the pack with nine nominations, including Worst Actress (Lindsay Lohan), Worst Screenplay, and — my personal favorite — Worst Excuse For A Horror Movie.

Complete 2007 nominations here.

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The Motion Picture Production Code (aka, the Hays Code), which governed film content from 1930 to 1968, in its entirety.

Interesting reading.

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I am not an entertainment snob. (Well, except for Larry the Cable Guy. If you think he’s funny, then there’s clearly something wrong with you and my snobbishness is a natural and fair reaction.) This general acceptance of other people’s taste has long been a point of pride for me, but I just spent ten minutes reading through the latest issue of In Touch magazine, and I really have to ask: Is this shit written for retarded people? I’m not talking about the magazine’s purpose; I understand the fascination with celebrities and the rich and all that shit. I really do. I’m not talking about that. I’m talking about the reading level that this particular gossip rag is written at, which is, like, second grade at best.

(My favorite part: The “Celebrities - They’re Just Like Us!” section, which featured a photo of (I think) Julia Roberts holding an umbrella with a big superimposed caption reading, “They use umbrellas when it rains!” Swear to God.)

I challenge both of my readers to flip through an issue and tell me it doesn’t read like it was written by an 11-year-old girl. A drunk 11-year-old girl. With a learning disability. And a history of abuse. Whose primary language isn’t English.

[My original draft of that line: "...a 12-year-old girl who just pounded four vodka-and-Red Bulls." Evocative, sure, but I think I went with the better joke.]

I’m kind of flabbergasted right now. And that’s a word I almost never use because it makes me sound like the white guy in a black stand-up comic’s routine.

If any of you actually read and enjoy In Touch, please defend yourself and that sub-literate piece of shit magazine in the comments section.

Thank you.

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Poor guy.

I grew up a stone’s throw from Caesars Palace, so the footage of Knievel’s infamous wreck as he attempted to jump the fountains on a motorcycle has always had a weirdly special place in my heart. And even now, 40 years on, watching it still makes me wince and go, “God! Fuck! Oh my–! JESUS GOD!!”

You were brave and crazy, Evel. The world is a little less badass today.

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I approve.

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Courtesy of the Star Wars Crafts group on Livejournal (really?), here’s a painting of Admiral Ackbar on black velvet.

Thanks, Internet!

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Actual screenshot:

…

MySpace: A sort of place that might possibly be for things that are pretty much like friends or whatever.

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So when I saw this morning’s news story about how OJ Simpson allegedly robbed the Palace Station, I pretty much squealed with glee, knowing that I had just read the greatest news story of all time.

For those unfamiliar, the Palace Station is this little shitball casino about two miles from the Strip on Sahara Avenue that caters to locals — locals, in this case, meaning old people who like to join slot clubs. (A slot club — again, for those not from Vegas — is where you sign up at the casino and they give you this magnetic card, like a credit card. Then, every time you sit down to play a machine, you insert the card, and by playing you slowly rack up points that can be redeemed at the casino’s gift shop for keychains and satin jackets and shit. Meanwhile, the casino now has your mailing address and uses it to send you a bunch of junk mail. It’s a win-win!)

The Palace Station has a small pit of table games (including $2 Blackjack, if memory serves), a race and sports book, a not-altogether-terrible buffet, and a pretty darn good coffee shop. They also, apparently, have a small museum of sports memorabilia.

Which was robbed Thursday night.

Allegedly by OJ Simpson.

This might actually be worse than the time Dana Plato robbed that Blockbuster (also in Vegas — Flamingo and Jones, IIRC).

Entertaining!

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