Getting Brave at PopScene

When we somehow found our way behind a crowd of rather absurdly tall people, a much shorter little trendster, bent on full-body dancing, leaned around me and said, “I have to get up to the front. The bassist is so cute.”

Admittedly, considering songs like “Tyrant,” “cute” may not be the first word that leaps to mind when thinking about The Bravery.

But as the band took the stage rather ruggedly – the lead singer clad in a full-length orange sweater, shirt and tie, which left him dripping with sweat by the second song – there was an unconscious stylishness to the NY boys.

Blasting their characteristic synth-pop, despite shoddy microphones that screeched throughout the set, the five-piece weaved crowd-faves from their first album with more subdued/generically-introspective songs from their forthcoming release.

The Bravery succeed most when they exert their more eloquent guitar-driven pop – the songs that are driven by ferocious, if not verbally simplistic, choruses, much like Franz Ferdinand. (“Fearless” could easily be a Franz song.)

But perhaps the boys are less successful when they have to ask us to listen in on what they’re really feeling deep down. The new single “Time Won’t Let Me Go,” from their forthcoming “The Sun & The Moon” seems to gasp at the edge of existentialism, but the songwriting is not quite strong enough to sustain the idea. (Plus, the chorus sounds distinctly like a Third Eye Blind song that I can’t quite place, and quite frankly, it’s driving me crazy.)

When The Bravery really get going though, hammering out “An Honest Mistake,” “Unconditional,” and “No Brakes,” it’s easy to love them.

Pop Rocks and Near-Riots

If I’d been waiting for something to blow my hair back, I did finally get my wish, and not in the place I had expected. While I might have thought that a young tenacious little upstart band might surprise me, it was actually The Stooges, that 70s outfit of now very-middle aged dudes fronted by shirtless wonder Iggy Pop, that really caught me off guard.

Almost as soon as it was announced that the venerable proprietors of punk rock would be playing at South by Southwest, in conjunction with promoting their new album “The Weirdness,” a line started forming around Stubb’s. And when I arrived, a few hours before the show, the line extended down the street and around the corner. While some concert-goers declared the line “sucktastic” and moved on to other venues, those of us who saw it through experienced The Stooges’ unmistakable fierceness as they cranked out classics like “I Wanna Be Your Dog” and “Lust For Life.”

Iggy paraded out on stage, bare-chested, running from end to end of the stage and jumping into the crowd. When he jumped into the pit of photographers in the front, every flashbulb in the house went off, and it’s a wonder a riot didn’t break out.

In comparison to the act that played before them, the Austin-based band Spoon, the Stooges were a shot of pure adrenaline. Not that Spoon didn’t put on a terrific performance, or prove their musical talent and worthiness, and not that there weren’t some die hard know-all-the-lyrics Spoon fans in the audience, but the crowd had come for Iggy.

It seems that bands of The Stooges’ era have a different mentality about what makes a great concert. It’s more than just a performance, it’s more than a lot of flashing lights and choreography, it’s more than just sounding good – it’s about being there, in the moment, with the fans. The Stooges were there, and they let you know it.

Lost in Beerland

It was St. Patrick’s day and everyone was out in full force, celebrating their Irish pride (or at least their beer-loving pride) by wearing green, drinking beer, and stumbling from bar to bar. In an effort to avoid the maddened thousands, I attempted to explore the lesser-known options.

March 17 – Essential Listening:
Malajube – “Montreal -40 C”
Takka Takka – “Draw a Map”
The Black Lips – “Boomerang”
Kings of Leon – “The Bucket”
Spoon – “I Turn My Camera On”
The Walkmen – “Louisiana”
Classic pick: The Stooges – “I Wanna Be Your Dog”


2:45pm
On the outside patio of La Habana the guest list line for the Nylon party wandered up toward the street, and inside the gate there was a full house awaiting a set from The Fratellis. Performing on the indoor stage was Takka Takka, who gave a solid effort with their harmonica-infused melodies. Disappointingly, The Fratellis played a rather passionless sit-down acoustic set – meaning that only a few people at the very front could actually see the band, and leaving the rest of us to wonder if they were actually here on the patio, or if we were just listening to a recording. “Flathead,” was of course, the big song everyone wanted to hear, but for my time, it would have been better to just watch the iPod commercial again.

4:30pm
Emo’s was killing me with the hand stamps this week. Seriously, I’m pretty sure some of that dark purple un-washable ink has leaked into my bloodstream. I was looking for a show, so I stepped into Emo’s Main Room, and suddenly realized that I was the oldest person there. I had a good five years on anybody else in the room. Kids in all of their faux-emo 17-year-old adolescent glory packed the place to see Cute is What We Aim For – who, from what I gathered, take their place along side acts like Gym Class Heroes and Fall Out Boy. (They have a track, “There’s a Class For This” on the just-released Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles movie soundtrack.) The hearts of all the young girls were a-flutter as Cute’s leader remarked how hot it was with his long-sleeved shirt on, and while all the boys stood their awkwardly, I ran for the door, trying to rub the dark purple goop off my wrist.

5:15pm
I wound up in Beerland, a dark netherland of a club, just before Stubb’s, where the Black Lips were readying their set. I’d heard that Black Lips shows could get crazy, and when the trio unleashed their dirty southern sound, the crowd dug in. Both the band and fans slurred and threw beer cans and people in front of the stage jumped up and down, drenched in sweat. A photographer snapped dozens of pictures, and when he headed back into the crowd to grab some girls and start a sloppy mosh pit, I once again knew it was time to get out.

Strip Down And Unplug

It’s been a few days into the all-you-can-hear musical buffet that is South by Southwest, and I’ve managed to see some pretty great acts. I’m still waiting to be stunned and amazed, but there’s a little time left before I surely succumb to my death by second-hand smoke.

March 16 – Essential Listening:
The Apples in Stereo – “Energy”
Scissors For Lefty – “Ghetto Ways”
Honeycut – “Shadows”
Bonde do Role – “Melo do Vitiligo”
The Faint – “I disappear”
The Good the Bad and the Queen – “Herculean”

4pm
I wandered down to Habana to get a dose of snap-happy rock from The Apples in Stereo. With their feel-good tracks “Can You Feel it?” and “Energy” at the start of the set, The Apples in Stereo’s sound lies somewhere between Sister Hazel and The Flaming Lips. While the keyboardist took the stage in a silvery pseudo-space suit with cape and yellow-lensed glasses, the rest of the band seemed exceedingly normal – a bunch of middle-aged guys happily singing about the “Same Old Drag.”

5:15pm
Spiro’s hosted a special showcase of San Francisco bands – including Minipop, The Lovemakers, Audrye Sessions, Honeycut and other local faves. Scissors for Lefty opened it up outside – playing their sixth of seven gigs at South by Southwest. If the boys were spent, you wouldn’t guess it, as they piped out “Lay Down Your Weapons” and went on to “Ghetto Ways.” While The Lovemakers’ Lisa Light sucked on a cigarillo, SFL’s lead singer, Bryan Garza, oozed a merry falsetto into the CB radio attached to the microphone, and jumped into the small crowd near the front to dance with the ladies. When he unbuttoned his jeans, I feared a Jim Morrison re-enactment, and shielded my eyes at the glare of tighty-whiteys. Keep ‘em buttoned, man.



9pm
Scurrying into the back of Antone’s I joined the crowd in front of the stage for Margot And the Nuclear So and So’s. They played a few new tunes, all working in their sound of mellow non-diagnosed depression, and then onto “Paper Kitten Nightmare” and (my fave) “Skeleton Key” from “The Dust of Retreat.”

10pm
When I heard that Sufjan Stevens’s collaborator My Brightest Diamond was performing, I was intrigued enough to lend an ear, and what I got was the pure vocal prowess of Shara Worden. While she surely can’t be more than five feet tall, her voice is huge, best evidenced when she covered Roy Orbison’s “It’s Over” toward the end of the set.

10:50pm
There was a line around Beauty Bar extending up past the next venue, as concert-goers turned out to catch Brazilian sensation Bonde do Role, and avert-your-eyes topless rap divas Yo Majesty. Go figure.

11:10pm
Licensing, schmicensing. Sao Paulo group Bonde do Role mix Portuguese rap over often-recognizable tracks like AC/DC’s “You Shook Me All Night Long” and selections from the “Grease” soundtrack with such flair that it’s a wonder ASCAP doesn’t just waive the normal constraints. Like the better-known CSS, Bonde do Role gives an edgy sound to highly danceable tracks, best exemplified on “Marina Gasolina.”

12:10pm
Squeezing into the Eternal just before The Faint took the stage, the venue was hot and about to get hotter, as groovy kids and older groovy kids danced to “Call Call” and “I Disappear.” The show was good and energetic – the right mix of psychedelic imagery in moving lights and pictures and reflective synth beats. And seriously, only a handful of men can get away with wearing eye liner after age 25 – David Bowie, the dudes from Depeche Mode, and Todd Fink from The Faint.

Elvis's Cold War Bloc Party

After the hot day in the sun yesterday, I took it easy last night and mellowed out to Elvis Perkins – the sort of rockabilly-meets-Belle and Sebastian son of late-actor Anthony Perkins. Perkins was all non-fuss and simplicity, crooning on the mic and breaking out the harmonica while his right-hand man played the stand-up bass and the rest of his band, Deerland, jammed on electric guitars and trumpets, finally parading out a big drum and trombone for their finale.

Perkins and Deerland also made a special guest appearance, bedecked in ‘80s sunglasses, for the finale of Cold War Kids, as they wailed and covered Sam Cooke’s “A Change is Going to Come.” Cold War Kids knocked it out of the park with the opening of their set – a bluesy, boozy rendition of “We Used to Vacation.” They slipped into more tired ground, but reinvigorated the crowd with “Hang Me Up to Dry" (Nathan Willett's protruding vocals are simply fantastic), and brought out the saxophones and Elvis for the last number.

I slipped off to catch the second half of The Dears at Stubb’s, a fairly fulfilling appetizer before the main course, Bloc Party. This being my third Bloc Party show in the last 6 months, I’m a bit worried about gaining stalker status. Opening with “Song for Clay” – the first song on their sophomore album, lead singer Kele Okereke hit all the high notes – literally. Putting the more vocally challenging songs at the beginning of the set, Bloc Party was able to mix up tracks from both albums and keep the fans happy, without straining their voices. The set didn’t blow anybody away, but Bloc Party is always a delight. (And yes, I am biased.)

Cedar Street Afternoon

“There’s nothing like being ridiculed by hipsters at 3 in the afternoon.” – Zach Galifianakis, cracking non-received jokes at Cedar Street’s day party

March 15 – Essential Listening:
Kenna – “Out of Control (State of Emotion)”
Youth Group – “Sorry”
Cold War Kids – “We Used to Vacation”
Bloc Party – “Song For Clay”
Maritime – “Parade of Punk Rock T-shirts”
The Fratellis – “Flathead”


3pm
It was a hot, sweaty day, especially if you happened to be a band member exiled to a day stage. So when I got the invite to check out Maritime at the indoor stage at Emo’s, I happily obliged. Despite being indoors, Maritime’s lead guitarist worked up quite a sweat letting loose on the guitar and cranking out some solid tunes.

4:45pm
In a little below ground stone patio, the Filter party strummed along happily – the party-goers in their faux-hip brightly colored finery. I must admit that I was lured to the party to see Kenna – the unlikely pseudo-star of Malcolm Gladwell’s thin-slicing treatise “Blink.” With the attitude of a hip-hop performer but with echoes of electronica and strong rock references, Kenna might not fall into any “category,” but delivers an impressive performance. If I was an agent, I’d do everything in my power to get him a slot as a Bloc Party opener – he has the right mix of energy and dancey-ness (if I can make up a word here) to pull it off.

5:40
A skinny balding man with a big backpack and a strange accent told me he was here to see Youth Group. He looked like a European mathematics grad student, and in a crowd that became mostly female toward the front of the stage, he definitely stood out. The girls were here to see the messily-cute Australian boys, who first scored big in the US with their remake of the Alphaville classic “Forever Young.” Youth Group seem to have two speeds: dreamily awake (“Daisy Chains,” “Start Today Tomorrow”) and surprisingly peppy (“Sorry”). I prefer the peppy.

7pm
Rounding out Filter’s afternoon was sleeper-sensation Badly Drawn Boy, who are out promoting “Born in the UK.”

Inside Austin City Limits

Since I’m at South by Southwest all week – I thought I’d provide some snippets from the fest, as well as a couple of tracks of “essential listening” each day – tracks you should download from artists you’ll be hearing much more from. So without further ado...

March 14 – Essential Listening:

Scanners – “In My Dreams”
The Needles – “Diane”
Beirut – “Scenic World”
The Mountain Goats – “This Year”
Smoking Popes – “I Know You Love Me”

3pm
Scanners at the day stage in the convention center – The lead singer belted out “Lowlife” to round out their set, rolling her eyes back and screaming gently before bursting into the popish happy melody and crooning with her charming English accent.

4:30pm
Screening of “Truth in Terms of Beauty” – a biographical portrait of photographer Herman Leonard who discovered how much he could like photography after glimpsing some artful nude photos of his sister-in-law.

He went on to be a successful fashion, catalogue, and yes, occasional Playboy pin-up photographer, travel the world, have children with beautiful women, and then wind up penniless at 67 years old. When he rediscovered some photos he’d taken in his youth of Duke Ellington, Dizzy Gillespie, Ella Fitzgerald, Miles Davis – now American icons – he made a come-back, and a bigger name for himself. Leonard always had another trick up his sleeve.

10pm
As Beirut started their 40-minute set, the band leader, a 21-year-old with a big voice from Albuquerque, New Mexico, apologized that they hadn’t been able to bring more ukuleles.

With seven band members - playing instruments ranging from drums to trumpet to violin and accordion – Beirut is a uniquely talented outfit. You get the sense that you could probably wheel out a pipe organ and at least one of the band members would know how to play it.

Part “Amelie” soundtrack, part Frank Sinatra, Beirut’s sound is nothing if not distinctive. Commonly labeled as “folk” or “gypsy,” when the band leader breaks out the bullhorn which he points toward the microphone and sings into, the truth may be that Beirut defies labeling.

Plus, that 21-year-old can really blow a trumpet.

11:20pm
Excited fans called out song titles, and the Mountain Goats artfully put some power behind “Going to Georgia,” from 2005’s Zopilote Machine, and “Half Dead,” from their 2006 release “Get Lonely.” But as excited as the fans were, the Goats themselves were most delighted at the finale of the show – they brought out the female Canadian quartet Pony Up!, who shimmied together on stage as the Goats covered Thin Lizzy’s “The Boys Are Back In Town.” Best moment of the day.

The Death Of The Pointed Toe Shoe

It's the last season for the pointed toe shoe, and with this in mind, I've been trying to maximize the wear of my current pairs. Not quite to the extreme that I wear them with everything ("Hey nice argyle leotard and pointy pumps!"), but as much as possible.

This morning, as I hastily pulled on my pointed toe boots, nervously dragging my duffle suitcase, laptop bag, and oversize purse down the two flights of stairs from my apartment to the street, an unexpected thing happened. My pointed toe slipped through one of the long straps of my duffle, just as I stepped forward, thrusting me down the second flight of stairs, onto my knee and hip and finally landing on my back, duffle bag straddled between my legs.

It must have looked like one of those slapstick banana-peel-slipping scenes from an old movie, but it felt like my guts were going to drip out my side. I didn't bust anything, but the side I landed on was tender, red, and bleeding, and will surely turn a brilliant blue and black.

While it might seem easy to blame any number of factors for this fall -- carrying too many things, hurrying while running late, being preoccupied with the parking ticket I knew I was going to get, gravity... personally, I blame the pointy toed shoe.

Had I been wearing, say, a rounded toe, a flat sandal, or (heaven forbid!) a clog -- this never would have happened.

In a seemingly generic plot twist, stolen from the likes of J. Lo flick "The Wedding Planner," this rather attractive man came sprinting down my street -- he'd jumped out of his car, which he was parking, to see if I was okay. Let's face it, pausing during the moment when you've found a parking spot in San Francisco is a heroic act indeed.

Carmen Electra and the Battle of the Bulge

Lately I have been distractedly tormented by the ex-Prince muse, ex-Jenny McCarthy replacement, ex-Dave Navarro’s wife, Carmen Electra.

Earning her keep by hawking a multitude of products on television (seriously, Joan Rivers may be getting jealous) – Electra is featured in a series of Taco Bell advertisements downing burritos. Simultaneously, Electra also stars in new commercials for NV – a weight loss pill that helps Electra once again feel good about her body.

Hmmm… let me put two and two together…

It seems that Taco Bell should be up in arms about this. For all we know, Electra could need to use NV because of 4th meal.

Or, perhaps the two could team up. Buy $100 worth of ½ pound burritos, and you’ve earned yourself a free 7-day NV supply.

Believe me, you have earned it.

Seven minutes to midnight

Seven Minutes

In 1947 the Bulletin of Atomic Scientists (which would be a great name for a band, by the way) created a clock to keep symbolic track of how close we are to the end of the world. Getting their jollies from the countdown to apocalypse (c’mon, who doesn’t?), the B.A.S. set this clock at seven minutes to midnight – with midnight marking the end of life as we know it.

While varying nuclear and climate threats have changed the position of the clock’s hands over the years, the “Doomsday Clock” currently sits where it was originally, at seven minutes. Scientists are, however, getting ready to change this – and it’s not getting further away.

What may be most irksome about this project is that scientists have yet to reveal the year in which the clock will strike midnight. My guess: 2649. Go ahead, call me when I’m wrong.

I’m hoping for an alternate group of scientists to spring up and start a “Count Down to Residing in Paradise” clock – which is what we all know will definitely happen after this world ends. I mean, if you’ve been good.

All I want for Christmas is a water buffalo

It seems to me that Christmas used to be about something more than shopping.

Long ago, I believe, it used to be a religious celebration – a time when people talked about love and redemption and forgiveness.

Now, it seems, Christmas is labeled an “American Holiday,” and licensed to malls and car dealers and department stores. We’re no longer celebrating the birth of a religious leader – we’re celebrating Shopping. Shopping is the true national holiday.

“Christmas” has become a driver of the national economy, and whether or not you believe in the “reason for the season” – if you’re an American, you feel that you must participate.

There are those who would even prefer to leave religion out of the holiday season. After all, why should religious beliefs hamper our ability to spend money?

Among those who seem to have a real vested interest in the Christmas/Shopping season, is, of course, Mr. Bill O’Reilly. In recent years, O’Reilly has taken it upon himself to lead a “War on Christmas” – because nothing’s more fun than invoking feelings of religious war during the season of joy.

O’Reilly makes it his business to call out companies that refrain from using the phrase “Merry Christmas” – and subtly encourages people not to shop at these locations. The scary thing here is not whether retailers use the phrase “Merry Christmas” – it’s that Bill O’Reilly can convince you not to shop somewhere just because they don’t say it.*

Thanks Bill, for really bringing a sense of compassion and togetherness back to a season that’s gotten to be too much about commercialization and the almighty Dollar.

Christmas, after all, is not about buying things. It’s about celebrating our ultimate redemption with people that we love. It’s about giving the deepest love that you know.

This is why personally, I plan to order my gifts from the Heifer Project catalog:
http://www.heifer.org/

This is an organization that helps families in developing nations gain access to food and farming supplies. These are individuals who learn to lead sustainable, independent and productive lives through the gifts of farm animals such as pigs, cows, and yes, water buffalo.

Christmas is not about buying or not buying things at Costco. It’s not about wars on Christmas, or selling books about wars on Christmas. It’s about showing others kindness through giving.

This season, remember, nothing says love like water buffalo.




*This is a testament to O’Reilly’s brilliant ability to ludicrously twist facts and corroborate unrelated truths. It’s not that what he says is entirely false, it’s just that he often combines stories in a way that makes them untrue.
For instance, (from December 7th, 2005):

O’Reilly: “Our pal Harry Belafonte got his award from the AARP yesterday here in New York City, an impact award for Harry. Apparently at the ceremony, he said one reason he's pleased with the award is that it tees off Bill O'Reilly.
“Not so, Mr. Belafonte. I could not care less if the AARP thinks you're swell. My job is to inform the folks that, based on your own words, you don't think very much of your country and that the AARP apparently approves of that stance.”

Somehow O’Reilly takes the fact that Harry Belafonte received an award, combines it with an opinion that Belafonte doesn’t “think very much of” the United States, and thus says that, by association, the AARP doesn’t seem to care about the U.S.

Sweatin' to the Oldies

How the Rolling Stones’ rebellion created a more unified nation


In the late 1960s, they paraded lewd antics and cultural rebellion under a billowing cloud of drugs and sex, and proclaimed themselves to be “the greatest rock and roll band in the world.” Some 40 years later, playing a tour of sold-out stadium shows, and being chronicled by filmmaker Martin Scorsese, the Rolling Stones seem to be proving that they are in fact, the greatest rock and roll band in the world.

At Oakland’s McAffee Coliseum Monday night, as I sat between a middle-aged man lighting a joint and an 11-year-old girl who knew the lyrics to every song, it seemed that these historical symbols of rebellion were easily uniting us in collective nostalgia.

Skipping from the wings, appearing as skinny kids in hipster pants and sparkly t-shirts, the Rolling Stones took the stage under an explosion of fireworks. This is of course, their “Bigger Bang” tour, and with a stage that extended four stories high and a pair of inflatable lips that emerged during the second half of the show, the Stones are decidedly bigger, and perhaps better, than they ever have been.

What makes the Stones so radical, even today, is their ability to create and deliver rock music that is at once both charming and salacious. Their songs, collectively, are as filled with jazz and blues as they are with funk and psychedelia. Their lyrics seem to satisfy primordial and lecherous urges – lyrics that seemed threatening to the generation of Lawrence Welk and Pat Boone devotees that were the parents of the Stones’ early following.

Yet now fans flock, often as family units, to see the Stones. Young and old seem united by this group that had seemed so lasciviously rebellious in the 60s and 70s. It is a true testament to the music and the theatrically electric performances of the band that they have held up for so long – and it finds me wondering if there is any group I can imagine watching at a packed stadium with my own family in 30 years.

The Strokes? The White Stripes? I undoubtedly won’t be racing to see Dr. Dre or Kanye West in 30 years, but I can also little imagine going to see Nine Inch Nails or even Radiohead.

Before the Stones go off and file for Social Security it seems that they are pulling the most shocking move of their careers – culturally uniting us, letting us rally around cries for “Satisfaction!” and “Brown Sugar!” – and asking us to question what (if any) band might be able to bring so many ages together in the future.

Of course, perhaps I am reading too much into the impact of the Rolling Stones. Perhaps I’m giving them too much credit. It is only rock and roll, after all – but I like it.

Will the real Sacha please stand up?

The many personalities of Sacha Baron-Cohen

While Sacha Baron-Cohen may have yet to become a household name, the creator of “Da Ali G Show,” has gone to great lengths to create an alternate persona whose name IS on the tip of everyone’s tongue. That man: Borat.

Rapidly exhausting the publicity circuit, Baron-Cohen has been making the rounds as Kazakh reporter Borat Sagdiyev – and with a $26.3 million opening of his “Cultural Learnings of America for Make Benefit Glorious Nation of Kazakhstan,” Baron-Cohen has done Borat proud.

But where does Borat end and Baron-Cohen begin? The two are often confused, and for good reason.

Baron-Cohen as Borat ceases to be an actor playing a character. He is Borat – in all his bawdy, often outrageous, and subtly naïve brilliance. What Baron-Cohen is doing is almost Vaudevillian in its complete creation of an alternate and unmistakable personality. Just as Lucy Ricardo or Groucho Marx became personalities of their own right, indistinguishable from their creators, Borat seems a throw-back to an earlier style of comedy.

In an age of growing political and racial correctness, Borat exploits our last recesses of national modesty. Under the guise of foreign innocence, Borat often takes the low road, one paved with inappropriate everything (touching, metaphors, nudity), to expose our own American hipocricies –or to insight an uncomfortable laugh.

However, it is often Borat’s more inadvertently intellectual moments that really soar: Referring to the Iraq war as our “War of Terror,” explaining that nobody likes his neighbor while at an Evangelical service, or giving an account of his musical choices to kids on the street in Atlanta.

The film itself has a nice loose story – it’s light, entertaining, and you never know where you’ll end up. But while the film is chock full of chuckles, it is also brimming with uncomfortable situations. Do the jokes go too far? Yes, but they always go too far.

A large part of the joke is that you know you’re going to be taken someplace unexpected, but while you’re in familiar surroundings. Borat turns the tables on us. He’s the foreigner, he’s the odd man out, yet he sets us on edge and makes us nervous – while we’re in our own country.

Baron-Cohen brings us face-to-face with a warped and completely shameless persona, one laced with political and religious fervor, and poised to take us to embarrassing places. And while Baron-Cohen’s hard at work, Borat’s raking in the cash.

A special note:

Just as Baron-Cohen and Borat are not to be confused, Sacha is not to be confused with that other Sasha – Sasha Cohen. Here are some key differences:

Sasha Cohen
Born: Westwood, CA, 1984
Sign: Scorpio
Signature outfit: ubertight skirted leotard
Profession: figure skater
Enjoys: long walks on the beach, Justin Timberlake, kittens


Sacha Baron-Cohen
Born: Surrey, England, 1971
Sign: Libra
Signature outfit: ubertight green bathing suit
Profession: writer/comedian
Enjoys: racial humor, politics, mustaches

Crowe makes 'Good'

A wealthy playboy, a beautiful chateau, a provencal French setting – what more could you ask for? A glass of Merlot perhaps?

At a pre-screening of “A Good Year,” that’s exactly what viewers got. Hosted by Women & Wine in partnership with 20th Century Fox, screening attendees were treated to a glass on the house, perfectly paired with the forthcoming romantic comedy.

Based on the novel by Peter Mayle, “A Good Year” is the story of an enterprising day trader, Max Skinner (Russell Crowe), who unwittingly inherits a chateau and vineyard in France when his uncle Henry passes away.

While Max typically resides and schemes in London, he takes a break from making enemies on the trading floor to pay a visit to his new chateau and see how much money can be made from its sale. Clearly sentimental value can be sold for a couple million.

The only thing standing between Max and his money is Duflow, Uncle Henry’s trusted vine-keeper and maker of the chateau’s terrible wine. Oh, and Uncle Henry’s illegitimate daughter from California, Christie Roberts (Abbie Cornish). Did he forget to mention that?

While Max is trying to figure out how he can squeeze the most out of the chateau while keeping it out of the others’ hands, he inadvertently encounters French vision Fanny Chenal (Marion Cotillard). And by “encounters,” I mean, nearly runs over with his car. Ah, romance.

Directed by Ridley Scott (“Gladiator”), “A Good Year,” is really a very delightful film. The plot is lighthearted, the romance smooth, and the characters quirky. While Max provides the bold flavor of the piece, Duflow’s wife (Isabelle Candelier) gives it a hint of spice as a charming oddball, and Max’s personal assistant, Gemma (Archie Panjabi), is a palate cleanser to Max’s pompous self-involvement.

The only sour note is Abbie Cornish’s portrayal of Max’s American cousin, Christie, as Cornish’s acting chops have yet to ripen (much like Charlize Theron in her early days.)

“A Good Year” succeeds because it stays light. The film never gets bogged down in melodrama and balances Max’s flashbacks to his youth (where his is played by “Finding Neverland” star Freddie Highmore and his uncle played by Albert Finney) very nicely. While we slowly see Max reveal his ruthless knave’s sensitive side, we’re taken on an enjoyable journey that offers an undertone of romance and the unmistakable flavor of nostalgia. I’ll drink to that.

Bringing sexy back

When it comes to Halloween costumes, witches are getting the short end of the broomstick. In recent years sexy has become the new scary, with “slutty nurses” outnumbering “corpse brides” 5 to 1 at most costume parties (based on informal studies).

Halloween has become the time when normal girls give hookers the night off, squeezing themselves into tube tops, fishnets, and ridiculous boots and dropping more innuendoes than Colin Farrell at a girl scout jamboree.

I was at a costume party recently and there was this girl who was wearing a black bra and short-shorts. I asked her what she was, and she said, “You didn’t see me earlier – I had wings. I’m a Victoria’s Secret model.”

I nodded, but what I wanted to say was, “Dude, you just took your top off, that’s not a costume. That’s an uncostume.”

A note to the ladies: If you go to a party wearing the Million Dollar Diamond-Studded Bra, then it’s okay to say you’re a Victoria’s Secret model. Otherwise, put your shirt back on.

What no Chippendale’s dancers?

These days, the travesty it seems is that while female costumes are getting sexier, male costumes are getting dorkier. Social gimp Napoleon Dynamite, cultural naïf Borat, Harry Potter – nerdy characters are out in full force.

I have to ask – where are the male Calvin Klein underwear models? Where are the sexy male doctors? Clearly there is a need for more alluring costumes for men.

But while this male/female discrepancy continues, there is one type of Halloween celebrant working to really bring us all together – the people dressed as pimps. Because, as we all know, every dork could use a little help with the ladies – especially when they’re so extremely sexy.

For love of the game

What won’t men do for sports?

Good question.




At this week’s meeting of the American College of Emergency Physicians, a study was released whose findings indicated that men are likely to postpone a trip to the Emergency Room in order to finish watching a sporting event on TV.

This study decidedly begs the question: What are these men doing during the game that calls for a visit to the ER?
Are they pulling a groin during a victory dance? Are high-fives getting out of hand?

It seems that men are willing to sacrifice their own health for love of the game.

Which brings us to the next news item – coffins for sports fans.

Sure you say you’re a die-hard, but when the game’s over – and I mean the game’s REALLY over, how will you show your love for your team?

Major League Baseball announced today that they will be partnering with Michigan-based company Eternal Image, to produce customized coffins (or tasteful urns for the crematically-inclined) emblazoned with team logos.

That’s right, for a small price, you can be buried knowing that you were the Sox’s number one fan.

After this announcement, it is expected that many funerals may begin to include “the wave” and will require all attendees to paint their chests.

So don’t worry, in case you don’t make it to the ER in time, your team will still know how much you loved them.

“Man of the Year” scores narrow victory

"You never know what your history is going to be like until long after you're gone." --George W. Bush, Washington, D.C., May 5, 2006

In an era where we’ve learned that every vote doesn’t necessarily count, global warming and evolution are up for debate, and even the Straight Talk Express can get hijacked, it seems plausible that Americans might choose to nominate a comedian for political office. I mean, rather than elect an inadvertent comedian to a high-ranking position – such as president.

In Barry Levinson’s “Man of the Year” we meet Tom Dobbs (Robin Williams), host of a successful comedy-news program, who has just announced his very real intention of running for president. With the help of his writing staff (including Lewis Black) and manager (Christopher Walken), Dobbs lands the independent spot in the Presidential debates and gets fired up like Howard Dean on truth serum. Before we know it – Dobbs not only gets on the ballot, he gets elected.

If that seems a little far-fetched, it’s because there is another force at work – a new online voting system that takes the fear of the hanging chad out of the voting booth. Concocted by Silicon Valley geniuses, the system is safe, effective, and fool-proof… except for that one tiny counting error. When Eleanor Green (Laura Linney) finds the error days before the election, she reports it to the head of the company, who chooses to ignore it in the interest of not losing market share.

After Dobbs is declared the winner, Eleanor knows she needs to tell somebody – and decides to tell Mr. Dobbs himself.

This is where the plot gets a little murky, as Dobbs meets Eleanor and seemingly develops a non-governmental (i.e. romantic) interest in her. Meanwhile, Eleanor is surrounded by melodramatic paranoia – thanks to the voting system thugs who are trying to capture her.

While the film’s more serious undertone keeps it from slipping into absurdist territory, “Man of the Year” falters when it loses sight of the fact that it’s a comedy. The notion of romance that is introduced between Dobbs and Eleanor is forced more through plot than character, as Eleanor’s only interest seems to be unraveling her nervous conspiracy theory.

With that conceit, “Man of the Year” is an enjoyable film, and it’s refreshing to see Robin Williams emerging from his dark-and-creepy phase. Christopher Walken, too, delivers a great performance as the chain-smoking emphysema-affected manager (though I’d liked to have seen a joke or two about the tobacco lobbies.) And while Lewis Black is highly underutilized, it’s nice to have his presence as a tip of the hat to that other great comedy-news program, “The Daily Show.”

At times “Man of the Year” feels a bit like Levinson’s other creation, 1997’s “Wag the Dog.” But as that film’s circumstances (a fake war is manufactured to cover up a Presidential sex scandal) have become increasingly closer to reality in the years since, it is understandable that Levinson would hope to make a more outlandish and less likely picture (comedian running for president) … That is, unless you move to Minnesota and vote for Al Franken.

Victoria’s Secret – Let the cat out of the bag already

When Victoria’s Secret unleashed their PINK line and ad campaign in late July, they celebrated the release with Ashlee Simpson hosting “the world’s biggest pajama party” in NYC. The event was meant to channel buzz and conjure images of underwear-clad pillow fights and gossipy slumber parties (though the only real gossip was concerning Simpson’s plastic surgery.)

The PINK line is largely targeted to girls who still haven’t grown out of their sorority lifestyle and insist on wearing velour “loungewear” and short-shorts with words on the butt. (Hey, I’m all about getting people to read more, but this is ridiculous.)

The real travesty of this campaign is not that Victoria’s Secret is creating a fake sorority so that you can feel better about yourself. It’s not that they’re embracing bodies modified by plastic surgery. The real travesty is that the marketers at Victoria’s Secret have forgotten what they’re truly best at.

They aren’t best at selling you underwear; they’re best at selling you the idea of not wearing any underwear. That, my friend, is a subtle art.

With this in mind, the savvy marketers need to put down whatever they’re doing and get the Pussycat Dolls on the phone. Right now.

As we all know, the Pussycat Dolls aren’t really a singing group; they’re a lingerie group. And they still manage to sell CDs. Imagine if they were selling lingerie.

Victoria’s Secret needs to launch a new campaign – they could call it the “Victoria’s Secret Lets the Cat out of the Bag” campaign. It would be headed up by the Pussycat Dolls in print and TV ads – and would then feature a new hit single by the group, along the lines of “Buttons,” but most likely called something like “Panties.”

Moreover, the brilliance of this campaign would really be in costs saved – as Victoria’s Secret would use the group to sell you the tiniest underwear possible. Manufacturing and materials costs would go down, and sales would go up. (Also, in case I forgot to tell you, the name of the group is the Pussycat Dolls.)

So listen savvy marketers, it’s time you lost the loungewear, enlisted the Dolls, and started making tiny panties. Remember, in the underwear business, less is more.

Seen on the street

This car was actually being driven by a giant squirrel.
















Wow, this was written in cement. They must really mean it.