Daze after L.A. rain, all goes to hell and snaps right back, StormWatch5000 with the DopperPlus9000, the (week) end begins again, day after the hump, according to the insert Calendar Weakened (Patton Oswalt’s Favorite Weekend!!!) and the big Hollywood gay day on the way, this Sun Day (and then, on the next: The Sopranos!), we wonder aloud (in blogese), in no particular odor: will one eventually tire of Jon Stewart, on the West from the EST, from his books and tapes, the mag rag covers, the daily nightly Daily show, the constant, endless self-effacing, while thinking will f-bomb fest Crash crash the big dance and take home Oscar gold?! Tune in and see! Thanks Sugar Ray dude! And take its place on the Best Buy product shelf alongside Falling Down and LA Story as the worse f-in’ flix about this town–“You see, we had to use stereotypes, in order to, you know, show that people are not just stereotypes, when they do something that breaks from the stereotype” I think he said (smugly) on Tavis Smiley or something–AND will Busta Rhymes get Biggie’d out West–stay away from Wilshire/Fairfax! Who the fuck goes to the Petersen museum anyhow?!–use Fountain, Busta! Fountain! or Olympic! To go East-West–that same West newly infiltrated by aforementioned novel Japanese lifestylemarts, wondering if the Cardinal Raj has something up his robe with the welcoming of still more immigrant traffic from East, West and South (not so much the North) to the States–Hmmm–while our jails burn with brown v. black v. power feuds, a Western (UCI) prof. gets taken for that famous Eastern (Nigerian) e-mail scam to the tune of $3 mil! , then, then we are reduced to distracting ourselves with sport like the Greeks and Romans, thinking that if the Lakers make that dreaded Western Conf. 8-spot in the playoffs, getting bounced in 4 straight to the Spurs + Eva Longoria’s BF, how many cuts to her 4’11″ pixie frame cheering in a custom bedazzl’d scrunch midriff’d T. Parker home jersey in her comp’d seat will ABC do? Every score? Every timeout? Every sponsor break?–Synergy, desperate networks, we get it–and, if so, do the Bruins take the Pacific Ten after all, even with Farmar deluding himself that his very decent college game and his awful shoulder tats are NBA material (Anyone remember Bobby Hurley?), and then Vlad and Gagne, respective titans of their rosters take off training for ’personal reasons,’ and after all this, all this crap does it job to distract, you are left with the bottomless sadness of the senseless of the story of shooting of WESTside (Santa Monica) 10th grader on a familiar stretch of Pico at the 20’s or so, oft traversed this very correspondent by busses of the big blue variety, riding from PCH to the Rosa Parks Fwy, East to West, Vidiots to Tommy’s to Rae’s to Trader Joe’s to the RIAA (to flip the bird) and, now, the scene of a murder of a kid, for accidentally orbiting into a gang universe he did not know, you think this, this stuff is the “Crash” of LA, Haggis, the flotsam of sports and Hollywood doing not a damn thing to kevlar a stray .22 shot, and, no, it does not conform to 3rd act rabbits pulled from hats, and it does not co-star Kevin Dillon’s less talented brother, and after all this, we miss Mister Ferley and wonder where exactly the Regal Beagle was supposed to be in Santa Monica? Main Street? 4th? There! No editing, no looking back, at the C-Bean in Westwood on the bad black Thinkpad Centrino (Fuck Cupertino!), on the tapped Why-Phi, and, in fact, on the clock of the actual paying job no less, and now press Publish and time for lunch!
UPDATE: Go read this about Crash. It thoroughly eviscerates it, right down to it’s empty core.