Monday, March 28, 2011

March 28, 2011

If is to be believed, and I have no reason to think their reporting would be inaccurate, and estimated 7.6 million people watched last week's Jersey Shore season finale.

7.6 million people.

I have never seen an episode of the show, and I'm not going to lie -- I am very proud of that fact.

I have no interest in watching those guido shitbags strut and slut their way along, somehow failing upwards and occupying an alarmingly large chunk of public consciousness.  And despite that I have never seen the show, it is damn near impossible to not been assaulted by the stupidity of Snooki, J-Woww, and The Situation -- the very fact that their names are known to me only illustrates how widespread their infamy goes.  Their whoreific bullshit is inexplicably the stuff of actual news reporting, which means genuine, dyed-in-the-wool journalists are involved.

Snooki.  J-Woww.  The Situation.  These are names that everyone seems to know.

Here are three other names.  See if they ring a bell.

Joan Gaudet.  Jerry Mundy.  Bill Knight.

Anyone?  Raise a hand if you have a clue who I'm talking about.

If you have some time (and if you're one of the folks who tuned in to the Jersey Shore finale you clearly have TOO MUCH fucking time), check out the documentary The Way We Get By, and then you'll know who these three folks are.

Ms. Gaudet, Mr. Mundy, and Mr. Knight are three senior citizens who in live in Bangor, Maine.  At the time of the film, Mr. Knight was 88 years old - Ms. Gaudet was 76 -- and Mr. Mundy was 74.  Not exactly the age range the hip kids tune in to see, right?

Bill Knight is a WW II veteran.  He is stricken with cancer.  He is drowning in debt, and navigates the barrage of calls from creditors on a daily basis.

Joan Gaudet spent most of her life raising her eight children.  After three knee operations, she now must use a walker to get around.

Jerry Mundy suffers from heart complications.  He still mourns the loss following the tragic death of his son.

What makes them so special?

Bangor International Airport is the first major American airport encountered by airliners approaching the United States from the east, as well as the last major airport for airliners heading towards Europe -- which means that most of incoming or outgoing military transports find their way through Bangor International.

Joan Gaudet, Jerry Mundy, and Bill Knight are the Maine Troop Greeters.  At any time of day or night, they make their way to the airport to greet the troops who are returning from service in Afghanistan and Iraq.  Sometimes in the dead of night, during the bleak and brutal winters of Maine, they show up to provide a friendly face, a handshake or a hug, and more importantly, a "thank you" to the soldiers who have bravely served.

They have greeted an estimated 800,000 soldiers.  And you didn't know their names.

Please tell me, what have Snooki, J-Woww, and The Situation done to earn you attention, while Joan Gaudet, Bill Knight, and Jerry Mundy are utterly unknown?

Watch The Way We Get By.  Consider it a lesson in perspective.

Wednesday, March 16, 2011

Fuck Charlie Sheen

If you're one of the people who helped set a Ticketmaster record by buying a ticket for Charlie's Sheen Torpedo Of Truth Tour, you should be fucking ashamed of yourself.  I mean, what is wrong with you?  Is your life that empty, that you would voluntarily serve up your hard-earned money to give any kind of validity to that asshole?

Chicago, you are the city of my birth, will forever be my home and my heritage, but I'm disgusted that you're a part of this bullshit, this legacy of no shame, this downward-spiral trend of lowest common denominator -- by facilitating a venue for this crap.

Oh, hold on a second -- I can hear some of you saying "well, you know, Charlie Sheen is donating proceeds from the tour to relief efforts in Japan.  How about that?".  I am sooooo sorry, you are absolutely right -- the headline does in fact say that.  But let's look at the numbers a little bit.  Sheen says that he is donating a dollar from each ticket to the relief efforts.  And how much are the tickets?  There are two prices -- $35.00 and $75.00 -- which means that Sheen is donating a whopping 2.85% and 1.3% respectively from each ticket.

Fuck you.

I live in the Los Angeles area, so sadly I have come to expect this kind of vapid nonsense from the predominant culture of celebrity that lives and thrives here -- actors and athletes treated with a reverence as if they are the cure for cancer, while they act with the petulance and it'sallaboutmeness of a spoiled fucking child.

But to see how the Hitler's 1939 Speech to the Reichstag-like meltdown of Sheen has captured the front page attention of a national audience is just baffling to me.

Okay, now I'm going to get some shit about me comparing Hitler to Sheen.  That's fine -- look, I am completely aware that Hitler is responsible for the deaths of millions, while Sheen appears to be only responsible for the death of tigers providing their blood for his consumption -- but the connection I am perhaps lamely attempting to make is not as much a  condemnation of the speaker than of the listeners.  If you are one of the million plus individuals who "follow" Sheen on Twitter, and if you plan on further acts of mindless following by purchasing and sporting a "Duh, Winning?" shirt, maybe see if they come in brown.  I mean, as long as you're going to act like yet another died in the wool lapdog of a loud anti-semite, you might as well dress the part (it's not even so much that he insisted on calling out Chuck Lorre by his Hebrew name that irked me.  I don't actually think he's racist -- I think it's just it's the very definition of hypocrite that Carlos Irwin Estevez would try and throw another guy under the bus for changing his name).

Get a fucking life.  I know you have one, full of people who love you, and who you love in return.  There is an entire world out there full of things that will genuinely bring joy and insight to your lives -- and you would fucking waste the continually dwindling moments of your life by going to the Failing Upward Donkey Show?  Come on.

I don't want to steal a page from Rescue Me, but I'm going to do it anyway.

Name five firemen who died on 9/11?

Yeah, I'm fucking going there -- deal with it.

You can't, can you?  If you can -- that's great.  I'll admit it, I don't know a single name of the 343 firemen lost that day -- but I also am not buying a ticket to Sheen's Shitshow.

Another thing in relation to 9/11.  Does no one remember Sheen's post-nation tragedy ramblings about the 9/11 conspiracy?  No one remembers him trivializing the names of the fallen by postulating the most insane bullshit?  Right, of course not.  He was crazy then, but now it's genius?  Again, fuck you.

And if you're one of the folks cupping a hand around the weak, meager flame of "the proceeds go to charity" nonsense, then you're full of shit.  There's an international organization called The Red Cross, and they are taking donations for charity as well.  And they have a tad more credibility than the adonis DNA, tiger-blood drinking, porn-stars enlisted to simultaneously fuck him and raise his children asshole that you are supporting.

Fuck, am I pissed today.

Monday, March 14, 2011

Training and Travels

Five days a week, monday through friday, the alarm goes off at 4:50am.  On weekends, I sleep in -- which means the alarm goes off at 6:00am.  I get up that early to go to the gym.  I wake up, drink half of a Met-RX Meal Replacement Shake (the second half of which I drink post-workout), which is followed by a chaser of Grape Force-flavored MRI Black Powder, which is a pre-workout kick-in-the-ass.

I go to the gym, work until the urge to vomit is too much to bear, and then shower and continue on with my day.  All of this is to keep age at bay.  It's what I do, and it's pretty much all I have.  I perform this exercise in discipline and self-loathing six days a week.  I can't do it seven days because my gym is closed on Sundays, but that's just the kind of pussies they are.  I'm kidding.

Now, six days a week, I watch what I eat.  After the workout, at say 7:00am, I have the rest of the MetRX.  Then three hours later I have a whey protein shake or Power Crunch Bar, three hours after which I have lunch, and then at 4:00pm I once again have they whey protein or Power Crunch, only to finish the circuit when I have a sensible dinner.  Rinse.  Repeat.  Again and again.  Six days a week.

Sundays, however, are mine.  And that is when my veneer of My Body Is A Temple crumbles away to utter dietary chaos.  And the chaos involves road trips.

There is this great place in Burbank called Chili John's -- it's a classic diner, with a horseshoe bar, and is pretty much unchanged since the place opened in the midst of prohibition.  It serves three kinds of chili at varying degrees of lava, with or without beans, and plain or with rice or pasta.  It is the shit.

I was in there a couple of weeks ago, and was talking with the owner about the place -- that her family moved there from Green Bay, Wisconsin in the 1920s, and started up the place.  Then she showed me this book called Southern California Eats.  The book is all classic diners and coffee shops.  I immediately went home and ordered the book (as well as the second volume) from

Three weeks ago, I started a new ritual.  Every sunday, I pick a place from the books, and just go.  And in my travels, I eat cheeseburgers, french fries, and milkshakes with the abandon of a death-row inmate consuming his last meal on earth.

I like the ritual because it gets me out of the house, out of my comfort zone.  It gets me out to new places -- and knowing that I'm going to be eating a ton of delicious, yet heart-clogging stuff on a sunday means I need to get my ass in gear the other six days a week.  I train to earn that day.  That alarm goes off in the pre-dawn dark, and any urge  have to hit the snooze bar with a hammer or chuck the clock into the nearest woodchipper is held back by the delicious sounds and smells of my sunday meal -- so it gets me motivated the way I need to be.

And then on monday, my body says "fuck you", as it not so kindly reminds me that my age now starts with the number "four".  And now there's also a "one", which is really just the single, extended middle finger of my age telling me what it thinks of me and my bullshit.

Saturday, March 12, 2011

Today, as I was on my way home from training, I saw a group of half a dozen young girls, standing on a corner and waving cardboard signs for something.  At first I thought it was for a school car wash or some other fund-raising event -- but as I turned the corner I saw that the signs read HONK IF YOU LOVE JUSTIN BEIBER!!!  All of you should be very proud of me, because what I did not do was follow my first instinct to run the Rav4 up over the curb and mow the little pixies down, honking the horn the entire time.

My friend Renee read yesterday's post, and strongly discouraged me from having any link to my blog whatsoever on my page.  I have to say that she definitely has a point there.

Last night I saw Battle: Los Angeles, which was a great deal less than good.  Now here's a quick disclaimer about any of my film posts -- any and all is just my opinion, and that's it.  And while I may not like a certain film, what you'll never hear me do is speak disparagingly of the filmmakers involved.  Why?  Because they're actually doing it.  They're not talking about making movies someday, they are up and off their asses, burning lean tissue to get it done.  I, in fact, worked for a few weeks on the film, and know a bunch of the people who worked on it.  All of them are good, hardworking people -- busting their asses to make the best film they can, and I admire them the hell out of them for it.

I fucking hate -- I mean hate of epic scale.  But what I hate most of all are the talkbackers -- who lob vitriol over the internet from the anonymity of their parents' basement.  Does that seem a tad judgmental?  Perhaps, but fuck em.  I have the gall to presume my opinion has a tad more validity, but you know what?  I spent over ten years working in film and television, and I know how hard the work is, and how hard the people involved work to get it done.  I know the sacrifices, both personal and professional, that are made to fill the screens in living rooms and multiplexes.  I know that creative choices are often hindered by budget and studio demands, and that everyone worked their fucking asses off to get where they are.  So what I'm basically saying, is that if you've never spent five minutes on a film or television set, production office or writers' room, getting coffee or lunches, or working a twenty-two hour day on fumes, then shut the fuck up.  I mean that in the nicest way possible -- but trust me, you're pontificating from a place of ignorance.  Which is why, I repeat, I will very rarely, if ever, talk shit about the filmmakers.  Unless they are legendary douchebags -- and their rants and ravings have endangered anyone on their sets.  Or unless it's Uwe Boll.  Fuck that guy.  Now I don't know the guy, but when he did that thing in Canada where he challenged a bunch of his harshest internet critics to a boxing match, and beat the shit out of them -- I have to admit that was kind of cool.  No, I say 'fuck that guy' because I have visions of him challenging me to a fight, and then I am forever immortalized on youtube for giving him the fucking beatdown of beatdowns.  That would be cool.

Friday, March 11, 2011

A blog? Really?

So it's Friday, March 11, 2011.  Monday I turned forty-one, which is just...fuck.  I mean, how that THAT happen?  All right, don't get cute -- one word of how in the spring of 1969, my mom and know... Seriously, I'll punch you right in the face.

Okay, Sean -- so what's your blog going to be about?  What will the tone be?  The subject?  And who do you think will even care enough about your yawn-inducing staggering through the years to spend valuable caloric exertion reading it?

I don't know.

No, really I don't.

I mean, okay -- I've got a few Facebook friends, and on occasion they think my bullshit is funny (or at least that's what they tell me -- to my face), but sometimes I just want to have a little more go at it.  The status updates only give you so much space.  They can be a bit confining -- and maybe I just want to say a little more.

Before I forget, a quick word about the ADULT CONTENT warning you may or may not have seen.

Don't be concerned -- there are not going to be any nude pictures or crap here.  It's just that I...  Well, I tend to swear.  A lot.

Look, I don't drink -- I don't smoke -- I don't do drugs.  I work out like a fiend six days a week, and try to limit my intake of junk food.  So, I think I've earned the right to say "shit" once in a while.  Or "fuck".  Or "bullshit".  And, just as further warning, if I'm talking about Sarah Palin, you'll probably hear "cunt" with alarming regularity.

However, what you most likely won't hear is "queer" or "faggot", or any bullshit like that -- and certainly not "gay" in the genuinely pejorative sense (which means that the word "gay" used in the trailer for 'The Dilemma' doesn't fucking count, okay? I mean, seriously -- if that truly, deeply offended you, you really need to pick your battles a little better).  I'm a lot of things, but homophobic I'm not.  I support gay marriage -- and for the record, if you voted in support of Prop 8, or you think two men getting married is the end of civilization, then you may want to go elsewhere.  And if you're some Fred Phelps fuck who pickets outside of funerals with "God Hates Fags" signs, then do me a favor -- kill yourself.  I'm not even kind of being funny.  I'm dead serious.  Kill yourself.  Because I fucking guarantee you that if you ever show up at the funeral of one of my loved ones spouting your bullshit, I will burn your house down with you and your whole family in it.  Try me.


I also love movies (nice segue, huh?), and maybe I'll be posting my thoughts about them here.  I'm a proud, card-carrying member of the Lucas/Spielberg generation, so my tastes will often hover in that rarefied realm of nostalgia.  I saw Star Wars in theaters the first time it came out.  In 1977.  Yeah, I'm that old.  Did you not read the very first fucking paragraph?

You know what?  I don't know what this will be exactly.  A work in progress -- so to speak.

So have a great day, and hopefully I will talk to you soon.