Well all right! Thanks to Pizza Hut, breadsticks and pizza are “together at last!” Can someone explain this to us once and for all—what the fuck do you need to eat breadsticks for if you’re having pizza?!?!!! . . . The four scariest words in the English language: “A Billy Crystal film.” On the other hand, the Oscars were a lot more tolerable.
Apparently, they gave out little promotional mirrors at the Blow screenings. Makes sense—you’d have to be coked out of your mind to think the movie’s any good. Most appalling cinematic credit line so far this century: “Max Perlich as Kevin Dulli.”
Busy week over at NBC. They ditched the Internet site (what’s going to happen to the annoying redhead?) and canceled 3rd Rock. Now if only we could get it out of syndication. Yet somehow, Just Shoot Me lives on. Personally, we don’t much care for Spade, but who can resist a come-on like “from the makers of Deuce Bigelow?”
A highly placed source inside the Radiohead camp tells us the Amnesiac songs “Knives Out,” “Life in a Glass House,” and “You and Whose Army?” are about . . . well, us. . . . Thom on interviews: “It’s like sleeping with someone and never seeing them again.” Clearly, he has never done a Q&A with Courtney Love.
We’re thinking Teri Hatcher had a little work done. The eyes, for sure. . . . The Culture Bunker would like to issue an official “no comment” regarding the lawsuit filed against us in Chicago Heights by the Canadian Academy of Record Arts and Sciences under the “individual dignity” clause of the Illinois Constitution.
The Soft Boys/Young Fresh Fellows trek is, in the words of Mr. Scott McCaughey, “the gayest tour ever!” And he should know. As Robyn Hitchcock points out, the Fellows are not just the world’s greatest rock & roll band—they’re the only rock & roll band. . . . Some German promoter wants a refund for one of last year’s Noel-free Oasis shows. Refund? We say he should pay extra!
As far as we’re concerned, the Stephen Malkmus live experience is A-OK, though we wish the guy would stop turning his back during guitar solos. Don’t be afraid of your virtuosity, SM. Embrace your inner Yngwie! Also, with apologies to a certain Kristy M., we’ve changed our position on the girlfriend. Granted, we haven’t actually suffered through one of her performances, but really, what standard of indie-rock musicianship says she isn’t good enough to be in the guy’s band? He was in Pavement, not Steely Dan. Is she really any different from Bob Nastanovich? (Other than being female. And cuter. Or so we hope).
Farewell to two great Americans, Willie Stargell and Lieutenant Arthur Fancy. And speaking of Blue (which is still better than every Dick Wolf show ever), a hearty Culture Bunker grrrrrrrrr to Charlotte Ross, though we’re still wondering how the dark-haired half-Asian half-naked Charlotte Ross feels about all this. Whatever happened to SAG regulations? . . . Julian Schnabel is wrong about Cast Away. . . .We are admirers of Richard Curtis‘ writing for the big screen, but that won’t be enough to make us see Bridget Jones in theaters. And if we were big fat English chicks, you’re damn right we’d be pissed off about Renee Zellweger.
Ah . . . if only we were big fat English chicks. . . . So, if “premenstrual dysphoric disorder” is a “distinct medical condition,” does that mean men are allowed to make fun of women before they get their periods again? . . . So. April is here at last. The playoffs have arrived. Too bad about the Outlaws. Go Maniax! No, seriously—Stars-Flyers and Spurs-Sixers in the finals. ‘Cause Jason says so.
Finally, here’s a quote from that irritating little bald fella Moby: “I’m still a jerk. Probably I should go to J.A.—Jerks Anonymous.” Probably? Definitely.
