Wednesday, April 27, 2005

Movie Review

Oldboy and Sin City: Mutilation With and Without Redemption

Chanwook Park's Oldboy

The Korean movie Oldboy opens with the protagonist Oh Dae-su (Min-sik Choi) making an obnoxious fool of himself at a police station where he's been brought in drunk and disorderly. A friend delivers the obsequious speeches necessary to get him released, but Oh Dae-su can't resist flipping the authorities off before bolting out the door. Outside, however, Oh Dae-su is nowhere to be found.

Some authorities are harder to evade: the next sequence shows that Oh Dae-su has been imprisoned without trial for an unknown cause by an unknown hand in a furnished windowless room, where he's fed institutional grub, allowed to watch TV (from which he learns he's been framed for the murder of his wife), drugged with valium gas at night, and hypnotized for an inscrutable purpose. After 15 years he's still trying to tunnel through the wall of this room when he finds himself delivered to a grassy high-rise rooftop in a suitcase; liberated into blinding light, he sees a man with a dog attempting to commit suicide who can't tell him why he was held captive. The movie then turns into Oh Dae-su's quest for both an explanation and revenge.

It turns out that Oh Dae-su's imprisonment was itself an act of revenge. As a high school student he had told a friend in confidence something he'd seen two fellow students doing; the friend repeated the story, which led to consequences Oh Dae-su didn't intend and doesn't even know about until he investigates his confinement. It further turns out that though Oh Dae-su has been released, the former fellow student who imprisoned him is still controlling him. Oh Dae-su's seeming quest is, in fact, a helpless further stage of the other man's revenge. This other man, who is Oh Dae-su's age but looks 15 years younger (that's about the age spread between the two actors, so it's probably intended), is some kind of zillionaire macher who lives in a swank, high-tech penthouse. Oh Dae-su inflicts pictorially grisly damage on the minions of the man in the penthouse, but he can't really touch the man himself.

Oldboy has generated a lot of buzz for some disturbing and downright revolting "highpoints": a sizeable octopus is eaten live and still wriggling; teeth are extracted with a clawhammer; a man cuts his own tongue off with scissors; as for sex, there are two incestuous relationships, one knowing, one inadvertent. And the filmmaking, with its grubby-but-suave roving camerawork and electric syncopations, is striking enough to justify enthusiasm. But the impetus for the movie appears to be the double revenge story, which is plainly meant to be read symbolically through the details of the narrative and the moviemaking style.

The implications begin with the fact that Oh Dae-su is punished for a trivial act that he didn't even intend to cause harm. In this light, the man on the top floor, with his (electronic) omniscience and omnipotence, is a deity who oversees a universe in which punishment comes many sizes too large for the crime. Oldboy thus makes good on the promise inherent in the schematic narrative means of quest romance: Oh Dae-su's imprisonment and rebirth into pain, and his traumatic search for an explanation, present an emblematic view of life as a spiritual trial. (This potential is almost always ignored by action moviemakers.)

But when God is a pathological sadist, as the man in the penthouse is here, there can't be happy answers to spiritual questions. You also have to keep in mind that at the time of his kidnaping, years after high school, Oh Dae-su is an ill-behaved mid-level businessman out getting blitzed on his daughter's birthday. (He never gets to give her the strap-on angel's wings he'd bought her.) Oh Dae-su is thus fallen man (i.e., out of sync with the angels) who in some way deserves his torment. (The fact that the events in the movie derive from the two main characters' interaction at a Catholic high school justifies discussing the movie in Christian terms, though it isn't necessary. The movie also seeks to reflect recent Korean history, which I won't comment on here.) In Oldboy redemption for suffering takes the form of an attempt to bring the suffering back to the author of it, which naturally doesn't work. In Christian terms, in fact, not turning the other cheek indicates further indulgence in sin--how much more so when you're out for revenge against God for the basic conditions of existence. Of course, the evil deity of Oldboy can't be punished; he can kill himself, however, which makes him that much more remote.

The fact that I can come up with a coherent reading of Oldboy as a spiritual narrative doesn't make the director Chanwook Park a great romancer. His style does have a fascinating combination of impersonality and obsession; it's as if he had filmed this enflamed material expressionistically using a surveillance camera. At the same time, however, the movie approaches us as if we were both a primitive religious congregation and a benumbed action-picture audience, in either case a group in need of shocks. Park delivers his allegory --an icy rather than fiery vision of hell--with intensity, but his vision lacks variety, of incident and of tone, a drawback in heroic romance, which ordinarily uses fantasy and pageantry to beguile us into its visionary realm.

Finally, the martial-arts action-picture conventions dominate the allegory. Oldboy is no higher a work than the far more understated D.O.A., in which a man has a week to solve his own murder, or out-and-out revenge pictures like John Boorman's Point Blank or Quentin Tarantino's two Kill Bill movies, which are so snazzily watchable. For me Oldboy was literally unwatchable; I can't imagine recommending it. To prepare people properly you'd have to warn them about the most horrible imagery and how could you make that seem worth sitting through? Spiritual allegory? To the extent that argument works with Mel Gibson's Passion of the Christ it's because the physical torment is necessary for the biggest spiritual reward conceivable: salvation for all mankind. (Plus the Passion narrative is venerable, culturally inescapable.) Camerawork and editing? That wouldn't work with anyone I know except professional movie critics.

Oldboy selects its action in order to make its perverse, bleak allegory appear representative of existence; it doesn't take place in a world I recognize. This further means the narrative doesn't have enough of a basis in realism to function emotionally, as a situation we might identify with directly. And though the movie is structured allegorically so that you have to apply your mind to the intricacies of the plot in order to comprehend Park's point, he keeps brutally knocking all thoughts out of your skull. (It's as if he'd wrapped his gospel around a rock and thrown it at your head.) Any experience of the symbolic level of the story has to be postponed until you stop twitching from the shocks. Even as an act of revenge I wouldn't recommend Oldboy.

Frank Miller and Robert Rodriguez's Sin City

Sin City, adapted from Frank Miller's graphic "novels" and directed by Miller and Robert Rodriguez, is as brutal as Oldboy but more bearable, in no small part because its flat, stylized action is conveyed in flat, stylized imagery. Shot in black-and-white with pointedly artificial use of garish color, the movie poses the characters on airless sets that at times collapse to the two-dimensional backgrounds of comic panels. Some of the effects, such as streaking rain, are evidently animated; the copious blood is usually white and thick as acrylic paint. Sin City thus looks more like a comic book than any other movie adapted from one. (It's the look Warren Beatty went for in Dick Tracy taken to an extreme.) It derives an enormous amount of energy from this obvious aesthetic program, which helps push the extreme violence comically beyond the pale, but the moviemakers think that "overdone" is more entertaining than it turns out to be.

Overdone can get monotonous, and in that respect Sin City is even worse than Oldboy. Whereas there's some challenge in tying together the implications of the narrative in Oldboy, Sin City is simply an attempt to condense every tough-guy movie, comic book, and dime-store novel into one thrill ride of a movie: the characters, action, language, and images are so hardboiled they bounce. Miller and Rodriguez seem to be having fun without grasping how limited an experience they're offering, even accepting the hardboiled cartoon idiom. Sin City takes place entirely in a straight teenaged boy's id-world in which there are really only two sins: sex and violence, to the extent they can be distinguished from each other. They're both presented in an immediately digestible way you don't have to feel guilty about; the movie is a "feat" of advanced civilization, moral and aesthetic junk food without calories.

Even if that's what you go for, on its own terms Sin City is highly repetitious. In the opening Josh Hartnett seduces and kills a woman on a romantic balcony. Then in the first sequence Bruce Willis saves a girl from a butchering sex fiend. In the next sequence Mickey Rourke gets revenge on a cannibalistic sex fiend. Then Clive Owen rescues a woman from her vicious boyfriend only to trigger open warfare between gangsters and hookers. Then Bruce Willis returns and saves the same girl from the same butchering sex fiend as in the first sequence. And finally Josh Hartnett comes back and repeats his opening act. Willis, Rourke, and Owen as the gallant knights are not conventional good guys, however. Willis intentionally shoots his bad guy in the crotch; Rourke enjoys torturing his psycho and the thugs who protect him; Owen is a killer in disguise. They're still the knights of chivalric romance, it's just that the violence has bled over from the bad guys to the good guys with the result that there are pretty much only two kinds of men in the movie: sociopaths who harm women and sociopaths who protect them.

As for the women, almost all of them work in the sex industry all in one part of town. But it's not like you think. The women have a truce with the mob and the cops that allows them to patrol their cooperatively run red-light district themselves. That is, they've driven all the mobsters and pimps out but they're still whores, by choice. When the war breaks out with the mob, we're expected to root for these self-reliant hookers the way we root for the homesteaders against the land-grabbing cattle baron in Shane. And though the women of Sin City are deadly (their leader is repeatedly referred to as a Valkyrie), in the end they still need to be rescued.

Several fantasies thus converge and Miller and Rodriguez put the mix over with an air of lurid festivity. In one scene the whores have tied a man to a chair and are beating him; in another scene one of the girls is stripped and being lashed. What I don't get is why Miller and Rodriguez don't just tumble all the way into porno and have her enjoy it. Russ Meyer would have. Honestly I prefer Meyer's amateurish striving for depravity as opposed to the inverted wholesomeness of these sexcats who just want to be left in peace to fuck and kill for themselves.

Clearly Miller and Rodriguez don't expect you to take it seriously. But the fantasies pile up in a restricted range and the actors don't all seem to be in on the same joke. Mickey Rourke is the champ, carrying off a one-note act longer than you might believe possible. His character isn't a coherent persona even by comic-book standards--he's so ugly even hookers won't have him but he takes his rage out only on men who hurt women. But Rourke just lets it rip across the screen, embodying his character's mix of cretinous sadism and otherwise total goodness with unadorned gusto; by his blood-gurgling finish I found I had accepted the character as given. Besides Rourke, only Brittany Murphy seems aware that some form of emphatic style is essential. (Michael Madsen reads his lines as if he were still auditioning.) Despite this lack of coordination, you can tell that it's all meant to be facetiously overblown--the jut-jawed men who can endure being pummeled with a sledgehammer, the women who combine fishnetted t-'n'-a with ninja skills--but at a certain point my tongue curled up in my cheek and went to sleep.

Sadly, the best sequence by far is the one guest-directed by Quentin Tarantino, in which Benicio del Toro's voice changes according to the position of his head, which has nearly been cut off. (Tarantino links physical and verbal slapstick as closely as possible; it's like some goofy-ghoulish life-sized puppet show.) In Rodriguez's last movie, Once Upon a Time in Mexico, I was impressed to see how he finally circumscribed all the craziness--the overcomplicated plot; the action stunts, one of them worthy of Jackie Chan; the fermented sense of corruption; the cuckoo political cabaret comedy involving Johnny Depp's CIA operative--all of it, in a straightforwardly traditional romance narrative of a knight regaining his sense of vocation and shielding a noble leader. But by that same stroke the core of Once Upon a Time in Mexico couldn't support the elaboration on its surface, and it has imploded in my memory. Rodriguez isn't hellacious enough a technician to do without the sense that Tarantino has in spades--that the style of the actors' interplay is the true center of any story. (If Depp's execution of his performance had been as virtuosic as his conception of it he might have carried the movie.)

The problem with Once Upon a Time in Mexico is the problem with Rodriguez's movies generally: the cleverness doesn't run deep. And though Frank Miller intensifies Rodriguez's cleverness he also intensifies this problem. The irony in Sin City is superficial, not structural. Each episode is a predictable romance in which a knight defends good against unspeakable evil (and you get four of them in a row). Rodriguez doesn't seem to have any desire beyond entertaining you in the moment and so maybe the repetitiveness doesn't matter, or the fact that although the heroes have to suffer grotesque mutilation to serve their heroic function there isn't even a gesture toward spiritual allegory as in Oldboy. Oldboy is so repellent it cauterizes both the excitement and the contemplation it seeks to generate. Sin City is more thoughtlessly rousing. But if you go for the dimensionless, porny style, hey, unbuckle and enjoy.

You can find this review and a lot besides at Blogcritics.

Tuesday, April 26, 2005

Quote of the Day:
"What saves a man is to take a step. Then another step. It is always the same step, but you have to take it."
~ Antoine de Saint-Exupery

Song of the Day:
Preston Smith, "Oh, I Love You So"

Happy Birthday:
John James Audubon
Carol Burnett
Jet Li
I.M. Pei

Monday, April 25, 2005

Movie Review

Joan Allen in Mike Binder's The Upside of Anger: Pick Your Poison

In The Upside of Anger Terry Wolfmeyer (Joan Allen), a well-to-do suburban mother of four, becomes prey to unmanageable anger when her husband appears to have run off with his secretary. Terry is in some sense a prisoner of her class. She wanted to be a poet when she was young but her parents demurred and so she married a steady man and raised her daughters. The girls are now either in high school or college and she pushes them--roughly, in her newly embittered mood--toward the stability she insists is the only viable option (just when the bottom seems to have fallen out of it for her). The daughter who narrates the movie says that before her husband's disappearance Terry was the sweetest person anyone knew. But this is what we see: having lost the prop of her comfortable, orderly life, Terry lets the discipline that has enabled her to play her part in that life become tainted by her turbulent emotions. Terry is a control freak but her efforts to control the situation actually broaden the zone of disorder around her.

We watch Terry's daughters watch their mother and it's both painfully and comically clear that as head of the household Terry can't distinguish sensible concerns from mere assertions of will. She's trying to maintain her identity as a loving mother in a setting in which she barely knows how to find satisfaction, but she's also acting out the resentment she can't expel or metabolize. She takes charge when called upon but mostly she sits in front of the TV drinking; she also randomly takes up with Denny (Kevin Costner), an affably pickled neighbor who is a former baseball star and current radio d.j.

Structurally the movie is an example of observational realism, telling us what this particular woman does in the given strange circumstances. It also shrewdly suggests the ways in which her daughters, who see her crisis as an infuriating and embarrassing sideshow, have inherited or picked up some of the sharply insistent corners of her personality. (This insistence is a debility, but it also contributes to Terry's regal-suburban style.) At the same time, the movie approaches realism ironically; by constant reference to her bottomless highball glass and its effects on her erratic, pressurized emotions, the movie keeps from rationalizing Terry's anger. The irony also enables the movie to channel our discomfort at Terry's meltdown, and the potential for pathos in her situation as an abandoned mother, into openly funny comedy. (The realism gives the movie body while the irony gives it wit.) None of the humor was lost on the Friday-night multiplex audience I saw the movie with.

Subtlety, it appears, is not a prerequisite for complexity. In The Upside of Anger, with its slam-bang comic shaping, complexity comes instead from the frankness that the ironic approach to realism permits. Irony is the narrative artist's means of expressing a disenchanted outlook. Realism is the great modern genre of sympathetic imagination. (As such, it makes more sense to talk about realistic characters as if they were real people than the characters of any other genre.) In combination irony and realism allow you to identify with the characters while keeping your romantic projections in check.

There is a degree of fantasy in The Upside of Anger--Terry's bad behavior is more extreme than we would probably let ourselves get away with under stress--but it's not self-flattering fantasy. Watching Terry we can thus fantasize and still be honest with ourselves. The very cracks in Terry's personality, the fact that she carries her wounded feelings into every situation without self-consciousness, make her a large character. Not heroic, any more than Bette Davis's wrongheaded protagonists in the '30s and '40s were, but titanic in some sense. (She's the kind of mother it's impossible to end run.) The irony prevents us from admiring Terry, but there is an element of awe in watching her battle against herself in a situation we, too, may have experienced, because she loses the battle with a panache we can probably only dream about having.

The script, by the director Mike Binder (who also expertly plays a supporting role as the much-older lover of one of the daughter's), is not, unfortunately, all of a piece. The lowest-grade fault is that by opening on Terry and Denny at a funeral, the movie gets energy from a tawdry form of suspense: we're constantly on the lookout for hazards to the characters' lives and limbs. The movie also spends a good deal of time on the daughters, whose episodic stories are treated in a more romanticized form of realism than their mother's. This is especially true of the daughter who wants, over Terry's dead body, to study dance at an arts college.

On the other hand, the other three girls' stories are better shaped, and it helps that they bring in more characters for Terry to react to. Her reactions run from slapstick sputtering over a household mishap to a manically awkward first meal with future in-laws (in which Terry's behavior is so spectacularly bad even she has to admit it) to a shockingly brutal confrontation at a wedding party. (The overall irony is what unifies this array of reactions.) The engagement lunch party, in which Terry is so agitated and swozzled she can't extricate herself from the bomb crater her opening comments create, is a comic dream of a nightmare, in which your cringing makes you laugh harder. And in the violent wedding party sequence, Binder, as Terry's victim, gives her a muted tongue-lashing worthy of her assault on him, which is amazing because he matches her force with lines in a totally different comic idiom. Together these two sequences instantly qualify for an anthology of high style in American movies.

The final, and most peculiar, failure of the script is that what the narrating youngest daughter says in explanation of the title, that the upside of anger is the person it makes of you, is presented as wisdom but doesn't summarize Terry's story. Rather, the surprise explanation of her husband's disappearance emphasizes the futility of Terry's anger, the way in which we choose anger to express our feelings over the things we can't help. This ironic view ties The Upside of Anger to Mike Figgis's Leaving Las Vegas, which likewise uses booze to get at the comedy in tragedy--the clownishness with which we waste our lives.

And, like Leaving Las Vegas, The Upside of Anger provides a galvanizing turn for its star--a daring alloy of pungent misery and jaw-dropping antics. Allen became a minor prestige star playing put-upon wives in Nixon, The Ice Storm, and Pleasantville; her characters were presented in terms of pathos, calling on her impressive stage technique within a very limited range. As she sketched them, these woebegone ladies were overdelineated rather than shaded. (She was suppler in her lead role as a principled-but-tough politico in The Contender, but everything was undermined by the shaping of the central issue, her character's sexual history, for maidenly melodrama; click here for my comments.)

In The Upside of Anger, by contrast, Allen's theatrical control helps establish Terry's character and enables the actress to come up with seemingly endless variations on female wrath. Drawing on every technical resource at her command, down to the cords in her long neck, Allen slams through the picture and even its episodicness becomes an asset because you can't guess what madness Terry will succumb to next. There are drawbacks to Allen's craft-consciousness. For instance, after Terry has had a particularly unpleasant exchange with her dancer-daughter, the tight way she re-enters the room and tells the girl to set the table is too pointed in its effect. Allen won't follow wherever Terry's turmoil might take her; as an actress she perhaps has as many control issues as Terry. But in The Upside of Anger the plusses cancel out the minuses in profusion; it's a landmark performance.

You can find this review and a lot besides at Blogcritics.
Quote of the Day:
"I do believe it is possible to create, even without ever writing a word or painting a picture, by simply molding one's inner life. And that too is a deed."
~ Etty Hillesum

Song of the Day:
Cathy Dennis, "Moments of Love"

Happy Birthday:
Hank Azaria
Ella Fitzgerald
Edward R. Murrow
Al Pacino

Sunday, April 24, 2005

Quote of the Day:
"Life engenders life. Energy creates energy. It is by spending oneself that one becomes rich."
~ Sarah Bernhardt

Song of the Day:
Bryan White, "Someone Else's Star"

Happy Birthday:
Jean-Paul Gaultier
Jill Ireland
Chipper Jones
Shirley MacLaine
Barbra Streisand
Anthony Trollope

Wednesday, April 20, 2005

Jonah Goldberg on all the hand-wringing over the "divisive" new pope:

If a committee made up of Andrew Sullivan, Gary Wills, Andrew Greeley, Paul Begala, and Nancy Pelosi were given the power to select a pope from the current College of Cardinals, we would still have a pope opposed to abortion and gay marriage. The issues that truly divide the church have to do with questions of local autonomy, global economics, and the like. It takes the solipsism of American liberals to imagine that simply because America is divided over certain issues, the Vatican must be, too.
Lileks makes what has always seemed to me an obvious point:

Because I disagree with the Catholic Church on these and a few other matters, I am- how do I put this? - NOT CATHOLIC. Hence I am always amazed by people who want the church to accommodate their thoughts, their new beliefs, their precarious and ingenious rationales, instead of ripping themselves from the bosom and seeking a congregation that doesn't make them feel like a heretic banging their head on Filarete's doors.
My thoughts exactly. These dissident nuns who keep showing up on Hardball absolutely kill me. The futility of a life spent thrashing angrily around inside an institution that doesn't really want you there -- it's baffling.

Monday, April 18, 2005

Quote of the Day:
"Many persons have a wrong idea of what constitutes true happiness. It is not attained through self-gratification but through fidelity to a worthy purpose."
~ Helen Keller

Song of the Day:
The Kinks, "Come Dancing"

Happy Birthday:
Maria Bello
Clarence Darrow
Melissa Joan Hart
Hayley Mills
Conan O'Brien

Wednesday, April 13, 2005

Mike Gecan adds to the chorus of Democrats criticizing the party's tin ear on religion:

[W]e often give short shrift to the appeal of a radical religious refrain that defies or defeats or simply stuns rational argument. This resonance trumps reason. It lies outside the realm of polling and focus groups. It is not impressed with all the Yale Law School and Kennedy School of Government degrees. It does not just “level the playing field” and counter the contempt of the progressive elites. It tilts the field and sends them sputtering, fuming, tumbling to the floor.
Bush gets this, says Gecan.
Laugh out loud funny.

Thursday, April 07, 2005

Quote of the Day:
"There is no need to go to India or anywhere else to find peace. You will find that deep place of silence right in your room, your garden or even your bathtub."
~ Elisabeth Kubler-Ross

Song of the Day:
Roxette, Dangerous

Happy Birthday:
Jackie Chan
Russell Crowe
Billie Holliday

Wednesday, April 06, 2005

Lyric of the Day:
"I can't grow a moustache
And I ain't got no season pass
All I got's a moped."
~ Bowling For Soup, "Girl All The Bad Guys Want"

Happy Birthday:
Candace Cameron
Butch Cassidy
Andre Previn

Tuesday, April 05, 2005

Lyric of the Day:
"There she goes again
With fishnets on, and dreadlocks in her hair."
~ Bowling For Soup, "The Girl All The Bad Guys Want"

Happy Birthday:
Bette Davis
Gregory Peck
Colin Powell
Spencer Tracy
Booker T. Washington

Monday, April 04, 2005

Gore-backer Martin Peretz comes around on Bush's foreign policy:

I was wrong, and, in light of what has already been achieved in the Middle East, I am glad to say so. Most American liberals, alas, enjoy no similar gladness. They are not exactly pleased by the positive results of Bush's campaign in the Middle East. They deny and resent and begrudge and snipe. They are trapped in the politics of churlishness.
Peretz is quite critical of the Clinton administration for failing to take on Osama bin Laden.
Jason Zengerle on the universal unpopularity of CBS sports analyst Billy Packer:

Indeed, Packer is so reviled by ACC fans that at the ACC Tournament last month, when Packer was presented with a media award during halftime of one of the games, the entire arena, filled with fans from eleven different teams, booed in unison.
Hear, hear.

(Duke fans, I should note, are not exactly fans of Zengerle either. It says a lot that his favorite moment of the NCAA tournament was when a 16-seed was giving Duke trouble.)
Lyric of the Day:
"She likes 'em with a moustache
Racetrack season pass
Drivin' in a Trans-Am
Does a mullet make a man?"
~ Bowling For Soup, "Girl All The Bad Guys Want"

Happy Birthday:
Maya Angelou
Arthur Murray
Craig T. Nelson
Anthony Perkins

Sunday, April 03, 2005

Kate called it: Hideki Matsui just hit the first home run of the major league baseball 2005 season. The Yankees lead the Red Sox 8-1.
The Lilymobile may be nearing the end of the road. The dent in the hood, the "check engine" light that won't turn off, and the fact that I now have income are collectively making me, however reluctantly, consider a car-shopping expedition.

Some friends pointed me to an article in last week's NYT on a study examining automobile brands and political affiliation. Many of the findings are common sense (Porshe owners trend Republican -- who'd have guessed?), but there are a few surprises: Pontiacs, alone among American brands, are favored by Democrats. The Toyota Camry is the third most left-leaning car. And Volvos, once symbols of progressivism and general crunchiness, are being snapped up by red-staters:

"Volvos have become more plush and bourgeois, which is a Republican thing to be," said Mickey Kaus, a dual expert in politics and cars as the author of the Kausfiles and Gearbox columns for Slate. "Subaru is the new Volvo - that is, it is what Volvos used to be: trusty, rugged, inexpensive, unpretentious, performs well, maybe a bit ugly. You don't buy it because you want to show you have money; you buy it because you have college-professor values."
Fittingly, the no doubt plush and very bourgeois Volvo s40 is on my list.
Lyric of the Day:
"She'll never notice me
'Cause she's watching wrestling."
~ Bowling For Soup, "The Girl All The Bad Guys Want"

Happy Birthday:
Marlon Brando
Doris Day
Jennie Garth
Washington Irving
Eddie Murphy
David Hyde Pierce
Picabo Street

Friday, April 01, 2005

Lyric of the Day:
"Her CD changer's full of singers that are mad at their dad.
She says she'd like to score some reefer and a forty.
She'll never know that I'm the best that she'll never have."
~ Bowling For Soup, "The Girl All The Bad Guys Want"

Happy Birthday:
Ali MacGraw
Abraham Maslow
Debbie Reynolds