Hmmm?

So I just spoke with Bhudda.   Some of you radical Buddhist fundamentalists  may have noticed it's spelled wrong, or at least differently.  According to the white rapper of a simlar name that altered spelling is out of reverence to the real god.  So he won't be drawing any cartoons of Siddhartha Gautama.  But anyway, the Bhudda I spoke to is starting a rap/musical/jazz/comedy show and I'm going to meet him on Sunday to see if I should be a part of it.  This guy isn't so hot on him but he was interesting to speak with on the phone.  So listen to his song and let me know what you think.

While my Sacrifice goes well, it's nothing compared to my brothers.

Thanks to all of the comics who tore the house down last night during Virgin Sacrifice.  Catch it the first Wednesday of next month (4/5). 

So anyway, just before the show my brother,  Peter, calls and is going on about the Broncos and his job and his truck and then he nonchalantly tells me that they adopted a 9-year-old developmentally disabled girl.  How crazy is your home life that that isn't a major fricken headline?  If I adopt a kitten you'll all hear about it right away.  And this little girl, Brenda, has been in the family for nearly a month.  Apparently his mother-in-law, Faye, is the actual legal guardian but Faye pretty much lives with Pete.   Pete has really taken to this girl, showing her how to Google images of whales (she loves them) and taking her shopping.  How did they end up with this girl?  Well, apparently Faye was at work and heard one of her coworkers say on the phone "well, the little bitch can just find her way home."  This was the woman's response to the school calling to say her daughter had gotten in trouble and needed to be picked up.  Faye, apparently the most generous and loving soul on the planet, intervened and in two days got the crazy hag to sign over the rights.  It's pretty incredible.  Pete is very excited to have her around.  He says she likes him more than his actual kids.  Just give her time.  Soon she'll be a teenager and hate all of us.  But once again, Peter, I'm a little concerned that the Broncos waiving Trevor Pryce took conversational precedence over my new niece. 

But at least she's in a loving home.  Brenda, sweetie, welcome to The Ewys.  I hope you like football. 

Not Putzier!!

The Broncos make a big move.  And tomorrow, after Virgin Sacrifice tonight (it's free if you tell the box office 'you heard it on the 99-5 The Mountain'), I'll tell you the strangest story about my brother and his family. 

And happy birthday to my little, adorable niece, Victoria.  She's 21. 

Remember when your parents would snap and announce a whole bunch of new rules?

So far it has been a long, cold winter for the free-spending Hollywonks.  After last year's disastrous box office plummet I was thinking that someone would speak up.  Some lowly understudy production assistant would throw down the slate and shout "Sweet Holy Mother, conjuring this crap will condemn us all!"  And from there a revolution would begin.  After a mostly bloodless battle of metrosexuals and prima donnas hurtling insults through the tabloids, a new set of rules would be established.  The reformation would inspire the following:

1.   The previews must accurately reflect the movie it's previewing.  Sounds easy, almost common sensical.  Movies like The New World and Freedomland would require disclaimers reading "This movie is a desperate attempt at an Academy Award.  In this effort expect the painful overuse of artistic license, needless dramatic dialogue with weeping and quick shots of creepy tribal masks."   Any comedy would have to give you a percentage of how much of the movie's funny you have already witnessed in the trailer.  For example, a preview of Big Momma's House would congratulate you on seeing the film in its entirety.

2.   The Steve Martin Rule.  For every Cheaper by the Dozen or unnecessary Pink Panther you make you must write, direct and star in a Shopgirl.  "Shopgirl" would become showbiz lingo for 'decent movie not out to make a quick buck in its first weekend while generally disappointing and further dumbing down the stupid, insulting the intelligent, inciting the insurgency and, in general, giving angry Islamic Fundamentalists any more reasons to want to kill usl'.  The immediate enacting of this code would mean that Keanu Reeves would be executed and Vin Diesel banished.  Al Pacino would owe us a 'Shopgirl' for that awful betting movie and Billy Crystal several 'Shopgirls' for everything he's done since 'When Harry Met Sally'. 

3.  The Audit.  This might sound extreme but The Audit is entirely necessary.  Auditers, eunuchs unphased by sexiness, would read through every script about to be put into production.  If it were, say, the rambling mess that eventually became Running Scared, then production would halt and the entire budget be donated to public education.   Many actors and directors, as in the unfortunate case of Kevin Kostner, where his debt to society is too huge to actually fiscally reimburse, would be sent to the Pakistani mountains to fight the Taliban.

4.  Any movie  (Fast and the Furious, Faster and Furiouser II) that features idiots in cars would require one of the handsome, hich-school-idol stars be brutally mangled in a Mitsubishi so as to dampen the spirit of those impressionable teenagers wanting to emulate the movie by driving like morons.

 5.  No more Tim Allen movies ever.  ("Raise the Woof!"  Are you flipping kidding me?)

6.  No more sap from Robin Williams and no more Renee Zellweger scrunchy face. 

7.  Any actor making over one million dollars per movie can only make one per year.  Any after that and all earnings go to developing new talent.   

8.  Any actor or actress pretending to be indignant over the paparazzi and the tabloids that incessantly promote their miserable career will be immediately ignored and forced to tour the Up With People circuit.  This punishment will last until James Frey is finished with their biography.

9.  Any company, personality or reviewer that either places products in, actively promotes or knowingly overhypes any bad movie will be forced to change their name to that of the offensive film.  For example, Diane Sawyer is now known as Passion of the Christ.   And you'll go to Attack of the Clones to get a Whopper.   These changes can also be formatic.  The tonight show with Jay Leno will be shortened to a New York Minute.

10.  Everybody must at least once a year view The Big Lebowski.

Dearly Departed

Learn more about Darren McGavin.  Remember Don Knotts.

And then go out and toast to their brilliant careers. 

Update on Monday, February 27, 2006 at 01:54PM by ewy

And then there were three...

What is it with the triads of celebrity death? Anyway, if you've ever seen Steven Spielberg's "Duel" you know Dennis Weaver was one heck of an actor. 

Comcastic

I got to be the comedic host of the Comcast Annual Party. I want to work there. Those people spend more time on their annual party then they do their annual budget. I'll tell you more about the party and the dangers of snowshoeing after a trip to Red and Jerry's. A place where good times go to die. But the beer is cheap.

Seven hours later and I'm dealing with one of those midday drunk hangovers. You know the ones where you want to function properly and are pretty sure you should be able to because it's still light outside but your face is numb. And I'm really lazy.

I guess I could be tired from yesterday's triathalon of activity.

Stage 1) Snowshoe five kilometers. Now here's a bit of advice, the first time you ever snowshoe maybe don't do a 5k race. I think five kilometers is about sixty miles. Uphill. Miles are typically flat and measured on interstates. Sarah and I have wanted to snowshoe for some time. In retrospect I'm not sure why. It makes a lot of sense when you're an Arctic native and need to conjure up some blubber for the kids, not when most American food is proximate to plowed streets. This race is called the Snowshoe Stomp. It's something that later was added to the festivities of the Gould Ski Scramble when snowshoeing grew in popularity. And there are many people who really take it seriously. Sarah and I started an hour before the gun fired just so we could try out our new snow flippers without getting in the way of the experts. I'm always way too optimistic about time and distance. So about when I figured we were half done we started climbing some steep terrain--it was extreme, extremely painful--Sarah reminded me that the flier for the race warned people that at least 25% of the course was uphill. We hadn't done any uphill yet. We clung to our poles, to dangling branches, to hope, whatever possible to get up the sheer face of our first incline. .0000000000001% done. Sarah looked at her watch. "Dude, it's 11:25." We had wanted to leave at noon as to embark on stage 2 of our day. She continued, "and we're still heading away from where we started." Optimistically I chimed in, "but we shouldn't head back. It looks like the top of hill is just up there and then we'll start heading back." Now ladies here's some advice about males and your relationships with them. Much like a canary asphyxiating on a miner's shoulder, there are signs to help you avert disaster. Whenever you hear your mate say one of two things, "it's should be just around the corner," or a popular variation, "i think it's just over this hill," save yourself and turn around. I could feel my wife tense up behind me. I'm a large target and she had a sharp ski pole. She might have muttered something about blubber. About an hour later, roughly twenty minutes after we wanted to leave Gould, we finally got back to the truck. Just as we were approaching my hometown's community center the racing gun shot it's blank and we watched the pros take off. 'Snowshoe Stomp' has a playful ring to it like maybe it's something for kids. Whatever. These folks were all grown up and actually running in their snowshoes. It looked like something had spooked a herd of Appalachian clog dancers. These 'shoers had all the best outdoor gear, the lycra outfits, the wrap-around sunglasses and GoreTex boots, but when your sprinting in size 50 shoes, you might as well have saved on regalia and picked up used muumuu at Goodwill.

We felt pretty good about our casual stumbling around the trail. Our hearts were racing and our muscles aching. We then treated our bodies to the second part of a sunny Saturday.

Stage 2) Driving three hours to get to Denver in time to get cleaned up to host a company party.

No matter how warm Sorels might keep your feet they are very hard to maneuver in the cramped quarters of a Toyota pickup. Fighting fatigue and cramping muscles we shared driving duty down the Poudre Canyon, through Fort Collins and onto I-25 South to Denver. We were beat. Part of the preparation for this thrilling triple sport event is spending a sleepless night at the home that used to be your mother and fathers but now seems to belong to your father's girlfriend. I laid awake wondering if my mom would come back from the dead to run the vacuum. The house is such a mess that squirrels have eaten through the wall to get at whatever is growing in the kitchen. However, we ate food the previous night from that very kitchen and it was pretty damn good. My dad's girlfriend raises all her own animals including my father who she's sculpting into quite the handy choreboy. But her all natural supper extrvaganza gave me so much gas that it sounded like I had an outboard motor. Several my ass woke me up. And then I'd lay there silently laughing, helpless to stop leaking methane.

Being beaten to a pulp and starving we stopped at a McDonald's in Fort Collins. Our bodies welcomed it's unnatural goodness.

Stage 3) Host a Fortune 500 company party.

Remember when you were in college and you'd come back from class to a room full of your giggling, stoned friends. They'd be on a whole different level leaving you to stand there and be laughed at. Well, the Comcast group is tight. Let me just say that I felt like I might have done better stoned. Then I wouldn't have been so keenly aware of my dud jokes thudding loudly to the ground. The night went well enough and I received a few compliments but I was so tired from the two previous events that I was a tad bit emotional and my mental fortitude was weak. I loved the party though. It took place at the Univeristy of Denver's Cable Center which may very well be one of the sexiest buildings in Denver. The whole party was a seemless mockery of the Oscars including teleprompters, flashy video pieces and Hollywood themes run amuck. I put together a Powerpoint demonstration of my own made-up life of the company's veep of sales. That was a hit.

Other than that the whole time I felt I might have been funnier in snowshoes.

Friday's Showbiz Scene

Below is a written review of the stinker Running Scared.  But Second City is in town and so is a limited engagement of Neil Young's "Heart of Gold".  Oh, and remember, Virgin Sacrifice is back next Wednesday.

 It's here!  The Gould Ski Scramble.  Twenty-one years ago my mom got this little ski (and snowshoe) race started.  It's still going strong.  Not only is it a kicking little party, but after last week when it hit 33 below in Gould, it's a pleasant way to find out who's still alive.  Growing up there I never showered.  While being the stinky kid has it's social drawbacks I was voted most likely the very last to be cannibalized.

As heard on 99-5 The Mountain with Archer and Mark