I've been through the desert on a horse with no name - it feels good to get out of the rain. In the desert, you can't remember your name. Cause there ain't no one for to give you no pain.



In other news, Merry Christmas! (Or if you've got a layover at Seatac ... happy holidays! I loved that, by the way. Between that Seattle rabbi and the new "Black Christmas" movie, those rabid conservative "war on Christmas" freaks have enough ammo to keep crying that the sky is falling for the next ten years. I, for one, look forward to the entertainment. Merry fucking Kwaanza, biznatches.)

Speaking of movies, I'm up here in The Land That God Forsake, with Nameless, after taking my last two days of vacation before losing them. But it's a spectacular city to decompress in for a few days and I've only been tempted twice, when passing by AT&T Park, to strap on the dynamite and go Hezbollah. Now that's progress.

But back to the movies. I'm sure we can all agree on two things.

1. The best movie ever made is Richard Donner's 1985 masterpiece "The Goonies."
   
   
2. The worst movie ever made is "Something's Gotta Give."

Guess which one we're watching.

(And no, Chunk's not talking about how in the fifth grade he mixed a bucket of fake puke in the movie theater and dumped it on everyone else and they started puking and it was the worst he ever felt in his entire life.)


And here's the art of compromise - in order to make Nameless happy, I agreed we could watch it as long as she continuously scratched my back. But in order to curb my uncontrollable outbursts at the screen, which ruined the whole point, I had to dust off the ol' blog after several long weeks of neglect and channel my angst.

Seriously, is there a worse movie than Something's Gotta Frickin Give? A couple of self-absorbed navel gazing 50-somethings stuck in a J-Crew ad on the Hamptons ... and they won't. shut. up. I keep waiting for a car to smash through the $3 million beachfront living room window so Diane Keaton will stop waxing poetic on life and love and champagne and Paris. And take off that freakin turtleneck, Keaton.

And the dialogue! And the coup de gras ... Keanu! (!) Thank God the Golden Gate is a seven-minute drive away. And they don't have fencing once you venture out past the first part. Seriously, how many people have plunged to a cold murky end thanks to this flick?

Oh Christ, a "montage" dinner party scene set to the musical stylings of Maroon 5. That's it. Where are the keys. Goodbye cruel world, hello San Francisco Bay.

Wait! I just remembered! We've got plans to meet Olourkin in an hour or so, so the two of us can gripe about our first year of work out of J-school. (I only got two "emergency" work calls in two days so far, so that's not bad.)

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We caught a comedy show the other night. The first guy was depressing - sort of Woody Allen if he were six-foot-five. The next two were funny, even if the headliner totally ripped off my former classmate's routine.

But here's the thing, there were 14 people in the audience - tops - and we were giving them a lot of supportive laughter. But in those brief lulls where no one laughed, the guys would stop and condescendingly explain the joke. I was one instance away from yelling back at the stage, "We got it, douchebag, perhaps you'd like to consider the possibility it just wasn't laugh-out-loud funny."

...but of course I pussied out and took a pull of my seven-and-seven. ...and I don't know why I was drinking a seven-and-seven. Maybe it was the proximity to the Castro rubbing off. No pun intended.

Oh Jesus Christ. Diane just turned "the plot" into her next hit Broadway play. And she's not even wearing a tie in this flick. Oh fuck me. Now they're in Paris.

With Keanu.

What's worse: "Something's Gotta Give," watching the Lakeshow catch up in the final minute of regulation but then blow OT with the Wizards as the Suns extend their ridiculous win streak, or viewing an entire Bush press conference with your eyelids taped open?

If you'll excuse me I have to go sear my eyeballs with Nameless' curling iron.