"Oh, that's just my Kung Fu professor."

TORSO is great. PIECES is better. And the Greats of Roth fest at the New Beverly is off to one hell of a start.

Randomness: I tried to shake John Gulager's hand and tell him how much I liked FEAST and I think I really scared him. Maybe because he had just seen me playing with Eli's chainsaw from HOSTEL:





















I'm such a nerd.

My LOST theory...

For months now I've been saying that time travel will be the key to LOST's big mysteries, and tonight's episode went a long way toward confirming that.

So building on that theory:

--The funeral Jack attended in last season's finale was for one of the operatives who rescued them from the island. (Seeing as how nobody else bothered to show up, Miles seems to be the most likely candidate.) And why did he die? Because he was the first name on Sayid's hit list.

--Time travel is going to be used to explain the fact that Walt has aged four years in a matter of months.

And the big one:

--When Jack tells Kate "We have to go back," he's not talking about going back to the island. He's talking about going back in time.

In other words, something terrible is going to happen on the island, and everybody (except the Oceanic Six) is going to die. So Future Jack's goal isn't to rescue a bunch of stranded castaways; he wants to go back in time and prevent that catastrophic event from happening in the first place.

Just a thought.

IMDB'd!

Start spreading vicious rumors and salacious gossip here.

Well, shit.

Anybody who knows me knows JAWS is my favorite flick--not to mention the reason I grew up wanting to make movies--and it goes without saying that Roy Scheider is the heart and soul that holds the movie together. I'm not going to eulogize him here, since the esteemed Jeremy Smith already put it into words better than I ever could.

So that's a depressing end to what was otherwise a pretty great day. The New Beverly Cinema continues to be the single best reason for putting up with the Los Angeles housing market, this time with a double feature of THE OMEGA MAN and SILENT RUNNING.

OMEGA MAN is pure cheese, sure, but it's charming and enjoyable in a way that last year's ponderous I AM LEGEND could never hope to match. It's also a drinking game waiting to happen: take a shot every time Heston removes his shirt (and desperately tries to suck in his gut), and take two shots whenever he shows up wearing one of the frilliest, poofiest Little Lord Fauntleroy shirts imaginable. I guarantee you won't last the movie.

SILENT RUNNING, on the other hand, is nothing less than one of the most bugfuck crazy movies ever made. And I'm about to spoil the entire thing, so if you're planning on hitting the Beverly tomorrow night, back out now.

So at some point in the distant future, Earth no longer has trees, grass or any sort of foliage. Not because of nuclear war or global warming, but simply because we "stopped taking care of them." (The issue of what everybody is breathing down there is never addressed. Fuck it, it's the future. Moving on.)

The last remaining trees in the universe are being hauled around inside a massive spaceship, and tended to by Bruce Dern's hippie spaceman. But when the orders come down to destroy these remaining trees--just cuz--Dern flips out and murders all the other humans on the ship.

This is our hero, by the way. The murdering guy. In case you were wondering.

So now everybody else is dead. How does Dern spend the next hour of the movie, you ask?

--Reprogramming three service drones--who are obviously midgets walking on their hands inside clunky plastic shells--to be his new friends
--Teaching his service drones how to bury all the people he killed
--Petting rabbits and feeding his pet hawk during the first of several Joan Baez musical numbers
--Naming his service drones Huey, Dewey and Louie
--Tear-assing around on a go-kart
--Playing pool against a futuristic pool-playing machine
--Singing the Smokey the Bear theme song to himself
--Teaching Huey and Dewey how to play poker
--Getting angry when Huey and Dewey start cheating at poker
--Gazing lovingly at his poster of "The Conservationist's Pledge"
--Lecturing himself on the benefits of eating natural fruit as opposed to the gray slop crapped out by the magical food synthesizer
--Trying to figure out why the forest that he's been cultivating for six years has begun to wither
--Finally putting his scientific training to good use by realizing that, holy shit, plants need sunlight to live
--Dreaming of running through a forest with a big smile on his face
--Getting depressed and committing suicide using a nuclear bomb

Seriously.

Oh, and all of this was written by Steven Bochco. Yeah, that Steven Bochco.

Congratulations, New Beverly. You've raised the bar for WHAT THE FUCK DID I JUST WATCH yet again.

My life kicks ass.

I've been sitting on the good news for a while, but it looks like the cat is out of the bag, courtesy to the Hollywood Reporter.

(Nice of them to list all the producers but not the guy who, you know, wrote the movie. So much for getting my own IMDB page anytime soon.)

(Edit: Looks like they also spelled the director's name wrong. Edna is a lunch lady. Enda is our director.)

I've spent the last week geeking out in a major way, and not just because LOST is my favorite show on television. Believe it or not, I actually wrote this role specifically for Monaghan, never dreaming in a million years that he would actually read it. It's probably safe to say that without Monaghan, PET--and by extension, my entire career--wouldn't even exist.

So now I'm officially spoiled. My first movie is going to star the guy I wrote it for. How often does that happen?

What the fuck, California?

Clinton?

Really??

If you weren't at the Whiskey last night...

You missed one hell of a show.

It was The Dreaming's album release party, and the blew the fucking roof off the place, ripping through every song on the new album and capping things off with a few Stabbing Westward songs. I've seen all of The Dreaming's local shows over the last few years--not to mention a half-dozen Stabbing gigs in the 90s--and this may have been the best one yet.

I drank myself stupid, screamed myself hoarse, and came home to find a brand new LOST waiting for me. Thursdays don't get much better.

Of course, I also can't move my neck today. Is there a more pathetic/depressing sign that you're getting older than headbanger whiplash?