Slowly Going Bald

I haven't been able to stop watching Brian Atene.

I posted the video a couple days ago, but here's another link. It's easily the best video to ever hit YouTube. Screw OK Go, screw trailer mash-ups, screw Brokeback parodies.

Brian Atene rules them all.

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Sis: i'm pushing for a biz centerpiece on a business that cleans out skulls

hehe

some of the pictures are seriously just rows of human skulls

me: awesome

AWESOME

Sis: yes

they have some freaky pictures on the exhange

like gross. we don't want people throwing up on the paper

me: haha

Sis: man, what if that was your job?

the company takes human and animal skulls, strips them of tissue, sanitizes and sells them

me: i'd hire a big guy and make him wear a zippered mask like the gimp in Pulp Fiction. i'd point to him and say "percy brings in more skulls than any other employee"

and it would freak people right the crap out

Sis: hahahahaha

percy?

me: i don't know

it's a creepy name

Sis: haha

me: especially for a GIANT IN A ZIPPER MASK

Sis: i laughed out loud and then my boss walked up

love it

now i can't stop giggling

me: haha

awesome

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In honor of Halloween, when normal girls dress slutty and slutty girls wear things that blow you away; when kids run wilder than normal; and when there's nothing better to do than tossing back a cold one and watching a truly awful movie; in honor of all that and more, we present the following:

Pajiba's Favorite Craptastic Horror Films.

Eat up.

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I know, I know: Most of you think I should lay off "Studio 60." But let me reiterate that I'm not out to bash the show, which I still think is better than most other programs on the air (it certainly beats people yelling at briefcases). It's just disappointing that the show is having trouble finding its voice. Granted, it could likely find it in time; "Seinfeld" wasn't even "Seinfeld" until its third season or so, all Chinese restaurant trips aside. But TV is a horribly numbers-oriented business, and I'm afraid NBC execs aren't willing to let shows grow anymore. But anyway:

Somebody a lot smarter than I am figured out that all great dramas have three players. Whether it's two men and the woman between them, or any one of a dozen other stories, the three players can ultimately be boiled down to two opposing forces and the conflict that defines their relationship. That conflict is a vital thing, since it drives the characters to interact and influences their decisions, while also acting as its own storytelling element. Aaron Sorkin's first show about TV, "Sports Night," has this in spades, and it's another in the list of things missing from the new "Studio 60" that, if things continue unabated, will keep the latter show from reaching the heights of the former.

"Sports Night" dealt with a sports news show on a third-rate cable net that was constantly trailing Fox Sports and ESPN in the ratings. From the get go, the producers and anchors struggled to do their show while putting up with interference from their corporate owners. Sorkin set the tone in the show's second episode, "The Apology," in which Dan Rydell gets a slap on the wrist from corporate after supporting the legalization of marijuana in an interview with Esquire. Sorkin's druggy moralizing aside (and believe me, I'll get to that another time), the episode highlighted the opposition between the heartfelt aims of the creatives and the ratings-oriented world of the corporate chiefs, and the role that executive producer Isaac Jaffe played in mediating the demands of both. For his public misstep, Dan is forced to issue an on-air apology to his viewers, and in the process reveals crucial elements of his emotional backstory. In a series full of great episodes, this one's still one of the best.

The second season upped the stakes, thanks to Sorkin's willingness to let the show reflect some of the offscreen struggles he was having with ABC. The fictional world of "Sports Night" had to deal with a ratings expert, played by William H. Macy, who was hired by the show's corporate owners to shake up the program and bring in more viewers. It was a great story arc precisely because it drove home the conflict that had been brewing since the show's inception. The resulting drama worked because the consequences felt real and immediate.

But "Studio 60" exists in a world without these consequences. The pilot episode dealt with executive producer Wes Mendell's on-air breakdown, and the subsequent hiring of Matt and Danny to turn the show around. Yet after that, things seemed to settle down at the show-within-a-show. Steven Weber's appearances as network exec Jack Rudolph have been sparse at best, and his threats have been rendered toothless by the show's apparent ratings growth (though how a cold open featuring a horrible Gilbert and Sullivan rip-off is supposed to bring in viewers is beyond me). That's the problem: The fictional "Studio 60" is having too much success. There's no conflict, no battle to overcome small odds and big foe to achieve something great. That's not to say "Studio 60" can't or won't change. But with nothing to fight for or struggle against, the show will have nothing to do except revel in its own apparent glories. I'd rather see a good fight than an easy victory.

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• The reviews:

"To work as the historical-political thriller it aspires to be, The Last King of Scotland would require the nearly impossible: viewers unaware of Amin’s atrocities, so that those horrors are revealed to the audience at or near the same moment they’re revealed to Nicholas. As it is, we’re in the position of watching a slasher movie set in a glass house. We don’t have to guess if the killer is standing outside the door — we can see him plainly the whole time."

"But Ryan Murphy ('Nip/Tuck'), who adapted and directed Scissors, apparently didn’t read the same book the rest of us did. Burroughs’ memoir was funny and at times touching, but it never sought anyone’s pity. If you wept while reading it, it was because you were laughing too hard to breathe otherwise. But Murphy must have misread it, because his adaptation not only bastardizes the spirit of the memoir, it deeply disrespects it."

"I admired the performances of Luke, Robbins, and the supporting cast; the cinematography is both handsome and lively; and many elements of South African life, such as the chanting of protesters during toyi-toyi, are used with beauty and expressiveness. Yet never did I feel the full moral urgency of Chamusso’s struggle or the complex set of motives driving Vos; it all remained a bit distant for me. Perhaps this fire is one I’ve just seen burn too many times."

"Saw III manages to improve on its predecessor in both critical terms and as raw entertainment. Theatergoers moved by the spirit of Halloween to sit through a grisly and unpleasant movie will not be disappointed by the buckets of blood and inventive means of human disposal."

I'd like to add on a personal note that I wouldn't see Saw III if it was playing on Heidi Klum's back.

• I'm not outright bashing "Studio 60." I'm just saying, Sorkin's done a lot better.

• "Veronica" is still great, though some seem to dislike my "Gilmore" opinions. Deal.

• I'm really hoping to break 20 comments, or anyway I'd thought the mass hysteria for "Grey's" that's infiltrated the nation's women would at least inspire more responses. Come on, tell me what makes the show so good.

• Kids are stupid. And adults can be even stupider.

• If Colt McCook is out there, he should know that I think of him every time I see Colt McCoy. Also, if I had decided years ago that creativity and the arts were dead-end streets and that my life would be better spent chasing leather up and down a field, I totally would have become a placekicker. Good grief, what an awesome job: You still get the uniform and all the hedonistic perks (read: free hooch and esteem-deprived sorority girls), and you only have to do like 2% of the work. This is maybe the best idea anyone ever had, right after penicillin and carpool lanes.

• I went to school with people who actually liked Rush Limbaugh. They've probably already bred by now, so there's really no stopping them. Which is sad.

• I have no idea if this video is real or not. In favor of its being a fake: YouTube is a notorious breeding ground for crap like this (lest we forget the lessons of LonelyGirl); it's not that hard to shoot something now and make it look 20 years old (even these morons know that); the odds of a kid in the '80s having the foresight and developed sense of irony to make this are somewhat slim; the monologue is waaaay over the top; and why is the clip showing up now, anyway?

Then again, in favor of the video's authenticity: Theater kids can be f***ing wackos. See for yourself.

• Last, but certainly not least: The porcupine race track. Enjoy:

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Comedy Central has finally gone to the mattresses against YouTube. (BoingBoing reacts here.)

That sucks. YouTube was probably making money from the clips, but second-hand, through ads and a hugely inflated sticker price in the Google sale. And Stewart/Colbert clips were probably my favorite part of YouTube.

Screw you guys, I'm going home.

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What a weird show.

Anyway: The Pajiba trade round-up.

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I want every girl that reads this to tell me what's so appealing about "Grey's Anatomy."

Don't forget to sign your name in the comment if you're posting anonymously.

Thanks.

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Be sure to check out Seth's look at TV theme songs in Pajiba's Guide to What's Good For You.

Also, this is worth checking out. Mighty enjoyable for something so short.

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In case it's escaped the notice of even the dullest reader out there, I've got a pretty special place in the black rock I call my heart for "Veronica Mars." Now cruising gamely along in its third season, despite low ratings and a network dumb enough to pair it with "Gilmore Girls" (a show about absolutely, positively nothing at all), "Veronica Mars" is still one of the best shows on TV. But after two full years of exploring high school life, Veronica up and graduated, and is now attending Hearst College. Her matriculation mirrors not just the show's transfer from the defunct UPN to the new CW, but also the fact that the show itself is at a crossroads, namely, the elimination of its premise — high-school private eye — and a gradual change in its mission statement.

This is bound to be a polarizing time for the show's hardcore fans, and it's reminiscent of the similar struggle faced by what some have called the show's ancestor, "Buffy the Vampire Slayer." Granted, I think that comparing any two shows beyond a certain point is unwise, and most people are just linking "Buffy" and "Veronica Mars" out of a well-meaning laziness: Both shows were centered around a strong, flawed, complex female character in high school; both shows placed a premium on witty dialogue and interpersonal relationships; both shows are on low-rated pseudo-networks; etc. But the shows do have their similarites, primarily their ability to explore the hell of growing up through the archetypal lens of high school, the one experience that unites us all in common misery. After its third season, "Buffy" went through the same growing pains now working their way through "Veronica Mars," as Buffy went off to college and the show struggled to find its larger purpose even as its core dynamic was forever altered. More than just having key characters removed and assigned to a spin-off, the "Buffy" universe had to deal with its very own existential crisis: What happens when the teenage superhero starts to grow up?

The show dealt with the inevitable problems the only way it knew how: By pushing through them. The first episode of the fourth season features another pack of vampires led by one of the lamest ringleaders the show ever came up with, but the villain of the week did one thing right: She broke Buffy's umbrella, a symbol of the good work she'd done in high school. It was a crushing, visceral way for the show to proclaim that the times were changing in a big way.

The fourth season, though certainly not a favorite of some fans, nevertheless turned out some great episodes — the experimental "Hush," the crossover "Pangs," the enjoyable one-off "Superstar," the excellent "Fear, Itself" — and, much more importantly, broadened its worldview. College is a world of gray tones next to the starkly defined areas of high school, and Buffy interacted with a greater variety of people with more darkly human (as opposed to demonic) traits, including Parker, who slept with Buffy and never called her again. He wasn't supernaturally evil, just a tool. It was in important step for the show, and one that paved the way for more complex relationships in the characters' collective futures. The fourth season was radically different from the first three because it had to be.

That's the problem, and possible solution, facing "Veronica Mars." The show's first two seasons delved into the dark sides of class warfare between the haves and have-nots of the small town of Neptune, smartly recognizing that cash is the biggest dividing line between the lunch tables in the cafeteria. But university life is rarely that stratified, and the only people who cling to such dated notions of how to define themselves are the jerks who seem to think college is basically Grade 13. "Veronica Mars" is going to have to figure out how to let go of the rich-poor struggle that so often defines the stories.

Veronica used to be a high-school snoop, and but she's going to have to transform into a bigger, more nuanced character to get the show over the tough bumps coming out of two solid years of stories. The show should set about trying to define Veronica in grander terms, like what kind of person does she want to be, in order to work. The central group of characters has been altered — Duncan's gone, Beaver's dead — and the remaining ones aren't what they used to be, none more than Weevil, who's gone from ruthless gang leader to the equivalent of wacky sitcom neighbor in only a few months (seriously, making Weevil the janitor at Hearst was a low blow, especially after offering up the tantaloizing possibility that he might work with Keith). But "Veronica Mars" can and will succeed if it pushes the characters to grow, and if it becomes comfortable with somewhat redefining itself. You don't go back; you go on to the next place, whatever that is.

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I think I should point out that I don't hate "Studio 60 on the Sunset Strip," despite my previous observations of its flaws. It's still one of the better shows on TV, despite the fact that the old Sorkin spark seems to have gone missing. These periodic posts about the show aren't meant to disparage it, but to take a closer look at just where things started to go wrong, to pull it apart in the hopes of putting it back together.

"Studio 60" does have its strengths, chief among them the interplay between Matt and Danny. Sorkin writes good dialogue because he understands how friends relate to each other and is gifted at creating a quicker, wittier, more coversationally nimble way of communicating than the fumbling half-sentences and vocalized pauses that most people use. Like the post-grads of Kicking and Screaming, Sorkin captures the way we wish we talked. This is nowhere clearer than in the endless banter between the men on Sorkin's shows.

On "The West Wing," Sorkin relied heavily on the interplay between Josh, Sam, and Toby, whose rapidly paced conversations lent the show a boys' club air, as if these guys got really carried away at pretending one day and wound up running the country. (Even C.J., for all her intellect and skill, was forever the outsider, and not because she wasn't smart, but because men on their own revel in the strong clique-ish vibe they naturally produce. It's a long story.) But it was Sorkin's first show, "Sports Night," where he had the most success exploring the ups and downs of modern male friendship.

In the truest sense, Casey McCall and Dan Rydell were that show's anchors, giving the stories an emotional center and resonance. Their relationship was the driving force for the show, whether it was dealing with interference from the corporate level, counseling each other about women, or acting as the protective older brothers for everyone else at the show. I could go on about the amazing ways these guys played off each other and dealt with their own faults and strengths with love and humor — the "hip-deep in pie" exchange at the end of "Dana and the Deep Blue Sea" is never less than moving — but the best example was the story arc in Season 2 where Dan struggled with depression and a personal breakdown. Dan and Casey's strained relationship was the most powerful way to upset the balance of the show, to underscore just how high the stakes had gotten. When Dan begins his atonement by leading a seder and apologizing to Casey in "April Is the Cruelest Month," the sense of healing is palpable.

So why bring all that up? Because "Studio 60" is missing some serious man love. Matt's position as head writer and Danny's role as executive producer means they will inherently spend more time apart than any other male pairing in Sorkin's history, and that's bad news. They work at the same place, but they rarely work together. There are precious few opportunities for Matt and Danny to be around each other and riff back and forth on the palpable fun of just being themselves, and that's going to take a toll on the show's chemistry. Casey and Dan wrote together, and the Josh-Sam-Toby team were constantly in each other's offices and feeding off the energy of the group, but Matt and Danny are by their nature separated for most of each episode of "Studio 60," and that will only have negative effects for the show in the long run. Sorkin's men need to be around each other, or else it just won't work.

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• The weekend at the movies:

"Anyway, Katy, clearly unhappy with the situation, rubs some charcoal on her face, dons a cowboy hat, and pulls a 'Twelfth Night' in order to win her mustang back by riding Flicka in the wild horse competition, which leads to an unexpected result: Katy is thrown from the horse, Flicka stomps her to death, and Luke Perry runs in off the set of 8 Seconds and shoots the equine to save the day. Actually, that last part was just in my head, but it would’ve offered a far more entertaining ending than the one we’re given, which involves the reappearance of that mountain lion, a 105 degree fever, and Tim McGraw trying his damndest to convince us he’s weeping."

"Though his heart and head are in the right place, it’s hard to really connect with a film in which the empathy is divided among so many: The soldiers who fought and died, the politicians who used them, the families who found hope and encouragement in them, and the nation that mythologized them, all united by a powerfully ambivalent symbol that, as Eastwood has it, polishes over the truth of the real heroes."

"Nolan has necessarily altered several aspects of Priest’s novel, notably confining the action to a specific time period instead of stretching it into the present day. But he retains the story’s heart, particularly it’s surreal flirtations with the border between illusions and actual magic. Yes, the film is built on deceptions, and yes, it features a series of interconnected twists, but like all good movies and magic tricks, it doesn’t lose any glory in a repeated performance or viewing, only gains it."

"Coppola’s view of Marie Antoinette is historically debatable — other historians continue to take a hard line against her frivolity and lack of real understanding of the French people — but it’s a convincing portrait of a person in distress, thrown into a situation she can’t control and can never escape."

• Down is up, black is white, and dogs and cats are now living together: I like The Sports Guy, and Aaron Sorkin forgets how to bring the funny.

• I act so all the time. So.

• A good piece about a great strip.

• Am I the only one that thinks Tia Carrere got much hotter in the interim between Wayne's World and Wayne's World 2? It's like they hired a new actress altogether.

• Iceman is one murdering bastard.

• "Bend over, Abigail May!" Watch and enjoy:

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I've seen Top Gun a few too many times, but it wasn't until a recent viewing on cable that I realized a powerful truth:

Iceman killed Goose.

It was Iceman's jetwash that played hell with Maverick's plane, causing it to spin out to sea. Yes, we could debate all day about the freak nature of the accident, including the F-14's physics-defying canopy that stayed around long enough to crack Goose's neck but somehow spared Mav's life. But Iceman was the one flying selfishly enough to cut off Maverick and go for the kill shot instead of letting Maverick snag the easy victory, and it was Iceman's sudden maneuvering that led to the accident. It was his selfishness that killed Goose, and instead of owning up to it or at least just letting it go, he kept rubbing it in Maverick's face. Iceman was a douche, and he was the one who should ultimately be held responsible for Goose's tragic, untimely death.

Seriously.

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A good book, a good movie:

Clickety-click.

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The Departed

Films About Texas

Little Children

The Prestige

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Because you know you'll click it:

The Pajiba trade round-up.

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Him: See, this lede is a little too cluttered. You need to trim it, simplify it.

Me: But I thought what I felt was simple.

Him: Well, I understand that, but you need to keep an eye out for things like this. You've been here long enough.

Me: Then I thought that I don't belong.

Him: It's not that you don't belong, you just —

Me: And now that I am leaving, now I know that I did something wrong, because I missed you.

Him: ...

Me: ...

Him: What are you talking about —

Me: YEEEEEEEAAAAAAAAAHHH, I missed you.

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This was, perhaps, inevitable. I had quite a bit of emotional investment in this season's "Studio 60 on the Sunset Strip," having fallen violently in love with "Sports Night" when it aired and having been a similar fan of "The West Wing." I even stuck with "West Wing" through seasons 5-7, or what is better known as The Years That Didn't Happen. Sorkin's latest behind-the-scenes venture, this time at a late-night sketch-comedy show, was supposed to be a return to greatness, a chance for phenomenal programming to once again take to the airwaves, and another show for me to take to my heart. (This season there are only two other shows like that, so it would have been nice to have a third.)

And, well, despite the many issues with the show that I will no doubt address in the future, the show has a major problem: Sorkin can write good, humorous dialogue between characters, but he can't write a funny sketch to sace his life.

Apparently, the fact that Mark McKinney ("The Kids in the Hall") is working on the sketches isn't helping at all. Last week's episode revolved around a purportedly stolen monologue that turned out to be NBS property after all, but no one stopped to think that the speech, which included a bit about dropping Hot Pockets along with bombs, wasn't funny in the first place. Last night's episode featured a cruelly, blatantly, powerfully unfunny Nancy Grace sketch, which (a) you have to really suck to miss the natural humor of an idiot like Grace, and (b) it made the recent Nancy Grace sketch on "SNL" look funny by comparison, which is a startling accomplishment. Still, the worst offense came in the second episode of "Studio 60," when the show-within-a-show's cold open was an abysmal rip-off of Gilbert and Sullivan. More than just typical Sorkinian recycling (cf. "And It's Surely to Their Credit" for a much better use of the music), the sketch was just stupid. Hearing the fictional studio audience laugh and applaud the lame song was almost painful. I sat and watched, unmoved, realizing that Sorkin is still a talented writer-producer, but his best work may well be behind him.

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So, Freddy Fender is dead.

As a kid, I heard the songs of The Texas Tornados on the radio, only it seemed no one else had ever heard of them. I've had the lyrics "Who were you thinking of when we were making love last night? / Was it a good-looking stranger or an old friend of mine?" stuck in my head since I was around 9 years old.

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It may come as a shock to the small but mighty band of loyal readers of this blog that I'm a big fan of Bill Simmons, aka The Sports Guy. The news no doubt comes as a surprise to several guys I went to school with, who must have figured I was gay (I'm not) after I confessed to not giving a single flying crap about pretty much any televised sporting event (which I still don't). But that was more a fault of our environment than anything else — after all, at a college where gay guys in the dorms are often hazed, there's a hunt-and-kill vibe surrounding anything that doesn't match up with the university's subliminal party line that encouraged us to become CPAs, marry Kojies, and move to Plano.

Anyway: I like Bill Simmons, even if I don't follow half the references in the mailbag. I enjoy Simmons' columns for several reasons: (1) He's freakishly pop-culture literate, referencing a host of films and TV shows over the past 30 years, ranging from the obscure to the mainstream. His rundowns of various movies are constantly entertaining, displaying a sharp sense of Gen-Xish humor and a solid mastery of comedic writing. (And as anyone who saw his appearance on "The Colbert Report" knows, performance-based humor and written humor are two different animals.) I also like his opinions on movies for what they are: A kind of critical low-road that's 50% heart, 45% emotional memory, and 5% actual critical analysis. I mean, come on, there are only so many times you can name-check Screech and expect to be taken seriously. (2) He's smart enough to make smarter friends, and enhance his writing through relationships with authors like Malcolm Gladwell and Chuck Klosterman, the latter of whom can write circles around Simmons when it comes to pop culture. (3) Most of all, Simmons brings enough energy, knowledge, and skill to his writing that he's not simply producing a good sports column; he's simply writing a good column, one that happens to be about sports.

However, in recent weeks, as the football season has progressed and I, blissfully unaware, have contented myself with movies and vicarious fantasy-team victories, I've noticed a trend in Simmons' columns, specifically his weekly NFL prediction posts. Namely: I totally identify with his wife.

This is probably the last thing my friends want to hear, but I should explain. In his first predictions column of the season, Simmons related an event in which his wife, who hates football with a passion, managed to consistently pick winners in the weekly match-ups. Simmons wondered: "Can I even pick games better than someone who doesn't know ANYTHING?" (And don't be surprised if that link stops working soon; ESPN is mighty protective of their stuff.) So he added "a wrinkle" to this year's picks columns: He would give his wife a small block of space to let her write a few hundred words on any topic she desired and lay out her picks for the week. His wife, dubbed The Sports Gal in the column, proceeded to write about life in L.A., her distaste for Lindsay Lohan, and her opinions on "The Bachelor." Then she'd list her picks and her season record.

The best part is that she's winning.

As of the Week 6 picks, she's at 40-29-5 for the season, and last week went 5-6-3. Simmons, on the other hand, is 33-36-5 for the season so far, and was 4-7-3 last week. Simmons is infinitely more knowledgable about football than I would ever hope to be, and when it comes to picking winners, he's still getting schooled by his wife, who couldn't care less about the games.

This is good news for me, and a source of certain hope. Here I'd been laboring under the delusion that my friends' passion had over time gifted them with certain abilities when it comes to predicting winners or analyzing games, as evidenced by the constant flow of fantasy-roster speculation that clogs the office. But it turns out that there's no secret, no special trick to doing it. There are no special powers involved. No amount of insight can match the dumb luck you get from drawing names from a hat, or even using the Balki Bartokomous method of picking winners based which mascot would win in a fight.

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• The weekend reviewed:

"Some of these films are quite entertaining; others are utterly pointless but, after you’ve seen enough of them, it’s hard to care which is which. It’s like having a really great meatloaf recipe — no matter how good it is, it’s still freakin’ meatloaf."

"So, yeah: It’s not just a bad political thriller, it is — at times — decidedly grim. In fact, Levinson’s biggest mistake is trying to take the film too seriously by trying to turn it into a dark political statement about election fraud, which is a bit like turning 'Jimmy Kimmel Live' into a statement about feminism — it just doesn’t compute."

"Instead of the kind of stupid film that is wittily self-aware, The Marine comes off like a home-video of pranksters who enjoy dicking around with pyrotechnics. It hardly seemed possible, but any entertainment gained from watching Cena fly away from half a dozen different explosions will be purely incidental. The Marine isn’t fun; it’s just stupid."

"The director hasn’t so much made a leap forward as he has ascended to a slightly higher vantage point from which to observe the woefully complex and ever-shifting relationships that populate modern America. The film is impossible to label, and I can’t get it out of my head."

"Every period of violence and uncertainty awakens our basic human need to connect with another person, but the alienation of a post-industrial society, where so many interactions are virtual, and sex doesn’t even require a partner in the same room, makes such connections more than usually fraught with uncertainty — how can we be sure if another person’s feelings are real, or even if our own are?"

• I've said it before, and I'll say it again: This is one of the best shows on TV.

• I've gotta say, I'm pretty disappointed that no one commented on these song lyrics, or chipped in some of their own. These are some classic tunes.

• A look at Letters From Iwo Jima, which, for my money, could be the more interesting film.

• Hmmm.

• Regardless of your opinions of his style and methods, he's probably the most influential living critic, and it's good to know he's still in the game.

• Again, the best videos of the week:

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I'm pretty sure Kate Winslet is contractually obligated to be naked in most of her movies. At least the sex scenes in this one weren't as emotionally scarring as having Joaquin Phoenix get all freaky with her corpse in Quills.

Anyway:

Clickety-click.

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I'll have the pancakes in the Age of Enlightenment:

The Pajiba trade round-up.

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Sing me one more song about them dusty plains / Them honky-tonk angels and their lonely beehive pain

I've made my bed, so here I'll lie / I'm rollin' West Texas teardrops in my eyes

There's a seat for you at the rodeo, and I've got every slow dance saved / Besides the Mexican food sucks north of here anyway

It's written all over the face of the daughter of the mayor of Marble Falls / When she winds up in Denton town, doing the Valium waltz

There only two things in life that make it worth livin' / That's guitars that tune good and firm-feelin' women

Alison in Galveston somehow lost her sanity / And Dimples who now lives in Temple's got the law lookin' for me

She lived in Berkeley till the earthquake shook her loose / She lives in Texas now, where nothing ever moves

Nighttime would find me in Rosa's cantina / Music would play and Felina would whirl

Well there's floodin' down in Texas, all the telephone lines are down / And I've been tryin' to call my baby, Lord, and I can't get a single sound

I sure do love them red-haired girls / I'm just like all the boys from Texas

A Lone Star State of Mind

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[Permanent disclosure: Any and all TV shows or films discussed here will inevitably contain minor spoilers. Deal.]

I think it was the moment when Leoben the Cylon revealed to Starbuck that her excised ovary had been salvaged and used to create a human/cyborg daughter that I began to understand that "Battlestar Galactica" is one dark, sad show. The sci-fi drama's third season kicked off in high gear on Friday, picking up after last season's cliffhanger pretty much imploded the show's universe by jumping forward a year to show the struggle of the human settlers on New Caprica and the return of the Cylons, who invaded the fledgling colony and established their own rules. The show is simply amazing.

It's nothing new for a series to walk the line between light and dark; ever since "The Sopranos" bowed in 1999, darkness has been in vogue, especially on cable, with "Deadwood," "The Wire," "Rescue Me," "Nip/Tuck," and "The Shield" going all-out to show the inner horrors of the human psyche as their characters fell to impossible depths of loneliness and depravity. But "Battlestar Galactica" is different from most of those shows because it features likable, relatable characters, whereas most of the other series are just crazy for the sake of being crazy.

Take "Nip/Tuck." It's a visually stimulating show, but absolutely pointless. It does dark better than most — Sean's recent drug-fueled hallucination of his personal demon banging his personal angel was attention-getting, to say the least — but the darkness isn't tempered by any kind of genuine emotion. It's not that I want the show to be lighter; I want it to make me care about the characters who are dealing with such hard, dark times. And I don't. Sean is a whiny punk, his wife is a bitter wreck, and Christian is a soulless husk of a man who sees the futility of his ways and doesn't so much refuse to atone as much as he just lets thoughts of atonement drift away like a bad hangover. Let them suffer.

Conversely, the rough road that the denizens of the "Battlestar" universe walk is heartbreaking precisely because the writers, producers, and actors put so much energy into making me care for the characters. The stunning casualness with with Col. Tigh loses an eye serves to underscore the colonists' dire straits, reinforce the image of the Cylons' murderous ways, and instill sympathy for Tigh all at once. The show isn't in a rush to show how dark and crazy it can be, as in the story line on last season's "Rescue Me" when it seemed like everybody was raping everybody just for the hell of it. And "Battlestar" stands in dark contrast to Showtime's new series "Dexter," which is so busy trying to look cool you forget that it doesn't matter who lives or dies; you just don't care.

So many shows are wallowing in pointless vice without having it smack up against virtue, which is what creates genuine conflict and memorable relationships for a series' characters. The physical violation of Starbuck is that much more horrifying because we've already come to identify with her and relate to her, to sympathize with her struggle to balance the coldness that keeps her alive and the love (lately for Anders) that keeps her going. Tigh isn't some cartoon villain, but a man who wants to do right and has a blind spot a mile wide for Ellen, his duplicitous wife, and the series even tempers her acts of betrayal with emotion: She does what she does to save her husband from the Cylons. The plots develop from the spark between people's basest interests and purest intentions, making the darkness something we recognize as our own.

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Today's gonna be like a dream come true for most, if not all, of you oddly loyal readers. Follow this link and go crazy:

Click here and follow the instructions.

I'll post results later, or as soon as my self-image craters, whatever comes first.

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• The weekend in film:

"It’s not just a fantastic, frenetic police-and-thieves thriller, but also a welcome return to form for one of the best American directors working today."

"There are certainly enough bludgeons, chainsaw eviscerations, and human consumption to make one’s stomach wobble, but it isn’t anything exceptional. Uninvolving characters are mangled in fairly uninvolving ways — what’s left to say?"

"I just think it’s fantastic that director Greg Coolidge (Sorority Boys) finds new and exciting ways to infantilize women, objectify them as mounds of flesh one can rest upon a counter, and then make them appear bubbly and intellectually deficient, thereby affording the men in the audience an opportunity to feel smarter by comparison."

"She may be a bit of a monster, but what else could she be? Thrust into the monarchy as a sheltered girl of 26, following her father’s early death, which the film suggests was a direct result of having had the crown dropped his lap upon his brother Edward VIII’s abrupt abdication, she gave up being a woman to become an institution."

• "Hey, everybody liked my script for Training Day. I wonder if anyone will notice if I remake it with a white guy? Man, I'm brilliant."

• This is just a suggestion, and Lorne Michaels is free to ignore it, but I think the current cast of "SNL" should be ritualistically slaughtered. Then the show should take a one-year hiatus to think about how bad it is. Then, maybe, if it seems everyone has learned their lesson, the show can come back. But only then. (Except for Kristen Wiig; she shall be spared. And Seth Meyers. And Amy Poehler. But seriously, that's all, everyone else is dead.)

• Because every now and then the universe opens up and smiles at you: John Hodgman has a blog.

• The best videos of the week:

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Fantastic.

Clickety-click.

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The Pajiba trade round-up.

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I sit here, basking in what could only be described as the post-coital glow of a long-desired reunion with one of the greatest shows on TV, feeling somehow more complete than I did when I got up Tuesday morning. In the interests of sparing you seven loyal readers from slogging through some kind of half-assed essay, my regurgitations will be limited to bullet points. You're welcome.

• The season premiere of "Veronica Mars" was pretty much everything I'd hoped it would be. I didn't have quite the emotional baggage tied up in it as I did with the "Studio 60" premiere; my early, earnest, teenage love for Sorkin's "Sports Night" pretty much ruined me on that count. Likewise, I'm curious about "Lost" this year but am wary of the show after the gradual decline of its second season. But "Veronica Mars" is still engaging, honest, and confident of the road it wants to walk. Creator Rob Thomas' script did a solid job at handling some necessarily clunky exposition: Having all the high schoolers wind up at the same college; having Keith address Fitzpatrick by name while driving him to meet Kendall; having Logan and Dick mention Beaver's suicide; etc. He introduced new characters, hinted at possible relationship conflicts, and ended the episode on dual cliffhangers. Brilliant.

• For instance: The light. The show has always confounded a realistic expectation of lighting design, casting its characters in stark rays of pink or blue or green in the midst of such mundane settings as classrooms and low-rent apartments. Keith's office is still bathed in an orgy of neon coming from nowhere, and Veronica's criminolgy classroom has stained glass windows for no other reason than that the show is constantly injecting flourishes of color into every situation.

• Veronica's criminology professor? Jeremiah f***ing Lasky. What a weird bit of typecasting.

• The only bad note: Thanks a pantload to the CW for foisting the godawful Aerie Girls on the viewers. It's just a group of stupid women who sit around and pointlessly discuss the show during the commercial break. That's bad enough, but infinitely worse is that it's sponsored by a women's clothing line. Look, I've already got enough to deal with loving a show that's been paired with "Gilmore Girls" by the clueless network, not to mention the fact that most of the shows I love seem to revolve around a strong female lead. I'm already doing my best to fake my way through life, okay? The last thing I need is to see a gaggle of dim giggling women speculating about Veronica and Logan or Lorelai and Luke (which come on, you know she's not gonna wind up with Christopher).

• The show is still committed to unraveling a weekly mystery and progressing a larger story arc, as evidenced by Keith's trip to the desert with a Fitzpatrick, as well as sidelong confirmation of what was in Kendall's briefcase in last season's finale (apparently a mountain of cash). But there was no major introduction to a season-long puzzle, as in the murder of Lilly Kane or the school bus crash. That's not to say that this season's planned multiple-mystery set-up won't be satisfying. It's just a little sad to see the show's original conceit go.

• Is Duncan still hanging out in Australia with his dead ex's baby? Is he okay with Veronica sleeping with Logan? Didn't they part with all kinds of professions of eternal whatever? I'm just saying, she could call the guy.

• Seriously, the whole Aerie thing made me deeply self-conscious.

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What was in Kendall's briefcase?

Why didn't Keith show up at the airport?

And just how the hell did Aaron Echolls win an Oscar?

Here's to another year.

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By overwhelming request (which means at least one person), I've created another category for the sidebar, wherein my various bathroom adventures and curiously rigid standards of urinal etiquette will be archived. Here are the quick links anyway:

Part 1

Part 2

Part 3

Part 4

Part 5

Part 6

And now, on to newer matters:

The Buffers

The women's restroom is an orderly place, with a couch and a foyer and full-service deli. But life in the men's room is much more cutthroat. In addition to some of the various rules I've discussed here — e.g., don't speak to me while I'm doing the do — there's an even more basic set of guidelines I feel I should discuss. I speak, of course, of the buffers.

Buffers aren't always necessary: Some groups of urinals have walls separating the individual units, which I'm strongly in favor of, even if it does invite coworkers to stand next to you and start jabbering away. But sometimes I'll walk into a bathroom and see a row of five urinals, no walls between them, and that's when strategy comes into play.

• If possible, there should always be an empty urinal between the one you're using and the one the other guy is using. The empty urinal acts a buffer, ensuring the respect of personal space.

• If you're the only one in the bathroom, always take a urinal that would allow for a buffer if another man came in to use the facilities. For instance: If there are five urinals, you can take urinal 1, 3, or 5, since that would allow two more fellow urinators to have buffers. Taking urinal 2 or 4 is just dumb, man.

• If 1, 3, and 5 are occupied, it's okay to saddle up to 2 or 4, since there's nothing you can do about it. But if, say, only 1 and 3 are occupied, and you slide into the 2 spot, you're violating all kinds of unspoken moral and ethical codes. You should never stand next to a man with his junk exposed unless necessary.

I'm just saying, respect the rules.

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• The week in reviews:

"Seriously, it looks like someone filmed dress rehearsal and the studios sent it off to the printers in hopes of soaking a few more dollars out of Jon Heder before his 15 minutes ran out. Unfortunately, it looks like they were too late."

"And, I guess — given what The Guardian had going against it at the outset — that I was a bit surprised that I didn’t actually loathe it; indeed, it’s a typical, glossy, mainstream, more-than-adequate piece of entertainment, even if it has absolutely nothing original or marginally interesting to say (though the hooey-filled ending may leave you gagging for the better part of the night.)"

"Montiel has trimmed away all the flourishes that would have set his story apart from the thousands of other coming-of-age tales we’ve seen before, and the resulting film is a wobbly mix of youthful verve and grown-up posturing."

"While the film is an illuminating look into a growing niche of hard-line faith, it’s also a jaw-dropping and often sad look at the kids caught in the middle. It is, for lack of a better word, unsettling."

• It's good that someone else sees through for Mitch Albom's phony act. Seriously, I was forced to read Tuesdays With Hurry Up and Die Already when I was a sophomore at the oft-referenced but never specifically mentioned private religious university I attended in the Texas desert, and my anger at having to slog through that pabulum was only matched by my extreme disappointment that the college of biblical studies was the one responsible for distributing that crap. (It was a class required for graduation, and I spent 16 weeks listening to bucktoothed classmates expound on the allegorical similarites between Jesus and Forrest Gump, which was easily among the most damaging things that's ever happened to my faith.)

• Granted, it's nothing new for Time to ask really loaded questions in their features and ramble on for a few thousand words without actually getting anywhere, but still, this is an interesting read. Osteen, Hagee, et al.: dangerous.

• Man, this takes me back. You should also know that this guy went to prom with Grace. Gotta respect that:

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It opened in Grapevine, Texas, on its first weekend, but not L.A. That should tell you plenty:

Clickety-click.

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Idiocracy

Hollywoodland

This Film Is Not Yet Rated

All the King's Men

Feast

A Guide to Recognizing Your Saints

Jesus Camp

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