But, before we begin…
With summer upon us, no one wants to turn on their stove to cook dinner. If this sounds like you, might I recommend a Cuban Sandwich? Tastes great with oversized crackas.
Welcome back to The Bootleg. This week, my very good friend Jessica died. And by “died”, I mean we worked in the same place for the last four years and today is her last day. She’s accepted a more lucrative position with another company and, since she put her two-week notice in, I’ve had to pretend that I’m happy for her.
See, Jessica is only two years older than me and one of the few people, among the 2,000 that we employ, that was in the same demographic purgatory as myself.
Basically, there are three types of people who make up the staff of any large-scale employer. First, there’s the New Booty. These are the ones who are fresh out of college and naively believe that hard work and dedication is eventually rewarded.
When you ask one of them what they did over the weekend, their stories contain all the liquor, parties and unprotected sex of their college days, but without the awkward post-date rape encounters with the victim in their shared 8:00 A.M. psych class the following Monday.
Next, there are the men and women of the Minivan Clan who make up Old n’ Stank. They derive pleasure by shopping for lacy curtains to decorate the sad little rut their lives have become. They’re several centuries past “jaded” and “cynical” and only stick around for the benefits package and the cafeteria’s Chicken Fingers Fridays.
Ask one of them how they spent their weekend and you’ll hear a 60-minute soliloquy on Cindy’s soccer practice. They’re also partial to “activities” like televised golf and trips to Tru-Value, while both the male and female of the species cackle hysterically at the use of the phrase “honey-do list”, as if they’re the first one to ever beat it into the f*ckin’ ground.
Finally, there’s my group. We’re a small, nameless and faceless faction who lack the buoyant idealism and bloated livers of New Booty, while fighting like hell to want more than the Old n’ Stank segment have settled for.
Now, our weekends aren’t all hookers and hot wings or anything, but occasionally we’ll luck out and get Who’s Harry Crumb? and A Low Down Dirty Shame back-to-back on TBS in the middle of a Sunday afternoon, while licking the day-glo powder off our fingers from a stack of Cheez-Flavored Pringles.
Basically, I’m too old to kick it with the college hires and too young for the middle-aged mummification of the corporate lifers.
So, won’t you join me in wishing Jessica all the best in her new job? I’ll be dusting off that old reliable “our loss is their gain” cliché when I see her at her farewell happy hour. Maybe she can help me find the net gain in trading in our lunchtime tradition of California rolls and conversation for my new mid-day diversions: Free Cell and Fri-tos.
The Goodness prefers Minesweeper and Munchos…
Little Mac Lives! Again…and Again.
Eminem is in talks to star in a biopic on the life of Ukraine-born boxer Dmitry Salita, tentatively titled Golden Boy. Em is reportedly serious enough about the role that he has hired legendary boxing trainer Emanuel Steward to prepare him for the rigors of the ring.
Man, it’s really taking all the strength I have to resist making another one of my patented Punch-Out! references. With his 8 Mile dye job, Eminem is Little Mac. Fresh Prince star James Avery is a lock for Doc.
No! I’ve got to resist temptation on this one. Lord, I’d give my last 50 Cent not to look like someone who recycles the same joke each and every week.
Seriously, though…the premise for this film has a few eerie parallels to the recent Nike campaign that featured superstar athletes playing something other than their signature sport. Serena Williams was a beach volleyball player, Andre Agassi had a girlie League of Their Own kind of swing as a Boston Red Sox player and, most infamously, Little Lance Armstrong was a boxer.
Hell, Lance was cartoonishly beating guys like they stole the testicle that cancer didn’t get. Now, I’m not taking anything away from America’s favorite bike messenger, but come on. In a real fight, the 102-pound Armstrong goes down quicker than Red at the hand of Deebo in about half the time. He got knocked the f*ck…et cetera et cetera.
Make ‘Em Say Cuuuuuuut
I don’t want to say that it’s been a slow news week, but…the first round of cuts came down throughout the NBA’s Summer League this week with quote-unquote rapper and quote-unquote actor Master P among the first to be shown the door.
This isn’t the first brush with pro ball for the 52-year-old gold-toofed troubadour. He’s mostly bounced around with a handful of independent leagues, but did make it to the final cut down day while in training camp with the Charlotte Hornets in 1998.
Unfortunately, there probably wasn’t much of a chance for P, anyway, considering the league’s lone roster exemption for sh*tty entertainers has been ably filled by Shaquille O’Neal since the day “Neon Budeaux” was first discovered by Nick Nolte in Blue Chips.
Actually, I only had two problems with Blue Chips. The first was the token white guy who played the Midwestern farm boy recruit. Jesus, who was the casting director, Bill Simmons? We get it…Larry Bird was a great player who helped revive the league in the 1980s. He’d also outlived his relevance to the game nearly five years before this movie came out and Jurassic Park already covered the concept of dinosaurs in the modern world.
Second, and more egregious…Nick Nolte’s dirty hoops program was ultimately brought down by Al Freakin’ Bundy.
Spade is to Diddy as Farley is to Biggie
Man, with all these sports-tinted music stories this week, I should be writing for 411 Black. Just give me a second to come up with a wacky pseudonym (A.J. Victory!) and another tired take on a topic that’s sees the proverbial dead horse beaten into bologna.
Longtime Bootleg punching bag, Nelly, will make his feature film debut as a running back in Adam Sandler’s remake of The Longest Yard. With Chris Rock, Burt Reynolds and Snoop Dogg on board, this has all the makings of Necessary Roughness kind of awful. And, this just in…I’m hearing Sinbad is looking for work. His only requested “perk”: a ride back to the Self-Storage garage where he presently resides.
And speaking of the employmentally challenged (and no, not my brother Ryan a/k/a Joey from Roc)…can someone explain the curious case of David Spade to me?
A couple of nights ago, I caught him in a spot for Capital One Credit playing…and it’s a stretch, I know…a smarmy bastard interacting rudely with customers. Why is it when the white man’s fatter, more talented friend (Chris Farley) dies…the surviving sidekick is forced into bad sitcom servitude and Hollywood Squares guest spots. When the Black man’s fatter, more talented friend dies…the survivor becomes Puff Daddy.
My theory is still in its infancy, but I’m willing to field test it if someone can herd Star Jones and Cedric the Entertainer my way. Oh, and tell Horatio Sanz to watch his back. That Chris Kattan will do anything to wash Corky Romano off his resume. Anything.
Do They Still Make British Knights?
Here’s a novel concept. Nas is scheduled to drop a brand new double album later this year called Streets Disciple. And the pride of Queensbridge is giving aspiring United Kingdom rappers a chance to appear on the CD, simply by sending in a demo track to…
United Kingdom Rappers?
I didn’t know that the British beat box scene was so, uh…existent. I guess the debut albums of DJ Penfold and MC Norman Smiley haven’t reached the States yet.
Come to think of it, we’ve been sending quite a bit of American culture over to the UK, from Hip Hop to dental plans, and I fail to see where the Brits have reciprocated. As far as I can tell, save for their mysterious majority in the roles of nearly every bit player and extra in the original Star Wars trilogy, they’ve given us nothing but Salt n’ Vinegar chips and androgynous Autobots.
And not just any Autobot, but one that could transform…into a microscope. Wasn’t the point of the whole “transforming” thing to be a robot in disguise? I guess Perceptor would’ve been the best choice to get the jump on Megatron…if he ever invaded Mr. McNeely’s seventh grade science fair.
“Drop the Styrofoam solar system, Starscream!”
Two Minus Three Equals Negative Fun!
Outkast’s Andre 3000 has scored another award for his growing mantle. The tree-hugging limp wrists of PETA (People for the Ethical Treatment of Animals) have deemed Andre as co-winner of “The World’s Sexiest Vegetarian” award for 2004. Odd…based on most publicity photos I’ve seen, I would’ve had him pegged for a fruit. I kid, I kid…
Andre had some stiff competition this year, as well. Other finalists included Tobey Maguire, Josh Hartnett, Noah Wyle. The eclectic musician is sharing this year’s honor with none other than Alicia Silverstone who, during her 1997 waddle run as Batgirl, proved once and for all that Mars Bars ain’t meat.
Feh. It sounds like these celebrity grazers need another viewing of Meat and You: Partners in Freedom. Just ask any scientician…in nature, one creature invariably eats another creature to survive. Don’t kid yourself, if a cow ever got the chance, he’d eat you and everyone you care about. Don’t believe me? Well, then how do you explain the disappearance of Helen Slater, Bruno Kirby and the Black father n’ son dentists between City Slickers 1 & 2?
And, my…didn’t Norman the calf gain quite a bit of weight between the two movies? Admittedly, most of that was the undigested career of Daniel Stern.
Sometimes The News Just Writes Itself
Three years ago, mochaccino man-bitch Justin Guarini captured our hearts with his performances during the inaugural season of American Idol. It’s been a steep fall from grace, however, as his debut album flopped and his motion picture career fared even worse.
And, in one of those good news/bad news gender-uncertain dichotomies, he rear-ended a man…on the highway…while he was driving…in his car.
Well, the Cinnamon Sideshow Bob is back on the road…to recovery, that is! He’s inked a deal to star in Good Vibrations, a musical based on the music of The Beach Boys. It follows the summer adventures of a group of teens growing up on the beaches of Southern California. No word yet on who will play the used hypodermic needles and broken condoms that glisten in our shimmering yellow sand ’round these parts.
Production opens July 29 in Poughkeepsie, New York…eggs and tomatoes can be picked up at Advance Produce Window C.
Nick’a Please
conceptualized by Nick Salemi
Nicka’s Summer Movie Preview
If you haven’t noticed from Cameron’s commentary that preceded this, it’s been a slow music news week.
As a result of last week’s column, I’d like DMX and his agent to stop calling me asking to write the script for his next movie. I’m awfully tied up as it is, writing a few paragraphs of wise-ass comments that six people find funny as part of someone else’s column. Work out your drama first, then we’ll talk…(in DMX voice) Just cuz…I love my Nicka’s.
Well, we’re smack dab in the middle of summer, so since we’re dry on music, I think it makes sense do a preview of what’s left on the horizon for this summer’s blockbuster “must-see” flicks…with minimal knowledge of any of them.
For a more credible and entertaining read, check out Joe Reid’s column at 411 movies.
Catwoman
Has there ever been less of an effort to push a movie of this kind? It’s like the producers are saying “Hey, it’s Halle Berry in a Catwoman costume, what else do you want?” This one is getting the “Gigli” treatment with people dissing it before it even sees the light of day. Halle continues her free-fall from her Oscar winning performance in Monster’s Ball.
I hear the villains in the movie are David Justice, Eric Benet and telephone poles.
Alien vs. Predator
This would have been a great idea…when I was 12. Obviously, I’ve matured well beyond the capacity to find this entertaining. That being said, I’m not sure if the Predator from the original film took Carl Weathers’ blown off arm and will use it in this sequel. Last I knew, the gun was still firing.
“I wonder what’s got Billy so spooked?”
I’ve always thought it was either the amount of steroids Arnold and Apollo did while filming or that the Predator told him Danny Glover would star in the sequel.
As for the Aliens, I think we all know that they’re back for revenge after Winona Rider made off with several Alien clothing items from Alien Resurrection without paying for them.
The Village
M Night Shymalan’s latest tale of suspense and the supernatural. I can guarantee a surprise twist ending that you won’t believe, unless you’re aware that all his movies have surprise twist endings that you won’t believe! I think Aaron Cameron tried out for Mr. Glass in Unbreakable and was turned down, which is why he loathes it. His screen tests are on the DVD extras.
Collateral
You’ve heard the plotline. Tom Cruise plays a hitman and Jamie Foxx is a cabbie who has to drive from one contract killing to another throughout the night. I guess it sounds interesting but don’t you get the feeling that the audience may end up feeling like they’ve been held hostage and forced to go along with this, too? And not in the “empathize with the character” kind of way.
The Bourne Supremacy
I was a big fan of The Bourne Identity. I have high hopes for this one, too. What I really I hope is that they found a way to get Franka Potente, the sizzling piece from the first one, into an “attacked by spies in a hot tub” scene, and then have my memory erased so I can watch the scene again. Rinse and repeat.
Benji Returns: Rags to Riches
AJC put me onto this. I thought he was kidding. I can’t believe PETA isn’t picketing already. How could they stand idly by while the producers of this film dug up the old Benji just to make a few bucks? Why bother desecrating the grave of one of the greatest actors in the last 20 years? Can’t they just use CGI technology to make him drive cars or play golf? Benji should be left alone to drink out of the big toilet in the sky. R.I.P…again.
Next week: AJC and I will dissect the movies that have come out already.
(Ed. Note: That is unless Nick feels the need to bust out a bizarre ‘best of’ column. His nine-month Bootleg anniversary is right around the corner.)
General Haberdashery
Elliot Smilowitz is reportedly on thin ice with 411 management. He has no-showed several columns recently and some in the locker room believe he may or may not have his own agenda.
Things came to a head this week when road agent Matthew attempted to discreetly fire Smilowitz. Reports vary on how Smilo reacted, but eyewitness accounts indicate that once Matthew picked himself up off the ground, he ran out the back door in search of a squeegee. [Source: Wade Keller, PWTorch.com]
Fernandez sidesteps the pressures of his real job (male gigolo) to compare me to Count Chocula, yet misses the obvious Warren Woo/Boo Berry connection and blames me for Jadakiss’ recent indiscretions.
Canadian T. reunites The Minority Report with his return! He tries to break into his own office, welcomes a Red Wing to Ontario and uses “yrs truly” about 500 times.
Double M brings the Double Q, like he always does. The “quality” can be found in his candid Elvis commentary, while the “quantity” can be found mixed in with the nearly 10,000 words and 20 pages.
Mathan doesn’t have anything new in music at press time, but check out his latest Black piece that shatters the inclusive myth of July 4th. Something on Black that doesn’t involve Szulczewski or (ugh) “Tito Rant-ana”? The mind wobbles.
Matthew Michael was exposed by Eric S. before I could do the same. Everyone knows that anyone who uses two first names professionally (Jon Stewart, Shannon Elizabeth) is either hiding past sins or concealing their Jewish heritage. And, Matthew…you might want to slip a little music news/commentary in your next music column.
He was runner-up to me for 2003 Music Staffer of the Year, y’know. The Buffalo Bills to my three different teams in the early ’90s, if you will.
Segue! Joe Reid’s column was described as the “movies version of the Bootleg” in an email to me by no less an authority than…some guy who reads both columns whose name I forget right now. Reid’s added 411 staffers Rutherford, Coogan and Widro to his enemy list…right below Stern Lecture Plumbing and talks about The Emmy Awards in a movie column. Can you let me fire him next week, instead, Wids?
Junk Mail
I know you’re a huge baseball fan. Did you see the (baseball) All-Star Game? I have to think the pre-game ceremonies were worth the price of admission alone. For me, seeing these roided up monsters have to walk down a rickety flight of stairs just to reach the field during player introductions was pure gold. You could almost hear their agents screaming, “Hold on to the bannister!” – M.V.
Ah, but you’re overlooking many other “moments” during the pre-game. How ’bout the pasty little buddha that won $1 million for throwing five balls through a hole. He was tossing like Rick Vaughn and Rick Ankiel, before finishing strong. And who does Fox breathlessly interview first? The guy’s “coach” Nolan Ryan.
Direct quote: “I wish I had invested better.”
And I haven’t even touched on American Idol’s Fantasia, uh, “loud” rendition of the National Anthem. She violated numerous rules of Black girl fashion, too, but for the sake of space…here’s one helpful hint: if you have a shoe size that can politely be called “transvestite thirteen”, don’t wear white garish pumps that show off your sweaty battleships. And the stretch marks on the boobs…you might wanna cover those up next time.
Oh, and can we please have a moratorium on the milking of Muhammad Ali? It’s getting sadder and sadder to watch the too-frequent whoring of his name and image for any and every sporting event under the sun.
And, among all the players who gathered around Ali on the field for the requisite photo “powerful & moving image”, how many of them really know what he meant to this country? I’m sure Pernell “Sweet Pea” Whitaker’s appearance fee would’ve only been a bag of Pork Rinds and bus fare home.
I just wanted to say that the Bootleg is the best thing on 411. I’m probably older than most of your readers (36), but you and Nick Salemi still manage to have me in tears most weeks. Just wondering if you’ve ever written professionally and, if so, who was the coolest celebrity you’ve ever met? – N.H.
Thanks for the love…I actually never got farther than a two-year run on my college newspaper. I changed majors and left all that behind, but there’s no reason why I can’t answer your question, anyway.
The absolute coolest celebrity I’ve met was former San Diego Charger Kellen Winslow. He was in line behind me at the airport. I recognized him and quietly introduced myself. Not wanting to bother him, I turned back around. He then started chatting me up. We were both going to Bay Area and he shared his favorite haunts and hangouts from his playing day road trips with me.
I’ve ran the gamut of ’70s celebrities, too. Longtime readers know the story of how TV’s “Chachi” had me thrown out of a restaurant in Hollywood. I met Penny Marshall without make up and down about two pounds of air pressure in her sagging jowly mug. And I served both Vicki Lawrence (nice) and Jenilee Harrison (bitch) during my gig as an ice cream gnome in Long Beach.
Ooh, and I also met former wrestler Rick Steiner in Atlanta. You know that smell your sheets get when you sweat out a night of drinking while you sleep? He was the Dogfaced Gimlet, that day. If he had spontaneously combusted, the flames may have never gone out.
Muthaf*ckas Who Need They Ass Kicked – July 2004
I’m still getting suggestions and nominations for the MFWNTAK list even two months after it debuted. Look for several more inductees next month, including the surprising leader among vote getters, so far.
This month, we’re only opening the doors for one, though. 411 writers know this ass crack better than anyone and, courtesy of Michael Huckaby’s weekly column, you’ve gotten a chance to know him, too.
His stage name is “Dwayne Jackson” or “JayDog”
His real name is Randy Ragsdale.
And, this muthaf*cka needs his ass kicked.
He’s an aspiring Internet wrestling writer who takes old Scott Keith rants, throws in some ebonics and an imaginary girlfriend and tries to pass them off as his own. These pages and pages of eye-bleeding dreck also came in music news/review form, which I was blessed to be the exclusive recipient of during my first few months here.
Our relationship hit a bump in the road around the time I told him he couldn’t write and he responded with wishing death upon my then-unborn child.
So, take a bow Randy. Trust me when I say that 411 is laughing at you…not with you.
Life With Baby Bootleg
One of the promises I made to myself when Kid Cameron arrived was that he’d enjoy a better lifestyle than me and my brother had growing up. Don’t get me wrong, Big Momma Bootleg did a great job and we were never without the necessities.
It’s just that I was sixteen before I discovered that “eating out” didn’t have to involve the Sizzler family of restaurants and their unlimited cheese bread.
However, at some point, the wife and I have to make a determination on what’s a “necessity” and what’s a “luxury”. Our son already rolls in an SUV of a stroller. Think Canyonero with a canopy. He’s got a drawer full of Oakland A’s newborn/infant/toddler gear that will eventually break down to about $20 per wear, once he really starts growing.
So, the wife excitedly calls me from work earlier this week to tell me that our kid’s sunglasses had finally arrived.
Sunglasses…for a five-month old child.
Not just any pair of shades, mind you. We’re talking Baby Bans. Yes, from the South Hampton Ray-Bans. We’ll ignore the fact that Jalen is still hooked up to his heart monitor and, for all intents and purposes, is almost exclusively an “indoor baby”. And none of us are looking forward to his eventual de-clawing.
Of course, I have pictures.
Now, who buys red sunglasses? Aside from the hit to our bank account, I won’t be able to take Jalen to certain parts of the hood for fear that a blue-shades-wearing Crip baby tries to bust a cap in his ass.
Mrs. Bootleg’s Quote of the Week
“I’m thinking about spending a week with my aunt in Sacramento.” – Monday, July 12
It had to be a trap.
One entire week…without the wife. I wanted to ask if she was taking Jalen, too, even though I knew she wouldn’t leave him alone with me for that damn long. I’d have him butt-naked and free ranging on the dining room floor, looking for any scraps the cat had already passed over.
I calmly measured my response…not wanting to tip my hand:
“Really? When?”
She’s earmarked the week of July 26. She’d fly out that Monday and return Sunday, August 1. I quickly decided to play the “Baby Bootleg” card:
“Are you sure that the kid is up to plane ride, yet?”
Not wanting to torpedo the wife’s intentions, I quickly added:
“I mean, he has been doing great lately…getting stronger every day…but still…”
Now, my wife has a Master’s Degree and would never be mistaken for Boo Boo the Fool, so she shot me a look that indicated she knew what I was up to. I was running out of time, so I had to go below the belt and simultaneously hit the heartstrings:
“Jalen hasn’t seen most of your family since, what, Mother’s Day?”
As if I could’ve forgotten that elongated weekend of estrogen. Anyways, it’s still up in the air, right now. As you other husbands know, I can’t bring it up more than once every two or three days for fear that she’ll sniff out my unbridled (and potentially un-ball n’ chained) joy.
Pray for me.
This Bootleg is dedicated to Julius Squeezer. Get through the drama the best way you can, brutha. The rest of youse, just get at me on AOL or Yahoo IM: ajcameron13
