Crapping on My Childhood: Indiana Jones and the Kingdom of the Crystal Skull

WARNING: SPOILERS ABOUND BELOW. YOU'VE BEEN WARNED. THAT'S WHY IT'S CALLED A WARNING.

Indiana Jones and the Kingdom of the Crystal Skull Plastic Head, as it shall be referred to heretofore, is an awful, awful movie. It peaks during the opening credits (an Elvis-scored drag race) and begins a long slow spiral downward thereafter. Peach Basketeers, consider your childhood crapped on. How so? Let me count the ways:

1) Harrison Ford sucks. Maybe it’s not his fault. His performance after all resembles that of an actor forced to read every line of execrable dialogue at gunpoint. This would not surprise me, if he had not been paid something along the lines of 30 million dignity-sapping dollars to star in this flaming bag of poo. It’s not even that he’s too old to play the character of Dr. Henry Jones, Jr., anymore (he’s not). It’s that he’s too poor an actor.

2) The Crystal Skull Plastic Head sucks. The rumored budget for this movie was approximately $185 million. Of that, about $3.99 went towards the ARTIFACT MENTIONED IN THE TITLE. It’s a plastic bubble stuffed with cellophane. I would say it probably has a “MADE IN CHINA” label on it somewhere, but that would unfairly insult Chinese craftsmanship.

3) David Koepp sucks. It might surprise you to discover that I don’t have a big issue with the film’s underlying alien premise. In theory, I could have bought it… if Koepp had bothered to put together a remotely plausible or entertaining framework around which to build said premise. Instead, it’s a slapped-together cause-effect-plotpoint bouillabaisse. They waited 20 years to make a sequel and this is the script they approved? I hate Hollywood.

4) Steven Spielberg sucks. Remember Raiders of the Lost Ark? (If you don’t, he will hit you over your plastic head with it several times during the current installment.) If you’ll recall, Spielberg took his time unspooling the story for you. Yes, it was far-fetched. Yes, it was action-packed. But the time was taken to create a universe in which a) you believed said action was possible, and b) said action appeared to have motivated and tangible consequences. This “film” jumps – nay! – teleports from CGI action sequence to CGI action sequence with Ford and Shia LaBeouf yammering some gibberish about oxen and cities of gold in between. It’s the worst parts of Indiana Jones and the Temple of Doom crossed with the worst parts of Artificial Intelligence: AI. (That would be all of them, Stevie. You thought we’d forgotten, didn’t you? Never forget, my friend. Never forget.)

5) Cate Blanchett sucks. Just kidding. She’s actually the only thing that’s watchable for the entire running time. And hey, look, we’re hating Commies again! Awesome!

6) George Lucas sucks. Mutt, Jar-Jar. Jar-Jar, Mutt. Even Short Round thinks he’s annoying.

7) Shia LaBeouf sucks. This is not entirely his fault, anymore than it’s Warwick Davis’ fault the Ewoks sucked. He’s just entirely miscast as an unlikable 50s greaser rebel. Even Homer Simpson’s formidable powers couldn’t make Poochie a beloved character.

8) The first three movies suck. OK, not really, but believe me, you liked them all much better the first time you saw them. This is not a new movie. It is the cinematic equivalent of a clip show retrospective, complete with expository “Unfortunately, Sean Connery and Denholm Eliot couldn’t be with us tonight, but ladies and gentlemen, give a warm welcome to…”

9) “…Karen Allen” sucks. Not Karen Allen so much as her character. If this is a clip show, she’s sort of around as a “Where are they now and Jesus do they look old?” interview. (And where the fuck is John Rhys-Davies? Apparently, Sallah has moved on to greener cinematic pastures.) By she and Indy’s third fight, you’ll be rooting for the fire ants or the Commies or the deadly natives or anything on earth to kill either you or them and put you/the film out of your/its misery.

10) Aliens suck. Chris Carter can sleep well knowing that he can now only release the 2nd worst why-the-fuck-are-they-doing-this-sequel-now alien movie of the summer.

Oh, and, just because I can, whatever you do, do not click on the following very offensive (NSFW, big time) pun-based image of how you'll feel after the movie. Seriously, don't.

L.A. Story - In The Public Domain: One Bum To Rule Them All

Reminder: All of these things happened in public and most of the time in broad daylight.

As a native Southern-Californian, I have seen my share of bums, hobos, vagrants and tramps. But a few weeks ago, I witnessed one of the greatest things I have ever seen. Unable to truly comprehend what I was seeing, I quickly dialed up one of my Fellow Peach Basketeers.

The following is an exact transcript:

John Waters on Safari: Dude... what is the largest number of shopping carts that you've ever seen one bum with?
Fellow Peach Basketeer: Uh, I don't know. Maybe one or two. I think I remember hearing from someone who saw a guy with four carts once. Why?
JWS: Because I am in my car right now looking at a bum with EIGHT shopping carts! This fuckin' guy has EIGHT carts! He has so much stuff it's unbelievable. I think he has more shoes than Imelda Marcos.
FPB: Whoa, whoa whoa.... first of all, bums don't have things. And secondly, you're lying. What you're describing is not possible.

(There is a short silence as I am horrified that an alleged friend and Fellow Basketeer would question my integrity while I simultaneously question my own existence.)

JWS: You're questioning me?
FPB: I am not only questioning you... I am calling you out. You're full of shit.

(Stunned, I quickly gather my thoughts. How can I possibly prove myself and earn back the trust of said Fellow Peach Basketeer?)

JWS: Wait a minute! I have a camera! I'll take some pictures and I'll email them to you as soon as I get to a computer.
FPB: You're going to take pictures of the bum?
JWS: Is visual evidence the only way that you're going to believe me?
FPB: Yes.
JWS: Then absolutely.

Behold, the greatest bum of them all:



Taken in the side-mirror of my car while driving, I captured the henceforth-dubbed Super Bum dragging five of his eight shopping carts full of goodies across traffic. Not only was each cart full, there were multiple bags full of detritus hanging outside of every cart.



It has been suggested that much like the Highlander, this Super Bum gains others bums' powers after he steals their carts. This is not a man to be crossed. In fact, he may not be a man at all. Perhaps explaining how he came to have eight shopping carts, I believe the Super Bum to be more like The Kurgan.

There can be only one!

The Gentleman Bachelor: Shallots

We here at the Peach Basket all have been down the lonely road of bachelorhood. Some of us still tread it. As a service to our bachelor brethren, we would like to offer some tips on how to channel your inner Felix Unger. Much of the advice we offer here may sound gay to the uninitiated. It probably is. You know why? WOMEN LOVE GAY MEN. We promise that none of our advice will lead you down a leather-clad path of assless chaps, full body waxing or Will and Grace box sets. We just think every hombre needs a little homo in him. (OK, that was gay.)

I’m assuming a lot here, bachelor pal o’ mine. Like that you can cook. If you can’t, stop reading, learn, then come back. Need a reason? Here are three:

• Cooking for the ladies is a lot cheaper than taking them out to dinner. Even Red Lobster.
• Cooking for the ladies puts them in your house, or, just as good, it puts you at her house. Either way, you are much closer to a bedroom by several orders of magnitude.
• If you know how to cook, you can use shallots, Mother Nature's oniontastic aphrodisiac.

What is a shallot? According to the Random House Dictionary, a shallot is:

a plant, Allium cepa aggregatum (or A. ascalonicum), related to the onion, having a divided bulb used for flavoring in cookery.

Knowing this will not help you. It has been at least one millennium since Latin helped anyone advance his carnal cause (original Romantic language, my ass). Allow me to edumucate you as to the true meaning of the shallot.

The shallot is a classy onion. The shallot is to the onion as the Aston Martin DBS is to the Chrysler Sebring. Softer, sweeter, and mellower than it’s larger cousin, the shallot turns any run-of-the-mill recipe into four-star fare. If you have a dish that you normally like to prepare with onions, substituting shallots is an acceptable way to introduce them to your culinary arsenal. More practical and more impressive, though, is to seek out a simple recipe that shows off the shallot in all its savory glory. You can find them by the bushel at Food.com, the food network’s official site, and the bachelor chef’s best friend. Bookmark it. Now!


Whether used as an ingredient or a garnish (thinly sliced and fried to a crisp, they can top just about any main course), I guarantee the shallot will impress any diner of the opposite sex. It also won’t give either of you lingering breath problems that might interfere with whatever you have planned for after dessert. (You did remember dessert, right?)


Here is a typical exchange between a Gentleman Bachelor and his date as he starts to slice shallots for their meal.

Date: What are those? They look like rosy onions.

GB: Oh, these? They’re shallots. I cook with them all the time. I had them at {insert trendy restaurant you can't afford} and thought I’d give them a shot at home. Now, I can’t believe I ever cooked without them.

Date: Wow! Fancy!

GB: Not any fancier than the champagne and strawberries I have for dessert.

Date giggles, swoons, and calls her roommate to tell her not to wait up.

The next morning, when you wake up, impress your now-overnight guest with sautéed shallots and eggs. Just don’t blame us when she asks you what’s for lunch.

Movie City Blues, Part II: Waking Up From Reality

I'm in Los Angeles now. With gas money and a dream. The trappings of success are painfully visible all around me. Now I just have to help myself to a job as a...

...valet. Yup. My first 6 months in LA were spent parking rich people's cars at a fancy hotel. I was so broke at the time that I regarded a keyless remote as a status symbol (still don't have one as a matter of fact). In a town that runs on who-you-know, my uncle’s colleague’s daughter got me my first break in the biz.

The gig was as a runner for a post-production/trailer house in Burbank, an excellent entry-level job. I spent most of the day driving around the city and got to know the geography of movie industry Los Angeles pretty well. I also learned that being an office monkey is not my thing. Lunch orders, filing, tape labeling... ugh. I hated it. And, working in post was not my idea of a good time. I wanted to be on set.

Looking for the next gig wasn't any easier. At this point, I had a very tiny circle of friends. Fortunately, a couple former roommates from Tucson had moved out and they too had tiny circles of friends. One of these friends worked for a show called Paradise Hotel. I almost got hired as a "talent handler" for them. Bullet dodged. Another friend worked for a little show called Extreme Makeover: Home Edition. And at the time it was a little show. It hadn’t aired yet and no one knew what huge hit it was going to be. After a ton of pestering, I convinced them to hire me as a Production Assistant.

“Congratulations, self,” I thought, “you’re on a real live TV show.” And I was. It was a great experience. I stayed on for three full seasons, getting promoted first to Assistant Production Coordinator and then to Production Coordinator. I got paid to travel the country. I worked some hellacious hours in some even more hellacious weather. I got to be a defender of the faith for reality TV since I was on one of the "good" shows. It was a gig I could be proud of. And it got me nowhere closer to the aforementioned dream.

Neither did The Girls Next Door (awesome in its own right in that I got paid to hang out at the Playboy Mansion), Star Tomorrow (don't remember it? Neither does anybody else), or Armed and Famous (8 freezing, miserable weeks in Muncie, IN that I will never get back).

Here's why. Reality TV is its own beast. While there are some similarities between the production of a reality show and a traditional one, there's one big difference: a script, and and the shooting thereof. I wasn't learning that on reality shows, and I'm kind of a writer, so that would be a good thing to learn, no?

And so, I left behind the comfort and (sigh) comfortable paychecks of reality and struck out for the scripted world. Again, I had a very limited number of contacts there. But I got lucky, one of my former PAs was PAing all over the place and got me my first gig.

I won't recount them all here. If you want to know what I worked on you can go here for the complete list. I worked on some great shows like Weeds, and some not-so-great ones like Cavemen. I learned a shit-ton about how shows get made. The nice thing about being a PA is that you really do get to see everything. The not-so-nice thing is that you get paid minimum wage or just above it. But you can afford to live on that because you're working 75 hours a week and they're providing your meals (most of the time).

Being a production assistant also puts you on the road to becoming an assistant director. “I can make a living doing that,” I thought. I had a goal. And it was a fantastic learning experience. Being a PA, you get to see and hear it all on a set. I was in first and out last. I took pride in my long hours and dedication to the job.

Time went by. The novelty wore off.

A year and a half later, I was still looking at a good 300 days to reach the magic number of 600 to qualify for membership in the Director's Guild of America. At 24, this would not be a problem. At 34, it was troubling to think of another year and a half of brutal hours at just above minimum wage pay for the right to work another 150 days in commercials and out-of-town productions in order to become a full-fledged 2nd AD. I’d had enough of being labor in someone else’s dream.

Which brings me to the here and now and the business of getting on with the dream. Here is the dream: to make good movies, even great ones. What I realize – what I’ve learned – is that the only way to make my own movies and tell my own stories is to simply start telling those stories. And I simply did not have the time to tell those stories while accruing all my valuable industry experience. I have stepped out at the bottom hoping at some point to step back in closer to the top.

My goal is to land a 40-hour work week making enough money to pay the bills writing during in the other 35 hours I gain by leaving the industry. It’s going to be tough. A temporary agency at which I’d scheduled an appointment this morning called me to cancel the appointment. They told me my “expectations for work were too high” given my resume.

Of course, the dream doesn’t live at the temp agency. It lives in me. I just need someone to pay me while I live it.

Movie City Blues, Part I: The Dream Deferred

“How are you doing today?”
“Living the dream, man, living the dream.”

It’s a pretty common exchange on most sets. Depending on inflection, it’s either a hopelessly ironic dismissal or a sincere appreciation of life in the most fabulous business on earth. Despite the misery of any given shoot day, it’s impossible to refute the fact that making movies is pretty damn cool industry to be in. I was halfway through my 3rd hour of locking up a pretty desolate parking garage in Culver City when I realized I was not, in fact, living the dream.

Here's where the dream began: some time around my birthday in 1992, I saw David Cronenberg's Naked Lunch. I had been a fan of movies prior to this point, but after seeing that film, I was a true believer. Do not ask me to defend, explain, or justify why this movie was the one that convinced me to go into the pictures (because, as Bart Simpson acutely noted, there are two things wrong with that title). Just accept it as one of those unnatural miracles like Rob Schneider's career or Cheesus. I was hooked. So, naturally, for the next 5 years, I did nothing to follow the dream, besides watch a copious number of films both big and small.

In 1997, I babystepped toward the dream. I enrolled in the Media Arts program at the University of Arizona. Let me tell you this about school: studying the dream is not following the dream. And only taking 1 course out of 50 or so that actually puts a camera in your hands is definitely not following the dream. So, let's say the dream is deferred for another 4 years. (Those 4 years weren't a complete waste of time, but suffice to say the only "vision" I realized in that time was a dubious and illegal feature-length adaptation of a science fiction bestseller and an even more dubious original horror film, neither of which I had a lot of creative input into. Like binge drinking and anonymous sex, both are fun yet woefully unfulfilling.)

I finally got a degree in 2001. Lest you think I was a good doobie and hung that "Mission Accomplished" banner on schedule, know that there were several false collegiate starts prior this go-round of academia, and if I had simply done what I was supposed to do, I could have been in and out of the U of A in less than 3 years. I am nobody's academic role model.

Next up, another furtive and misguided step toward the dream, right? Well, no. I spent the next 2 years awash in cheap wages and cheaper booze in Tucson. I had a job that afforded me just enough to pay rent and bask in the smoky comfort of any of the 15 bars I lived within walking distance of. Fuckin' sweet, dude. Not a total waste of time: I shared a wall of my duplex with a writerly type, from whom by osmosis I learned some of the discipline of what it takes to be an actual writer (not that I actually applied it. That would have been following the dream.) Also, in addition to the relationships of the typical barroom disaster variety that accumulate when one spends that much time in taverns, I managed to find a woman who not only has shared a bed with me for the last 6 years, but actually loves me, too. Not a bad haul.

It was my good fortune to get laid off in the summer of 2003. I was working at a nightclub as a sort of assistant manager/office bitch, and the Tucson leisure economy being the fickle beast it is in the hotter months, I was a cost that had to be cut. One phone call to my sister in LA was all it took to get me out of Tucson after that. I packed everything that would fit into my 1980 BMW 320i, sold the rest, and headed to Los Angeles with gas money and a dream.

Once I got to Los Angeles, I would learn the very difficult difference between living the dream and being a part of someone else's.

To be continued...

Heavy Rotation: Evan Almighty

We here at the Peach Basket don't get out to the movies too often. We are tragically and hopelessly behind the cinematic times. However, when we do see something of note, and particularly something of note that's being shown in heavy rotation on cable, we need to share that with you. Let the Basket be your guide.

Evan Almighty (2007)

Director: Tom Shadyac, Cast: Steve Carell, Morgan Freeman, Lauren Graham, John Goodman

Ouch. This, friends, is a bad movie. My girlfriend called it “the worst movie ever”, but I’m pretty sure she hasn’t seen Toys, Jack Frost, or Shark Attack 3: Megalodon. That said, it is an amazingly bad sequel to an original that didn’t set the bar too high.

In fact, it’s not so much a less-funny sequel to Bruce Almighty than it is a less funny re-make of The Santa Clause. Same theme, same white-hair-and-a-beard gag, same spirit-withering emptiness as the final credits roll. Actually, that’s not fair. The Santa Clause had its moments, where as Evan Almighty never does. I didn’t think anyone could put Steve Carell on a screen for two hours and not inspire at least one belly laugh. Congratulations, Tom Shadyac, you proved me wrong. Not only did you prove me wrong, but you made me die a little bit inside, too. You took a cast of very funny people and made them as unfunny as possible.

Waste the two hours on this movie only if any of the following apply to you: You like Tyler Perry’s message, but not the black people he uses to deliver it; you thought the disaster effects in The Day After Tomorrow were a little too realistic for your taste; or you are a John Michael Higgins completist. Currently in rotation on HBO.

Heavy Rotation: Nowhere to Hide

We here at the Peach Basket don't get out to the movies too often. We are tragically and hopelessly behind the cinematic times. However, when we do see something of note, and particularly something of note that's being shown in heavy rotation on cable, we need to share that with you. Let the Basket be your guide.


Nowhere to Hide (1999)
Director: Myung-se Lee, Cast: Joong-Hoon Park, Sung-kee Ahn, Dong-Kun Jang, Ji-Woo Choi

I don’t understand Korean films, but I’m finding out I love watching them. I caught this action oddity on TMC or Showtime the other night, about a half an hour into it. And after watching the final 2 acts, I had to go back and watch it from the beginning.

Between The Host and Nowhere to Hide, I’m beginning to think that all Korean directors are either schizophrenic or horribly indecisive. It’s as if, when deciding upon what kind of movie to make, they pull three random directors’ names out of a hat and decide to channel them. In this case, Myung-se Lee drew John Woo, Mack Sennett, and Jean-Luc Godard. Ostensibly, an action movie and police procedural, it plays more like a silly and earnest deconstruction of both. The plot is standard fare (cops chase murderer), but the execution involves the most virtuoso gear-shifting this side of Michael Schumacher.

Myung-se Lee fills every scene with genre-bending acrobatics. Fight scenes, while stylish and deliriously chaotic, are also almost pretentiously reflexive. A rooftop brawl morphs into a shadowy waltz. Jump cuts and Impressionist freeze frames accentuate, frustrate, and mock the pugilistic flow. Exciting music plays over inconsequential and tension-free bridge sequences. Station house beatings and home invasions are played for laughs (as is a footrace between a couple of chubs, in a shot that I fully intend to steal one day).

Joong Hoon-Park delivers his performance as Detective Woo as a cross between Chow Yun-Fat and John Belushi. Woo is as charismatic as violent oafs get (think Shrek crossed with Russell Crowe’s character from LA Confidential). He is simultaneously neither quite as smart as he thinks nor as dumb as he looks. He does, however, get his ass kicked an awful lot. He leads a merry band of bat, lead pipe and sword-wielding* Keystone Kops in pursuit of a fugitive killer (Sung-kee Ahn, exuding professional menace).

Despite Lee’s genre-bending acrobatics, a palpable urgency is maintained throughout the film. Joong-Hoon Park’s sly genius plays a large part in this. Like the constantly churning conventions of the film around him, his Detective Woo is defiantly unpredictable and compulsively watchable.

I’m not sure if Nowhere to Hide is an art film for action fans or an action film for the arthouse crowd. It appealed to both viewers inside me, so if you’re a fan of either, queue up the Netflix and embrace the subtitles. It’s also currently in rotation on Showtime. (You can watch the trailer here, but it doesn't really do the movie justice. The movie's a lot more fun than this lets on.)

*Apparently gun control extends even to police in South Korea. There are only two guns in the whole movie: an actual bullet-firing revolver and another that fires mace. The bullet gun is fired once in the entire film (and causes all kind of pained soul-searching by the shooter) and the mace gun gets fired willy-nilly into the eyes of criminals and their henchman. It wasn’t until my second viewing that I understood the lack of brain-splatter from all those point-blank headshots.

L.A. Story - In The Public Domain: Part One

As I make my Peach Basket debut, I feel compelled to live up to the quality of the posts that precede this one.

Over the last eight years, I have worked in the television industry so I have had plenty of free time on my hands. During that time, here is just a sampling of the unique and exciting things I have been witness to on the streets of Los Angeles and Hollywood.

Reminder: All of these things happened in public and most of the time in broad daylight.

Saw a man taking a crap standing up - On the corner of Kinglsey and De Longpre in Hollywood, this man decided that he had to go and that it would not wait. Good for him. I don't think I can possibly overstate how shocking this was to watch. Why did I not avert my gaze you ask? Well, for some reason seeing a man with his pants down kinda grabs your attention. And when that man has what you think to be a tail but then it turns out to be just a really long shit coming out of his ass, that image just gets seared into your mind's eye.

Multiple instances of bums lunging at/striking random passers-by - Every time I witness a confrontation between a bum and a non-bum, it just reinforces by belief that whenever you're accosted by a bum just give him some damn change and keep walking. I don't need my obituary to read: "He was having a day just like any other day... until he ran into Hobo Joe." Just ask yourself, do you really need that dollar? The most recent instance happened on Hollywood Blvd. right in front of the Pig'n Whistle. The innocent bystander was some douchebag in a corduroy sportcoat. He probably had it coming.

Smoking hot chick picks her nose and eats it - OK, I know what you're thinking. I just finished telling you about some guy taking a dump in the middle of the street. How is picking your nose and eating it even close? Well, I'll tell you. I was driving to work one afternoon on the 101 and just as I passed the Vermont off-ramp, I spotted a gorgeous brunette in the car next to mine. Think Jessica Alba-hot. I mean, she was unbelievable. But, I was sitting down in my car and she in hers. How could I possibly tell? Dude, sometimes you just know. Anyways, I digress. We kept driving along for a few minutes as I stole occasional glances her way. She then proceeded to pick her right nostril, the one facing me. After digging out whatever was ailing her, she fucking stuck her finger in her mouth! I almost crashed my car.

I hope I have lived up to the lofty standards set by my fellow bloggers. Part Two coming soon.

Crapping On My Childhood, Part II

I have really mixed feelings about this one. And it looks like it's going to happen:

Movie: Red Sonja
Director: Robert Rodriguez
Star: Rose McGowan

Now don't get me wrong. I like Robert Rodriguez. I don't even mind if he goes over the top a little. Just not Grindhouse over the top, or Sin City over the top. Ok, Sin City over the top might be cool for Red Sonja.

But Rose McGowan? She's attractive and all, but she's not Red Sonja. RS needs to be really tall, for starters. And tan. And ripped. And never have dated Marilyn Manson. She's too....pasty. I just don't see it.

Still, it's an improvement over the original casting idea. Are you ready for this? Lindsay Lohan. And yes, I am completely serious. The only reason they didn't go with her? She gets in too much trouble. That's it! Otherwise, she would have been perfect for the role.

This company could fuck up a soup sandwich.

Crapping On My Childhood, Part 1

I may or may not know of a company that is planning a Conan movie. They may or may not have interviewed an actor the other day for the lead. That actor may or may not have been from AMERICAN GLADIATORS.

He was.