So what have I been up to, anyway? A lot of things, I guess. Allow me to enumerate.

1. Work. It’s a fact. I’ve been working. Same job at the hedge fund. It’s good, but my departure from said job is imminent. See #2.

2. Getting into grad school. Also a fact. After several weeks of compulsive email checking and checking those cursed forums on The Grad Cafe, the letter finally came. This fall, I will be enrolling in the Ph.D. program in sociology at the University of Chicago. I’m pretty excited about this.

3. Watching bad, bad movies. Jon-the-Roommate convinced us to go see National Treasure: Book of Assclownery one fateful Friday night, and I still haven’t forgiven him. In retribution, I (somehow) convinced him to pay real, legal tender to see 27 Dresses the next week. As we sat watching ”The Twenty” before the movie, group after group of single women filed into the theatre, and Jon knew what he was in for. I laughed and laughed. Even though I had to sit through this god-awful chick flick too, knowing I had suckered Jon into coming along somehow made it worth my troubles. But man, was that movie terrible.

And then there are the movies I’ve watched at home. A sampling:

Employee of the Month . This is that movie where Jessica Simpson or whatever her name is inexplicably does it with whoever is crowned “Employee of the Month” at the local Wal-Mart. Lucky for us viewers, that employee happens to be the hunky Dane Cook, not one of those old-ass greeter dudes at the front door. As you might imagine, the whole situation gets pretty crazy, and at some point it almost looks like he might possibly not get the girl. Then he gets her anyway.

Although this movie sucked, I found myself “lol-ing” now and again, in spite of Jon’s scornful glances.

Wild Hogs. Okay, we only watched the second half, but man… seriously? Did we really watch this? I guess John Travolta wanted to… diversify his roles, but his overacting as the high-strung jobless dude is just embarrassing. Tim Allen is much better, and that’s sayin’ something. Because he was bad, too.

Meatballs. This movie is actually pretty awesome. This may be Bill Murray’s first “Bill Murray Inspirational Speech,” too (“It just doesn’t matter!”). And the rag-tag summer camp versus rich kid camp competition at the end is a classic matchup. All this movie lacks is Corey Feldman. For that, you need to watch Meatballs 4.

Beerfest. Another pretty awesome movie. Inspiring, even. Just thinking about this movie makes me too stupid to write anything witty or even sensible, but that’s the joy in it. Want stupid fun? See Beerfest.

In the Good Movie Department, we also saw The Bank Job this weekend. They say it’s “based on a true story,” but as far as I’m concerned, that probably means that there was really a bank, and someone once had a job. I don’t much care about the authenticity of the plot, though. It was just a good crime story. And I like me a good crime story.

It’s not all my fault, though; the people that do HD programming really know their audience. We’re male, late-20′s to early-30′s, easily seduced by flashing lights and loud noises, and undeterred by hefty price tags. And since it is a rare married man who is persuasive enough to convince his wife that a $2000 television is a worthy investment, we’re overwhelmingly single. And judging by the shows with which they have successfully captured my attention—we’re easily amused. For hours and hours.

So in an effort to produce something from all the idle time I’ve spent rotting in front of the television—or perhaps just to shame myself into quitting the living room for a little while—I’ve decided that it would be a good idea to keep a log of what I’ve been watching. It’s not pretty, but it’s the truth. And so, in no particular order, I give you a sample of my weekend viewings.

1. Bikini Boot Camp: I mentioned this show in my last entry, but I watched it again, and I’m starting to get the idea. I’m not actually sure that this show is called Bikini Boot Camp (that might have been just the episode’s name), but who cares. It’s still three buxom babes prancing around some island in their bikinis. And while this show masquerades as a travel program, it’s more of a Real World-type format, wherein these three girls do their best to piss each other off, then discuss the conflict in private confessionals with the camera. In this episode, the Cuban girl kept speaking Spanish to the chef dude, and it alienated the other two. Then, for reasons that no one bothers explaining, one of them ends up having to cook dinner. She’s pissed. Do we care? Not really. We care about hot girls.

2. Deadline!: A Talk Soup-type show for dudes, Deadline! covers hard-hitting stories like the nude bicyclist parade, or a guy who mountain bikes on a unicycle. My favorite portion of the show is a segment called “Guess What? Who Cares!”, in which the snarky female host spouts out US Weekly-grade celeb gossip, to which the off-camera, male crew responds by yelling “Who cares!!!” after each tidbit. It’s a cheap gag, but for any guy who’s had to listen to his girlfriend talk about “TomKat” or “Brangelina,” it’s at least a tiny bit satisfying.

3. Greatest Boxing Matches of All Time: Shot on a budget equivalent to a 7th grader’s weekly allowance, this show features no-name fighters going at it in venues that look like that same 7th grader’s basement. Introducing each “momentous” fight is the show’s scrawny host, a guy who looks like his only exposure to the Sweet Science was repeatedly being on the business end of the school bully’s right cross. But for all my criticism, once the bell rang and the two guys—whoever they were—started throwing punches, I sat in utterly enthralled in front of the television. Who won? Who cares? In high definition, you can practically see the camera’s reflection in the beads of sweat on the boxer’s brow. Cooooool.

4. Three Sheets: I’ve only seen it once, but this show rules. The premise is simple: man goes to some city, and gets trashed. A travel show in much the same way as Bikini Boot Camp, with booze instead of boobs. As the show progresses, the host slowly gets blitzed, and his use of expletives increases with each sampling of the provincial libations. By the end of the show, he’s slumped over a barstool and mumbling half-witticisms to the befuddled bartender, who probably doesn’t really understand what this TV crew is doing there in the first place. Is there anything better than watching some poor, drunk schmuck get suckered into drinking a shot of brussels sprout liqueur?

5. The Nathan’s Hot Dog Eating Contest on ESPN: I’ve watched a lot of stupid shows on HDTV, but this has to be the most mind-numbing piece of “entertainment” I’ve ever seen. Somehow, the mad geniuses at ESPN managed to stretch a 12-minute eating contest into a full hour-long program, complete with blazer-wearing commentators, a “man on the field,” and dramatic profiles of the competitors. One can’t help but wonder who these commentators pissed off to get such an assignment, the sporting world’s version of directing traffic. We can’t all cover the World Cup, I guess.

So there you have it: girls, booze, food, sports… and mountain biking unicyclists. And there’s more: American Chopper, History Detectives, The Equalizer, and a whole slew of randomly chosen movies like 2010 and Cruel Intentions. Against these sirens of the HD sea, how can any guy defend himself? There should be FCC regulations against programming this seductive. My only hope is a break in cable service, which is bound to happen once I stop showing up for work in order to watch The Young and the Restless in HD, and can no longer pay my utility bills. Help me, Time Warner Cable; you’re my only hope.

That beast is a 42″, plasma-screen, high-definition television.

For months, my roommate Jon has been joking—or should I say half-joking—about getting an HDTV. And I’ve only half-jokingly enabled him. “You know you’re going to get one anyway,” I’d say, “why not before the Super Bowl?” Had his beloved Denver Broncos made it there, he probably would have succumbed. But for all my cajoling, reason and frugality won out, and so we limped along with our perfectly-adequate-but-not-totallly-bitchin’ 27″ set.

And then, lightening struck. Literally.

While I was away, New York was hit with what was apparently a colossal electrical storm. As Jon ran through the house unplugging anything remotely valuable, the building was struck. Light bulbs popped as thunder cracked, but all else seemed fine. Except the television. Computers, monitors, stereos—all fine. But as Jon pushed the power button on the TV, a blinking red light was its only response, a harsh rebuke for his neglect.

Now, as far as signs from God go, it doesn’t get more obvious than a thunderbolt from the Heavens. So in accordance with this divine calling—and his own desire—Jon began shopping for the television that he’s been waiting for an excuse to purchase in the first place. Within a matter of days, our sad, on-the-fritz old model was replaced with the behemoth I discovered upon my return.

Generally speaking, I don’t watch much television. I have my shows—24, Doctor Who, and the occasional episode of Good Times—but save these programs, you won’t often find me in front of the ol’ idiot box. Or, I should say, you wouldn’t have often found me there. But it’s hard to understate the lure of high-definition. Suddenly, I find myself watching things I never would have given a second glance, were they not broadcast in glorious 1080i resolution. I’m riveted by mediocre-to-poor quality shows like The(New) Twilight Zone, and Aussie Wine Trail has me positively enthralled. I even accidentally sat through 15 minutes of Jethro Tull Live, before recoiling in disbelief at what I’d just done. And then there’s Bikini Boot Camp, a “travel program” in which three busty, barely-clothed twenty-somethings do jumping jacks on exotic beaches around the world. They’ve retrofitted old shows like Quantum Leap and Knight Rider, too. You’d be surprised how much hunkier David Hasselhoff looks in HD.

I’m sure that this obsession with the TV is just a passing phase, something I’ll get over in due time. But that time isn’t right now. Right now, they’re showing reruns of Charmed on TNT-HD. And right now, I’m going to go watch.

More than two millennia later, the makers of the 1988 film Willow stumbled onto a landmark achievement of their own. In setting out to make a simple fantasy adventure film, Ron Howard and company managed to do what awards shows like the Oscars have attempted for decades: create a measure by which the quality of all films may be judged. As such a stunningly average piece of cinema, Willow occupies the perfect space separating good from bad; it is the pinnacle of cinematic mediocrity. Remarkable solely for being so very unremarkable, it is the quintessential one-thumb-up, a perfect two and a half out of five stars. It’s the kind of movie you might watch on a lazy Saturday afternoon if it were on television, but only until the next commercial break. Willow is the magnetic north on the moviegoer’s compass, an essential tool in navigating and endless sea of celluloid.

In the likely event that you’ve forgotten Willow’s relatively forgettable plot, Warwick Davis plays Willow, a little person who stumbles upon the responsibility of protecting an enchanted baby from the clutches of the evil Queen Bavmorda. Joined along the way by Madmartigan (Val Kilmer, in all of his Top Gun-era glory) and a trio of cutesy-but-kind-of-annoying tiny people called brownies, Willow uses a magic twig to defeat the witch, and saves the world for annoying brownies, stilted swordsman, and adorable babies alike. It is as exciting as it is slow, as funny as it is dull, and as dazzling as it is campy—middle-of-the-road in every sense.

Willow’s lack of luster is no small achievement, however, and creating any means of measurement has far-reaching implications: before Archimedes, any old shiny yellow piece of junk could be passed off as gold; before The Willow Scale, so could any piece of trash cinema.

Consider this: you and a friend are at your favorite little coffee shop, when she mentions that she recently saw a new movie you keep hearing about. You ask her what she thought, but she’s reluctant to give a decisive answer. “Eh,” she says, contemplatively bobbing her head back and forth, “it was okay.” You press her a bit, but still she’s reticent. “It was so-so. Definitely not great,” she says.

Her response is no doubt unsatisfying. But thanks to The Willow Scale, there is a simple solution. “Was it better than Willow?” you ask her, knowing the film’s position perfectly separating good films from bad. Yes? It couldn’t be that bad. No? Not even as good as Willow? Huh. Probably not worth your time. It’s just that easy.

There are, of course, those who would attempt to challenge The Willow Scale. But these skeptics—people who probably also hate the metric system, eschew Esperanto, and oppose the flat tax—are easily accounted for: childhood nostalgia, the fear of hunky swordsmen, or a burning passion for Warwick Davis are just a few factors that might cloud one’s objectivity. Just as Copernicus was chastised for correctly asserting that the Earth orbits the son by those clinging to erroneous beliefs to the contrary, science would eventually prevail. Hard facts will expose the truth.

First, there are the critics’ reactions. Willow confounds Roger Ebert, who muses, “Willow is certainly not a breakthrough film to a mass audience, but is it at least a successful children’s picture? I dunno.” Me neither, Roger. Janet Maslin’s New York Times review is just as lukewarm, calling the film “as vast as it is secondhanded,” going on to remark that, “Willow, a pleasant but bland character, doesn’t inspire much sentiment.” Amen. And high-falutin’ critics aren’t the only ones to meet Willow with such impassioned ambivalence—viewer comments from the Internet Movie Database are equally equivocating. “This movie has everything! Well, lots of things,” raves one reviewer. Another offers this underwhelming assessment: “For its day, Willow was one of the better fantasy movies.” What does that make it today, then? Far from perfect… unless you mean perfectly average.

It’s a shame that the makers of Willow couldn’t celebrate their revelation the way Archimedes did. Their contribution to cinematic metrology is no doubt a bittersweet achievement. No one sets out to epitomize mediocrity, after all. But the rest of the moviegoing public owes them gratitude for their contribution. Before Willow, we had only unreliable, unscientific sources like the Golden Globes or the AFI’s top 100 list to measure quality. But in the past 2500 years, we’ve come a long way. Today, thanks to Archimedes, we can determine that Oscar statuettes are not composed of solid gold; and thanks to Willow, we know which movies are and aren’t worthy of winning one.

Have you seen the new A&E show King of Cars? In general, the flashy, stylized reality of most reality TV shows really turns me off, so when I first heard about yet another show in this vein, I wasn’t particularly enthused. But I have to admit that, within minutes of stumbling onto the show, I was hooked.

If you didn’t watch the premier last week‚ and why would you?, King of Cars follows the employees of Towbin Dodge, a new and used car dealership in Las Vegas, as they do the things that car salesmen do. At the center is the so-called King of Cars, Chop, who might look more at home managing a hip-hop record label than a car dealership. Chop is meticulously well groomed, flashes a tasteful amount of bling, and‚ of course‚ drives a totally fly ride. He’s just the person you want at the center of such an operation: Chop is the kind of guy that his staff wants to be like, and they seem to hang on his every word. At the beginning of the day, he entices his sales staff with a block of cash, then motivating them with team cheers, football coach style. It’s all very masculine.

As you would expect from a show about a car dealership, much of the time in King of Cars is spent meticulously documenting the interaction between pushy salesmen and their reluctant customers. But anyone who’s purchased a car knows one side of this equation; what’s interesting here is the glimpse into the sales rep’s psyche. Their anxieties are frequently on display, as they awkwardly wait for the verdict from a privately conversing couple, or fret about their low sales for the month. Though they may seem callous or even greedy at times, these men‚ and they are all men‚ aren’t the easily vilified hucksters we might prefer them to be. They’re just… dudes. Nothing wrong with that.

I’d love to lambaste this show and the industry that it portrays, but the fact is that I’m kind of charmed by the show and its personalities. It’s easy to sit in front of my laptop in some coffee shop in Fantsypants, Brooklyn and criticize salespeople for their tricky tactics, or blast the auto industry for just being the auto industry. But selling cars is a job like any other, with its own complicated and fascinating workplace culture. It takes a certain kind of person to last in such an environment, but that person isn’t the simple snake oil salesman we often think of. Sometimes that person is actually kind of endearing.

Now if only someone would make a reality show about the American Heritage Foundation so I could stop hating them, too.

More information on King of Cars here.

While the majority of us are busy Yeeeee-haaaaawing our way to the movie theaters, not everyone is happy with this trend. Surprisingly, there are some fuddy-duddy film critics out there (I’m talking to you, Anthony Lane) who repeatedly assail the movie industry for what they perceive as a lack of creativity. Lack of creativity? I don’t think they appreciate the work required to make classics like The Dukes of Hazzard palatable to today’s discerning audiences. Putting Johnny Knoxville in the role of Bo Duke is clever enough, but casting Sean William Scott (aka “the other guy” in the seminal 2000 film Dude, Where’s My Car?) to play John Schneider’s Luke Duke? Brilliant! Don’t even get me started about the genius of Burt Reynold’s portrayal of Boss Hogg.

But as much as we all love watching the 30% increase in explosions in present-day remakes of classic entertainment, I do occasionally understand where the critics of this trend are coming from. Maybe they’ve gone too far; maybe Hollywood is being too obvious in who it’s stealing from. Maybe they need some “new” material‚ a new trove from which to cull ideas. Maybe they need to dig deeper into the entertainment archives. Lucky for Hollywood, I’ve got just the answer.

The idea came to me as I paged through a piece of junk mail addressed to my roommate‚ a 29-year old subscriber to Smithsonian, American Heritage, and other magazines generally aimed at the 65-plus market. Making the reasonable assumption that only a retiree would have the time and interest to read such publications, someone landed him on at least one mailing list catering to this demographic. Each week, the mailbox fills up with letters peddling life insurance policies (“How will you provide for your loved ones?”), AARP membership offers, and “As Seen on TV” catalogs. Most of this mail yields little more than a snicker as it is thrown into the recycling bin. But several weeks ago, something caught our attention‚ something destined to save the film industry from itself.

That something was a catalog from a company called Radio Spirits, seller of CD compilations of radio shows that only the elderly crowd could possibly remember. Younger people will undoubtedly be familiar with the names of some acts, but for most of us, the name is as far as it goes. Certainly you’ve heard of the hilarious (or so I hear) duo Amos and Andy, but how many of their classic (according to the Radio Spirits catalog) broadcasts have you actually listened to? That’s what I thought. Hollywood could lift entire scenes of dialog from these shows, and most of us would be none the wiser. Add a little creative casting‚ I’m thinking Chris Rock and David Cross‚ and a spattering of expletives, and what you’ve got is the recipe for a blockbuster!

Radio Spirits has a cornucopia of even lesser-know material from which to draw as well‚ each and every one has the potential to be a smash hit. Consider the action-packed potential of Killer Hand, a program featuring ‚Äúhigh stakes card stories, where ‚Äúmore than just a man’s money is at stake! Sounds like a project for Quentin Tarantino, if you ask me. With each episode recounting riveting tales such as a Virginian playing poker in Hong Kong, or an Englishman in the Wild West, Killer Hand has franchise potential written all over it. Or what about the gastronomic adventures of Rocky Jordan, the ‚Äúhard nosed restaurateur who ran the Café Tambourine in Cairo? I smell a Tom Seleck comeback! And with episode titles such as ‚ÄúExit from the Left, how could audiences not fall in love with I Was a Communist for the FBI? (It should be noted that Communist was actually made into a movie in 1951, but that clearly isn’t a problem for today’s movie execs.)

These are just a few of what must be dozens of surefire hits in the Radio Spirits catalog, but I’ve saved the best for last. What could be more exciting than a silver screen adaptation of the 1948 hit Johnny Dollar: Freelance Insurance Investigator? Picture Matt Damon in the titular role‚ also known as ‚Äúthe man with the action-packed expense account‚ traveling all over the world investigating‚ well, Radio Spirits isn’t exactly clear on what a freelance insurance investigator actually does. But one thing is clear: action-packed expense account + Matt Damon = $$$$ Hear me now, Hollywood, and thank me later.

It’s not exactly the kind of ‚Äúcreativity that film snobs like A.O. Scott and Joel Siegel (okay, scratch that that last one) long for, but it’s all new for the average moviegoer like you or me, right? That Dukes of Hazzard sequel just might have to wait; I think Johnny Knoxville has a date with a high-stakes, ‚Äúkiller hand of poker in the Far East. With star-power like that behind this new generation of big-screen adaptations, Hollywood can rest assured that my plan will give them a winning hand every time.

(Ugh. That last line was terrible. Surely, radio funnyman Jack Benny would do better.)

Bow Wow and the Crew.

When I woke up on Saturday morning, going to see a movie starring Bow Wow seemed about as likely as getting hit by the Oscar Meyer Weinermobile. The only thing I might have considered less likely than watching a Bow Wow movie‚ or coming mouth-to-bumper with a giant hot dog, for that matter‚ was watching a Bow Wow movie and actually enjoying it. But Saturday night, through a series of events having nothing to do with processed meats, one of these two scenarios was realized: I went to see Roll Bounce, and I loved it.

If you don’t know the synopsis already‚ I didn’t until about an hour before showtime‚ Roll Bounce is about a group of teenagers from the ghetto with dreams of winning the big roller disco competition at the fancy rink on the other side of town. Bow Wow, all-growns-up and no longer known as “Lil,” plays Xavier (X to his friends), the group’s best skater and de facto leader. Set in the late-70′s, the film features a soundtrack stuffed full of soul and funk classics, with the occasional Bee Gees song thrown in to whiten up the mood.

X is a good kid with a less-than-ideal life. His mother has recently died, and the family hasn’t quite learned how to adjust to life without her. For X, this means new responsibilities around the house‚ most notably in helping to raise his sister‚ and a strained relationship with his well intentioned but still-grieving father. And like any other kid in his early teens, X is making other new and awkward strides toward adulthood, too. He’s dealing with girls, building an identity for himself, and learning to take chances and deal with the potential of failure. To X, roller skating is a mechanism for these strides, as well as an outlet for frustration and passion.

But let’s get this straight‚ Roll Bounce ain’t The Ice Storm. While the movie does touch on a number of important and difficult issues such as racism, classism, adulthood, and financial hardship, the film makes no attempt to answer‚ or even really comment on‚ these issues. For X and his friends, the roller rink is a kind of training ground, a mini version of a larger, tougher world occasionally hinted at throughout the film. For the rest of us, the roller disco might not be the answer to a world filled with hardship, but it’s a place we can go for a temporary respite from it. After all, this is a movie about roller disco. The film’s swirling, funky roller dance sequences are the cinematic equivalent of an 80-mile-per-hour ride in a convertible with disco ball headlights, and laughing at Saturday Night Fever style and attitude may never get old. It stays light without too much fluff, and stops now and again to remind us that all this fun takes place in a world where people have problems bigger than respect on the rink.

Bow Wow’s role in Roll Bounce is not a particularly taxing one, and it is most likely for this reason that he is able to carry the film. He gets a lot of help from Chi McBride, playing his reticent and subtly aching father, and Wesley Jonathan’s presence as the roller disco legend Sweetness is simultaneously imposing and comical. But there is an undeniable charm about Bow Wow that extends beyond his limitations as an actor and helps tie the film together. I don’t know how it might translate to other roles, but they are certainly taken advantage of here.

So there you have it: I loved Roll Bounce. It just goes to show that anything really can happen. And I’ll tell you something‚ from now on, I’m going to keep a much closer eye out for runaway oversized snack food.

Other professions do not have this luxury. A mechanic cannot resort to fixing himself when an engine problem has him baffled any more than a chef can taste his own tongue. (Though I would like to see both of these things attempted.) But when an author feels devoid of inspiration‚ or simply lacks the knowledge or experience to turn that inspiration into something palpable‚ he or she always has the safety net of looking inward, of exploring the creative process. It’s a safety net for the artistically tormented, a cushion for those so privileged as to lack personal drama and emotional hardship from which they may draw upon. We’re a fortunate lot.

But I would be hypocritical to berate other writers for indulging in this kind of introspection. I’m not going to pretend to be the kind of person who can draw upon my own wealth of experience and knowledge. No, my moments of clarity and insight shine as brightly as a dyslexic kid at a spelling bee, and can be counted on a shop teacher’s fingers. Despite my best efforts to acquire ‚Äúlife experience through an ongoing series of bad decisions, I’ve somehow managed to sidestep any wisdom that might have come with these misadventures. There’s a reason it took me ten years to finish college.

This is not to say that, when done by someone besides me, this kind of self-awareness cannot be used in incredibly imaginative and fruitful ways. Literature, film, and even television are riddled with examples to the contrary. Think of the final seasons of Seinfeld. Love it or hate it, the show got a whole lot of mileage out of pitching their own show to a group of NBC producers who were considering a pilot episode of a television show that (wink, wink) just might be a big success. In Charlie Kaufman’s script for Adaptation, a frustrated screenwriter, coincidentally named Charlie Kaufman, resorts to writing a screenplay about his own frustrated experience writing a screenplay. Watching the film unfold is like speeding down a bridge that is being built as you drive, and any minute you could just fall off the edge. The story barrels forward, constantly on the brink of the character’s still-incomplete script. The only problem is that at some point, the bridge does end, and the story plummets into the trap of a Hollywood thriller. While a clever exercise in writing, it makes for a rather dissatisfying dénouement.

In a twist on this kind of writing, Italo Calvino’s If on a Winter’s Night a Traveler explores not only the author’s perspective, but the reader’s as well. Ten first chapters of ten unrelated books are strung together with a second person narrative in which ‚ÄúThe Reader’s attempt at reading is thwarted at every turn. The story leads him to an author stricken with writer’s block who, after his interaction with The Reader, is inspired to write a book whose plot bares a suspicious resemblance to that the very book you are reading. It’s maddening at times, but it’s a brilliant exploration of the processes of reading and writing.

Clearly there is some merit to writing about writing. It is, after all, a craft like any other, and one that deserves attention. But the fact remains that the writer occupies a privileged position, one from which his or her knowledge of writing alone seems justification enough to pontificate on the topic. The result is too often a lukewarm account of a life devoid of insight and emotion. For every Adaptation, there’s at least one It’s Like, You Know. (Count your blessings if you don’t know the show to which I am referring) And for every Calvino, there are a dozen guys like me, wasting your time with self-referential musings on some dark corner of the Internet.

I guess I was just out of ideas.

If you’ve read anything about The Aristocrats‚ a documentary about one joke told over and over again‚ you already know that the film’s absurdly vile language has been greeted with a huge amount of fanfare by critics. In fact, this superfluous scurrility (as more high-minded viewers of the movie might prefer to call it) is really the point of the movie: The Aristocrats demonstrates the way in which something generally thought of as positively lowbrow can be elevated to an art form when treated like one. One by one, the joke’s intricacies are revealed, and a certain reverence is conferred upon those who navigate it with the greatest skill. Finally, with the help of some fancy editing, the filmmakers end up concocting their own version of the joke, one that is the collaborative product of dozens of comedians, writers, and producers from all corners of the industry. It is in itself a work of art‚ inspired, sharp, innovative, and a slew of other words that get used too much in gushing film reviews. If you were Joel Siegel, you might even call it ‚Äúa side-splitting, nonstop laugh riot.

But vulgarity need not be so self-aware to be funny. As I said before, I think there’s a lot to be said for profanities yelled at an appropriately high volume. And it doesn’t stop there‚ even when not shouted from the mountaintop, foul language still has plenty of comedic potential when executed properly. Try it yourself if you don’t believe me.

Wedding Crashers exemplifies this point. It’s a movie that doesn’t need to have so much foul language, but benefits from its presence. Filthy language is a dirty detail hiding under the duo’s polished veneer, a glaring disparity between the two imposters and the aristocratic family they’ve infiltrated. More than just extraneous adult content, profanity is serving a purpose. And also, it’s funny.

Not only is it funny, it’s refreshing. Other recent movies of this ilk‚ Anchorman and Dodgeball, for instance‚ have forgone such language in search of a wider audience. That’s fine, but the side effect is a film that feels like it’s holding all its punches. It’s tough to lash out at someone without using some combination of the words ‚Äúfuck, ‚Äúass, and ‚Äúmother and still sound sincere. By contrast, Vince Vaughn’s comedic vituperation in Wedding Crashers ‚ which makes creative use of all the aforementioned words‚ feels genuine. Lashing out is easier when you’re not holding your tongue.

I was surprised that a little swearing could have such an effect on me, so I decided to do a little research. It may surprise you to hear that that not everyone shares my opinion. Attempting to substantiate my observation that Wedding Crashers uses more profane language than other recent movies of this sort, I searched Christian media monitoring sights for straightforward statistical data. While I wasn’t able to find such cold hard facts, I did discover several interesting reviews. One viewer on christiananswers.net (which gave the film the prestigious ‚Äúoffensive rating) noted that Wedding Crashers ‚Äúcontained so many uses of profanity that my wife and I almost lost count. Almost? Why not share your results? Make the world a better place and give me your data.

Another reviewer said that the movie ‚Äúbordered on PORN because of the 3.6 seconds in which the movie shows topless women. I sense that actual porn would truly horrify this woman. She goes on to say that, though she likes comedies, and she likes weddings, this is not a movie any Christian should support. The logic she was using to make her think she might actually enjoy this movie is like saying that because I like both mayonnaise and ice cream, I’d probably like mayonnaise ice cream.

To those folks who thought Wedding Crashers was unacceptably vulgar, I’m thinking that a screening of The Aristocrats would change their minds. After exposure to the intricacies of the dirty joke, seeing the great care with which obscenity can be handled, perhaps they would gain an appreciation for the art of vulgarity. Maybe then they can understand profanity’s worth in the world, and we will at last have achieved a truly tolerant society.

That, or it will at least make subsequent viewings of Wedding Crashers seem like Mary Poppins.

This week’s film selection was the 1978 classic Every Which Way But Loose, starring Clint Eastwood and Clyde the Orangutan. In the unlikely event that you’ve forgotten the film’s finer points, Clint Eastwood plays Philo, a bar brawlin’, monkey lovin’ truck driver who’s fallen for an ambitious but unscrupulous young Country Western singer named Lynn (Sondra Locke), who lives in a dented up old aluminum Airstream trailer with a guy named Skylar who turns out to be her pimp. Except Clint Eastwood doesn’t know that about her yet, so when Lynn and her pimp pick up and leave the trailer park in the middle of the night, he smells trouble, and decides to follow the pair from LA back to Denver. By this point, there have been about 10 bar brawls for no reason at all, but they’re funny so you don’t mind. Also, Clyde is Clint Eastwood’s Orangutan, and sometimes he’s around making funny faces and kissing people. Occasionally he gives them the finger.

Anyway, Clint Eastwood packs up the pickup and, with his friend Orville riding shotgun and Clyde (the monkey) in the back, takes off for Denver. Somehow they’ve managed to attract the attention of two vengeful cops and a white supremacist biker gang led by a guy who looks vaguely like Benny Hill playing Colonel Klink, and the chase is on. After an awkward moment involving two cantaloupes, Orville picks up a babe (Beverly D’Angelo) at a fruit stand, and there’s a scene where Clint Eastwood insists on breaking into the zoo and getting Clyde laid. There’s also a scene where Clint and the monkey go drinking together while sad music is playing. I won’t give away the ending, but you can guess that it involves a lot of flying fists and some more monkey antics. And an original song called “Monkey See, Monkey Do.”

It’s better than it sounds.

Accompanying the film was a healthy dose of mint chocolate chip ice cream, made in the CuisineArt ice cream maker that I bought on the street for four dollars. That’s not really an important detail here, but bragging about the awesome deal I scored makes me feel better. But it is worth noting that people that live in fancy neighborhoods throw away the best crap.

This was adapted from a lavender ice cream recipe on the Martha Stewart website. It ain’t the healthiest thing you could ever eat, but damn, it’s good. Have just a little bit if you don’t want to feel too guilty for all the damn egg yolks.

Mint Chocolate Chip Ice Cream
Makes about 1 quart

2 cups whole milk
3/4 cup fresh mint or peppermint leaves
1/3 cup honey
5 large egg yolks (yes, FIVE)
1/4 cup sugar
1 cup heavy cream
1 cup chocolate chunks (small)

1. In a medium saucepan, combine milk, mint, and honey. Bring to a gentle boil, cover, and remove from heat. Let steep for 5 minutes. Strain mixture, reserving milk and discarding mint.

2. Combine egg yolks and sugar in the bowl of an electric mixer. Beat on medium-high speed until very thick and pale yellow, 3 to 5 minutes. Meanwhile, return milk to a medium saucepan, and bring to a simmer over medium-low heat.

3. Add half the milk to egg-yolk mixture, and whisk until blended. Stir mixture into remaining milk, and cook over low heat, stirring constantly, until mixture is thick enough to coat the back of a wooden spoon.

4. Remove from heat, and immediately stir in cream. Strain mixture into a medium mixing bowl set in an ice-water bath, and let stand until chilled, stirring from time to time. Freeze in an ice-cream maker according to manufacturer’s instructions, adding chocolate chunks when ice cream has begun to thicken. Store in an airtight plastic container up to 2 weeks.