THE WEEK FROM MY VIEW
I was told by a website guru yesterday after the new PFC website went live, “You need to post more lists. It’s how Americans get most of their information.” That is so fucking scary. Scary enough that I promised WebGuru we’d look into it.
The process of transitioning to this was like giving birth for me, but WebGuru himself had nine sites go live on the same day and barely broke a sweat. He also has a team of several dozen. I promised we’d do lists, but do them our way. You know, quirky but glamorous, just like Daphne Guinness.
by Eric J Baker
It has been quite a busy week here at Pure Film Creative. Our style guru, James Tuttle, went on location to file a report from sweltering Manhattan, covering art, theater, and fine dining in one devil-may-care swoop and, at the same time, showing us east-coasters what good hair looks like. Meanwhile, our ringleader James Killough’s Marcus Bachmann post went homo-viral, drawing more traffic than Buddha’s birthday in Seoul (Seriously. Have you ever been to South Korea in May? You can’t turn around without hitting your head on a paper lantern).
My role in all this was to sit back and go, “Hmmm,” which was a lot more work than it sounds. Because it means I was thinking. I was thinking that PFC is ostensibly an entertainment, culture, and arts Web site, in that order, yet politics has been poking its repulsive head out of the sewer quite a bit here lately, like an outtake from the imaginary remake of C.H.U.D. (For real, Hollywood. Get on that remake already). Although Tuttle has been keeping it real, Killough and I are guilty of milking the Bachmann name for all it’s worth in clicks. So, for me, no more bat-shit crazy congressional reps or their self-loathing, closeted gay husbands after today.
by Eric J Baker
Wilting summer heat and latent homosexual tendencies: Putting asses in theater seats since July, 2011.
If you had said, “Captain America looks like a generic summer superhero movie, though, within its genre, slightly above average,” then you have reason to be excited. That is, if you get excited by being correct. On the other hand, if you had said, “Captain America seems like a highly abstracted remake of Stripes,” you’d be writing for Pure Film Creative.
Consider: Both movies feature unqualified soldiers who, after some comedic side trips, rise to the challenge; an ornery veteran who deep down inside, cares; a sassy female soldier who doesn’t take shit from people and makes her own rules; a super-secret advanced weapon; and, ultimately, a pro-military, patriotic message.
According to Indian Railways I shouldn’t be writing this. It’s not like I’ve ever misbehaved on an Indian train, unless you count the time my mother and I were taking an overnight local from Jaipur to Bikaner—which would be a three-hour drive on American roads—and I was hoisting her up to the top bunk of the sleeper, and she kept falling off, and we were laughing so hard she said, “Oh, no, I think I’ve wet myself,” which meant she had to get down and the whole process was repeated again.
No. The reason Indian Railways doesn’t think I should be writing this is because, according to them, I have been dead for twenty years.
This is, of course, entirely the Raja of Kotwara’s fault. Creepy bastard. I’m not talking about the New Raja, but the old one, the New Raja’s father. I never knew his name because I just called him Raja-sahib like everyone else. But he certainly knew mine.
by Eric J Baker
The time to confess a dark secret has come: 37 years ago, I tried to kill someone. I do not know if there is a statute of limitations on attempted murder, but I’ll have to take my chances. The guilt is eating me up, and I’ve just learned that, to the new generation, 7 to 10 years in prison isn’t all that long.
My victim was Breakdown Freddie, a kid in my neighborhood. The scene played out like this: He hit me softly with a fuzzy slipper. In what might be described as one of the most unreasonable overreactions in the history of random kids from New Jersey overreacting, I kicked him down a flight of stairs.
by Eric J Baker
Editor’s Note: This marks the 100th post on the PFC blog, which wouldn’t mean much if this were TMZ with a dozen fluffy gossip posts an hour, but a PFC piece requires a lot of TLC to create. It’s only appropriate that Eric Baker take this honor because it is he who kicked us over the 4,000-views-a-day mark on Friday with his Duran Duran story. — James Killough
We were talking movie directors here the other day (actually, I was talking movie directors and Killough was like, “Yeah whatever, Baker—shut the fuck up—I know”) and Roman Polanski came up, not for his movies but for his marriage to Sharon Tate. The Polanski-Tate union suffered from the dreaded Billy Joel-Christie Brinkley syndrome years before medical science had even identified the disease, which occurs when an ugly, talented man marries a beautiful, possibly talented, but who cares, she’s a goddess, woman. And Sharon Tate was a goddess.
You may know that Tate was murdered in 1969 by Charles Manson’s gang and that Polanski went on to perpetrate a sexual act against a 13-year-old girl in the mid 1970s.
THE KILLOUGH CHRONICLES | THE INDIA FILES
by James Killough
My Fellow Denizens of the Blogosphere —
Lest we ever give up, the Rigging Miss India post finally seems to be having some impact via an Indian beauty pageant forum called missology.org. It would appear that the pageant organizers themselves are commenting; there are some very well informed opinions floating around on that particular thread. For instance, someone mentions how the 1993 pageant didn’t have computer tabulations of the judges’ votes, despite the fact there were computers on site; they conveniently went down just before the show. I’ve heard that excuse before, with the exact word ‘tabulations’… when was that? Oh, right. When I hosted the 1993 Miss India Pageant.
Guys, as you well know, we were there for over four hours taping that show. There was plenty of time to count the votes of a few judges accurately by hand. Just as there was enough time for the judges to write me notes about who the real winners were. What you did was not only wrong, it was sloppy; I’m still carrying a grudge that I was sent out on that painted plywood peacock stage in front of a billion people without a rehearsal.