Urban Dictionary: dooze
4. dooze 2 thumbs up 
This word was created by teenagers who enjoy doozing in niagara falls canada. The word was originally created so no one would know what we were talking about, and eventually started being used by the whole city. Ask around, you might find out who started it.I have not doozed all day. Lets dooze a rip. You think we could crush and dooze that thing?get this def on a mug
5. dooze 1 thumb up
EW MANG DATZ DOOZE!6. dooze 10 up, 14 down
October 9, 2009
Dooze of the Day: dooze : Urban Dictionary:
H1 Word I Used Twice of the Day: Insufflation (medicine) - Wikipedia, the free encyclopedia
For other uses, see Insufflation (disambiguation).
Insufflation (Latin insufflatio "blowing on or into") is the practice of inhaling substances into a body cavity. Insufflation has limited medical use, but is a common route of administration with many respiratory drugs used to treat conditions in the lungs (asthma or emphysema) and paranasal sinus (allergy).
The technique is common for many recreational drugs and is also used for some entheogens. Nasal insufflation is commonly used for many psychoactive drugs because it causes a much faster onset than orally and bioavailability is usually, but not always, higher than orally. This bioavailability occurs due to the quick absorption of molecules into the bloodstream through the soft tissue in the mucous membrane of the sinus cavity. Some drugs have a higher rate of absorption, and are thus more effective in smaller doses, through this route.
The intranasal route (administration through the nose) may allow certain drugs and other molecules to bypass the blood-brain barrier via diffusion or axonal transport along olfactory and trigeminal nerves.[1]
In religious and magical practice, insufflation and exsufflation[1] are ritual acts of blowing, breathing, hissing, or puffing that signify variously expulsion or renunciation of evil or of the devil (the Evil One), or infilling or blessing with good (especially, in religious use, with the Spirit or grace of God).
In historical Christian practice, such blowing appears most prominently in the liturgy, and is connected almost exclusively with baptism and other ceremonies of Christian initiation, achieving its greatest popularity during periods in which such ceremonies were given a prophylactic or exorcistic significance, and were viewed as essential to the defeat of the devil or to the removal of the taint of original sin.[2]
Ritual blowing occurs in the liturgies of catechumenate and baptism from a very early period and survives into the modern Roman Catholic, Greek Orthodox, Maronite, and Coptic rites.[3] Catholic liturgy post-Vatican II (the so-called novus ordo 1969) has largely done away with insufflation, except in a special rite for the consecration of chrism on Maundy Thursday.[4] Protestant liturgies typically abandoned it very early on. The Tridentine Catholic liturgy retained both an insufflation of the baptismal water and (like the present-day Orthodox and Maronite rites)[5] an exsufflation of the candidate for baptism, right up to the 1960s:
[THE INSUFFLATION] He breathes thrice upon the waters in the form of a cross, saying: Do You with Your mouth bless these pure waters: that besides their natural virtue of cleansing the body, they may also be effectual for purifying the soul.[6]
Insufflation (medicine) - Wikipedia, the free encyclopediaTHE EXSUFFLATION. The priest breathes three times on the child in the form of a cross, saying: Go out of him...you unclean spirit and give place to the Holy Spirit, the Paraclete.[7]
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DEAR HEALTHCARE PROVIDER: FLU Powder INSUFFLATION (2) HEADLINE OF THE DAY: Relenza (zanamivir) Inhalation Powder
Relenza (zanamivir) Inhalation PowderRelenza (zanamivir) Inhalation Powder
Audience: Infectious disease healthcare professionals, hospital risk managers
[Posted 10/09/2009] GlaxoSmithKline (GSK) and FDA notified healthcare professionals of a report of the death of a patient with influenza who received Relenza (zanamivir) Inhalation Powder which was solubilized and administered by mechanical ventilation. Relenza (zanamivir) Inhalation Powder is not intended to be reconstituted in any liquid formulation and is not recommended for use in any nebulizer or mechanical ventilator.
GSK is aware that Relenza Inhalation Powder is being removed from its FDA-approved packaging and dissolved in various solutions for the purpose of nebulizing zanamivir for inhalation by patients with influenza who are unable to take oral medications or unable to inhale Relenza Inhalation Powder using the Diskhaler. Relenza or zanamivir for nebulization have not been approved by the FDA. The safety, effectiveness, and stability of zanamivir use by nebulization have not been established.
Relenza Inhalation Powder should only be used as directed in the prescribing information by using the Diskhaler device provided with the drug product. Relenza Inhalation Powder is a mixture of zanamivir active drug substance and lactose drug carrier. This formulation is not designed or intended to be administered by nebulization. There is a risk that the lactose sugar in this formulation can obstruct proper functioning of mechanical ventilator equipment.
[10/09/2009 - Dear Healthcare Professional Letter - GlaxoSmithKline]
HARD-TO-CLASSIFY MUSICIAN ? HEADLINE OF THE DAY: Tom Waits gives the devil his due | Film | The Guardian
Tom Waits gives the devil his due | Film | The GuardianTom Waits gives the devil his due
At 59, Tom Waits has finally landed the role he was born to play: the devil. He reveals how his part in Terry Gilliam's The Imaginarium of Doctor Parnassus was informed by a lifetime's fascination with beatniks, stories and lonely old men
'I'm an honest-to-God old man' … Tom Waits and Christopher Plummer in The Imaginarium Of Doctor Parnassus. Photograph: Everett/Rex
All thoughts of conducting a straightforward interview with Tom Waits turn to steam within seconds of his arrival in the Soho hotel suite. I come in through one door, carrying a notepad and a tape recorder. He comes through the other, carrying the exact same equipment. "Now OK," he says, arranging his effects on the table. "You have your questions for me, and then I have some questions for you." Introductions complete, he whips off his porkpie hat to let the hair stream up. He could be a conjurer unveiling a rabbit.
- The Imaginarium of Doctor Parnassus
- Production year: 2009
- Country: Rest of the world
- Cert (UK): 12A
- Runtime: 122 mins
- Directors: Terry Gilliam
- Cast: Andrew Garfield, Christopher Plummer, Colin Farrell, Heath Ledger, Johnny Depp, Jude Law, Lily Cole, Tom Waits, Verne Troyer
One does not so much interrogate Waits as be granted an audience, a private performance. Talking to the press, he once confessed, is like talking to the cops. You only do it when you have to, and it is always better to bear false witness. So he will claim he was raised by a pair of circus acrobats, or that he met his wife after busting her out of a convent, or that he trained as a doctor and still occasionally practises on the kids. "Most of the time I just tell 'em stories," he allows. "And if the stories are entertaining, who cares whether or not they're true?"
Waits is in town to discuss his role as the devil in Terry Gilliam's film The Imaginarium of Doctor Parnassus. I tell him Gilliam has said this is the role he was born to play, and he chuckles and says he can't think why; he was raised in the church. I mention this is actually his 25th screen role and he shrugs and says that Oh Lord, he wasn't keeping track. In person, Waits looks much the same as he always did: the same hunched, simian posture and weathered Dustbowl features; the same wispy, rust-coloured bouffant. This, perhaps, is the benefit of a life spent play-acting the wily, disreputable old puck. At the age of 59, he has finally grown into the costume.
Now look, he says. He figured I would probably ask him about some movies he likes, so he has done his homework and written them down. He crouches over his notepad and reads out the names. Putney Swope. The Pawnbroker. The Ox-Bow Incident. "Did you ever see a movie called Dirty Little Billy?" he asks, squinting up at me. "Starred Michael J Pollard. Made right around the same time as McCabe & Mrs Miller."
The jump-rope test
Acting, he points out, is merely a sidebar. He has been fortunate enough to work with the likes of Coppola and Altman, Jarmusch and Gilliam, and yet this has always been secondary to the music. Music was his first love – but then everybody loves music. "What you want is for music to love you back. That's why you pay your dues. You want to feel like you belong and are part of this symbiosis, metamorphosis, whatever you want to call it. That one day … " He coughs and regroups. "I used to imagine that making it in music – really making it in music – is if you're an old man going by a schoolyard and you hear children singing your songs, playing jump-rope, or on the swings. That's the ultimate. You're in the culture."Is that what motivated him? The quest for immortality? "I guess, to a certain degree. Whether you say it or not, that's what you're thinking. You want to feel ongoing, because it's like getting extra time." He glances at the page. "Now, what do you think of Zatoichi? The blind samurai."
'We're all insects crawling on the shiny hood of a Cadillac'
Waits was born not to circus performers but to a pair of teachers in Pomona, California. He was, by his own account, a strange little boy: bookish, overwound and with a tendency to be spooked by untoward noises. He did not thrive at school, he says, because he did not like the little holes they drilled in the cork-board ceiling, or the hooked stick they used to open the windows. He did not like being young, and took to shuffling around with his granddad's hat and cane.Later, he fell under the spell of Charles Bukowski and the beat generation, and took to hanging out amid the flotsam of downtown LA. He was fascinated, he said, by "the great American loneliness", a loneliness that stretched from coast to coast and was as elusive and mysterious as ground fog. "Yeah, that all came from Bukowski and Kerouac," he recalls. "I always liked the idea that America is a big facade. We are all insects crawling across on the shiny hood of a Cadillac. We're all looking at the wrapping. But we won't tear the wrapping to see what lies beneath."
Throughout the 70s, Waits viewed the fog at eye-level. He lived semi-rough at the Tropicana motel, where he would set his piano up in the kitchen and fish his songs from the old men who sat in the lobby. "You know how it is," he says. "If you're a writer you know that the stories don't come to you, you have to go looking for them. The old men in the lobby: that's where the stories were. And then when the record label would send me on tour, I always resisted checking into the usual places. I'd step off the bus and look for the hotels named after presidents." Hotels named after presidents, he argues, guarantee a certain grubby authenticity. "The Taft!" Waits says with relish. "You could usually rely on finding a Taft in every town. Take me to the Taft! You walk in and there they are: the old men in the lobby."
Bourbon and rumba
Waits's musical output falls into two distinct categories. The songs on those early albums arranged themselves like the patrons of a seedy lounge bar. They were woozy, jazzy offerings, marinated in bourbon, and spinning tales of loss and longing and half-chances that never quite came good.Then, with 1983's Swordfishtrombones, a curious transformation occurred, and these barflies grew wings. They began hammering on the lamp-shades and rattling the optics. They learned rumba, gospel and delta blues. They became wilder, richer, more radical.
I confess that I like the early songs as well. But it's too late, they're gone, disowned like bad relations. "I'm embarrassed by them," he admits. "It was a time when I was trying to find my place within the business. I was figuring out who I was and where that person intersected with the world of commerce. It was like I was sitting there with a ventriloquist's dummy on my knee. And the dummy is made out of wood. And after a while you start to hate each other."
Then whoops, it's back to the notebook. "Cantinflas," he says, bent low over the page. "You know Cantinflas?" Cantinflas was Mexico's answer to Charlie Chaplin and a comic beloved by Waits's own father. "Oh Cantinflas, he was something else. He had the hair and the walk. Looking back, I now see that I lifted a lot of my act from Cantinflas."
Who's steering the ship?
The catalyst, however, came courtesy of his wife. Waits met Kathleen Brennan on the cusp of the 1980s, when she was working as a script consultant on Coppola's One from the Heart. It was Brennan who broadened his range, knocked him out of his rut. Without her, he says, he would probably be playing in a steakhouse today."She rescued me. Maybe I rescued her too; that's often how it works. Upshot is that we both got into the same leaky boat. Maybe the weight drags it down, because now you've two people sitting in it. Sorry, baby! But on the other hand you've also got two peoples' imagination to patch it up again."
The fact is, women are just that bit smarter than men. "Everybody knows she's the brains behind Pa, as Dylan might have said. I'm just the figurehead. She's the one who's steering the ship."
Specifically, she has steered it all the way from downtown LA to a home amid the hills of northern California. Brennan helped Waits to clean up his act. He quit smoking, embraced sobriety and went on to raise three children who are now all but grown, except the singer argues no one ever really grows, they just become different. In the meantime, the albums have kept coming, even if they wash in at a slower rate these days. Real Gone, in 2004, was his last collection of original material. Since then, he has put out Orphans, a collection of offcuts and offshoots, and has a live album, Glitter and Doom, set for release next month. "I'm almost 60," he marvels. "An honest-to-God old man. I'll write you from there and tell you what it's like."
Do we have time for one last trip to the notebook? It transpires that we do. Waits loves Toby Damnit, a short film by Fellini, and the opening scene from Once Upon a Time in the West, when the tin windmill turns around and says "Weaargh! Weaargh!" He loves Central Station and City of God; all those fresh films out of Latin America. I tell him about Tony Manero, a Chilean black comedy that came out earlier this year. He likes the sound of that one and duly jots it down.
"You know what one of my favourite movies of all time is? And if I'm at home with my kids and say, 'What do you want to see?', the big joke is, 'Aw Dad! Not Pig in the City!' But I love that movie. I'd see that any time."
I tell him I like the Babe sequel myself, but am now struggling to recall the details. Wasn't there some scene in a vivisectionist lab? A tragic orangutan who won't leave his cage because he is not properly dressed? "Oh, I know," groans Waits, raising a hand as if to ward off evil spirits. "Oh God," he says. "Don't." Nothing pierces his heart so keenly, it seems, as a monkey that has spent too long in the world of men.
'When you're in hell, keep going'
I ask whether he ever feels nostalgic for the wild years, when he lived at the Tropicana and laid his head at the Taft. "I can't say that I miss it," he says with a shrug. "We're all eating our way through the potato. Like they say: when you're in hell, keep going. Don't look back, because someone might be gaining on you."In any case, he says, so what if he no longer holds court at the Tropicana? The world is different, but it is not entirely different. There are still dark pockets to explore, so long as you know where to look. If he wants to spend a night out on the railroad tracks he still can: he just has to plan it in advance. And if he cares to check in at the Taft then hey, he can do that too. "I kept hold of the room key," he confides. "I can go back anytime I want." And at this point, Waits dissolves into an emphysemic cackle. "That's the key," he says. "The key is the key."
YouTube Roundup of the Day: Maverick headers, potty-mouthed sportsmen and Roy Keane's laser-stare | Classic YouTube | Sport | guardian.co.uk
Maverick headers, potty-mouthed sportsmen and Roy Keane's laser-stare | Classic YouTube | Sport | guardian.co.ukMaverick headers, potty-mouthed sportsmen and Roy Keane's laser-stare
The Republic of Ireland v Italy at USA 94, a young Kevin Keegan and Brett Favre's miracle also feature in this week's round-up
1) If you're scoring your 200th goal in the Argentinian top flight, you might as well mark the occasion in style. What better way to do so than by nodding home the winner for Boca Juniors in a five-goal thriller at La Bombonera against Velez Sarsfield ... from 40 metres out. Martin Palermo take a bow.
2) Another remarkable header, albeit less intentional. A young Steve Waugh scones Arjuna Ranatunga on the back of the head whilst throwing for a run-out. Here are some more comedy cricket injuries (unless you're on the receiving end), plus a nasty collision/astonishing catch combo.
3) The only things missing are the red beams, as a BBC reporter is subjected to Roy Keane's most gimlet-eyed laser-stare for having the brass neck to ask if the Ipswich Town manager might walk away from his latest managerial post. Those toes you can hear curling are your own. We're not sure why Keano took umbrage at the question - it's not as if the former Manchester United midfielder is without form in the field of messy, unexpected break-ups. To see a more cherubic, cuddly and - let's face it - infinitely less entertaining Keane, click here.
4) On the subject of former Republic of Ireland internationals, Keane's old team entertain Italy this weekend in a crunch World Cup qualifier. Italy may be hot favourites, but a win for the Irish wouldn't be unprecedented in World Cup history, as this footage from the finals at USA 94 attests. Marvel at the tears of joy, marvel at Terry Phelan's facial expression, marvel at the American commentators referring to Ireland as "England" before describing Ray Houghton's shots as "a chipper".
5) We don't feature table tennis very often on Classic YouTube for fairly obvious reasons: because it's rubbish. At least that's what we thought until we saw this rally, followed by this wizardry. Finally, would the last two nerds with far too much time on their hands please turn off the lights.
6) Parental advisory alert! It may not be his mother tongue, but Heerenveen potty-mouth Christian Grindheim is able to tell this cameraman where to go in perfect English. Elsewhere, Sir Alex Ferguson gets a ticking-off for dropping the b-bomb, while an umpire gives former Baltimore Orioles coach Earl Weaver as good as he gets in a breathtakingly foul-mouthed tirade.
The best from last week's blog
1) English football's decidedly unimaginative pitch invaders could learn a thing or two from this bloke.
2) The title of this clip is "If You Watch 100 Times You Will Still Laugh". Whoever named it isn't exaggerating. We hope you like the pain.
3) Man on skis and under helmet-cam gets caught in avalanche. Scary stuff.
4) An innocent, fresh-faced young teenager who's just broken into the Scunthorpe first team does his first ever TV interview. His name? Kevin Keegan.
5) With two seconds left on the clock, Minnesota Vikings quarterback Brett Favre, age 66, throws a miracle pass to stun the San Francisco 49ers.
6) If basketball players get three points for shooting a basket from "down town", how many do they get for scoring from the other side of a big house or halfway down a waterslide?
WRITERS WHO ARE ONE LETTER AWAY FROM COCAINE INSUFFLATING SUPERMODELS HEADLINE OF THE DAY: Kate Mosse: the woman with the golden touch | Life and style | The Guardian
Kate Mosse: the woman with the golden touch | Life and style | The GuardianKate Mosse: the woman with the golden touch
Novelist Kate Mosse talks about feminism, family and founding the Orange prize
Author and founder of the Orange prize Kate Mosse. Photograph: Linda Nylind
On more than one occasion in our interview, Kate Mosse shakes her head, and says, "Obviously you can't write that. It sounds too gooey." It's a recognition of just how charmed her life can sound; looked at from a distance, it could easily make bitter eyes burn green. There are her two bestselling adventure novels, Labyrinth and Sepulchre; her steering of the Orange prize from scandal to success; the long, happy relationship with her first love, Greg; the two kids she clearly adores. In fact, if you are a troubled writer, or just a troubled person, a part of me recommends you look away now: this story won't necessarily make you feel better.
Full disclosure: I first met her some months ago, when I was a judge on the Orange prize. She immediately made me want to confide my darkest secrets – perhaps a result of her growing up as one of three tight-knit sisters. She has been described as having "indefatigable enthusiasm and steely charm", but while the former is certainly true, her manner is not really steely, but head-girlishly straight- forward. (She is the eldest sister; she knows that this shows.) Mosse was from Chichester, moved to London, and then back. Her success is big town; her chosen life is small town.
At 47, she has just published her latest novel, The Winter Ghosts. She is modest to a fault about her writing – regularly referring to her books as "yarns", which lowers expectations alarmingly. Yet The Winter Ghosts is a deftly written tale, propelling you compulsively through the story of Freddie, a young man adrift in the late 1920s, after his beloved brother has been killed in the first world war.
Mosse says the starting point for the story, "was really the nature of grief, and how incredibly hard it was for everybody, but particularly young men, to be allowed to grieve after the first world war. What would it be like if you idolised your older brother, and you'd never quite been the wanted child, but he made it all right – then he was gone?"
The answer is that you might have a breakdown, head to southern France, crash your car, and become embroiled in a woodland community suffering its own terrible loss. Like the two novels that precede it, The Winter Ghosts knits together eras, combines a strong historical story with a more modern one, and makes it clear that, while times and values may shift, people's deepest concerns don't change much.
It looks likely to be another success – surprising, in some ways, since Mosse never set out to be a writer. Growing up with a solicitor father and amateur archaeologist mother, she was determined to be a musician, practising her violin constantly, until, at about 16, she realised she "wasn't good enough. Well," she revises, "I was good enough to be in an orchestra, but I wasn't any better than that." She couldn't have been a soloist? "Exactly. And I knew that I would not be happy."
After her all-girls' comprehensive, she studied English at Oxford, and discovered feminism. Between her sisters and her school, Mosse had grown up in a strong female environment; she had never considered anything off-limits to women. On joining a consciousness-raising group in the early 80s, she started discussing the issues of the era, "Reclaim the Night, pornography, rape . . . Some of what was said was just jolly silly, but some gave me pause. I began to call myself a feminist – and still absolutely do – because it was the first time that I'd consciously thought that things might be different for someone just because they were a woman. Before that I had thought, rather naively, that we were all judged, very straightforwardly, on what we did."
After temping at the publisher Hodder & Stoughton, she landed a permanent job and began racing through the ranks. By her early 30s, she was an editorial director at Hutchinson, and was offered a promotion. She didn't take it. Pregnant with her second child, she had been "whingeing" to an agent friend about the contradictions this prompted – she'd always thought herself free of body image worries, for instance; now she found herself in the thick of them. He encouraged her to write about it. She left her job, and the book, Becoming a Mother, led to another non-fiction book, and then, following more encouragement from a friendly editor, her first two novels, Eskimo Kissing, and Crucifix Lane.
Along the way she became a founder of the Orange literary prize for women, prompted by an all-male Booker prize shortlist in 1991. To Mosse, the argument was, to repeat one of her favourite words, straightforward: the industry knew that a large proportion of what they published was by women, who also made up a majority of their audience, yet book awards didn't reflect this at all. Mosse genuinely thought, "that everybody who loved books would be throwing their hats in the air!" about the new prize, but instead there was a wave of accusations that it was sexist, unnecessary, a lame duck. A headline above photos of the six shortlisted authors read, "Obscene, brutal, boring and dreary drivel".
Did Mosse consider jacking it in? "No. If the critics who said that it was sexist [to exclude men] had also been campaigning when women weren't allowed to be ordained, I would have respected that, but they weren't. The other criticism that was interesting was that it's a second-rate prize because men aren't included. I thought, 'They don't think that the Booker is second-rate because only certain countries – based on a very old, imperial system – are eligible.'" (While the Orange prize is open to all English language novels written by women, the Booker excludes US authors.) The moment that she knew it would be fine was when Iris Murdoch turned up at the first Orange prize party; when Anne Michaels's brilliant Fugitive Pieces won the prize in its second year – having sold only 800 copies beforehand – the carping calmed.
Mosse sometimes describes herself, her politics, as woolly – she says that her husband, who took her surname, is a far more hardline feminist than she is. But with her forthright dedication, her 4am starts, her clear devotion to family (her mother, father and mother-in-law all live with her), she has achieved a huge amount.
The Orange prize, for which she is the honorary director, seems to have changed the culture: since it launched, the number of female Booker nominees has soared, a significant shift. And, having only really seen herself as a proper writer since starting Labyrinth, she has come into her own on the page. It might seem "gooey" to say it, but Kate Mosse's success is thoroughly deserved. Don't hate her for it.
The Winter Ghosts by Kate Mosse, published by Orion, is out now, price £14.99. To order a copy for £13.99 with free UK p&p, go to guardian.co.uk/bookshop or call 0330 333 6846.
The women's page invites your comments. Do we still need women-only awards and prizes? Post below or email women@guardian.co.uk
ACTORS WHO NOW SUCK HEADLINE FROM BRITISH MEDIA OF THE DAY: Jack Black and other once-good actors who suck | Film | The Guardian
Jack Black and other once-good actors who suck | Film | The GuardianJack Black and other once-good actors who suck
Cast your mind back and recall the days when Jack Black was funny, Jude Law could act, Scarlett Johansson was fresh. So why did they all lose the plot?
- guardian.co.uk, Thursday 8 October 2009 21.45 BST
- Article history
Stale, fetid, mephitic, nauseating … Jack Black in Tenacious D in The Pick of Destiny.
Moments before the film The Time Traveler's Wife began rolling, the cinema I was attending screened a "preview" of a new video game. The star of the game, whose highly recognisable voice would be used to bring the principal character to life, was Jack Black. I had recently heard Black's voice in the animated film Kung Fu Panda and, while channel-surfing, had glimpsed a few minutes of Nacho Libre, Black's sendup of Mexican wrestling culture. I had also heard my son mention both the band Tenacious D and the film based on their exploits, and seen a few snippets of Black's turn in King Kong, where he played a porky impresario. Finally, I had watched him in Ben Stiller's 2008 comedy hit Tropic Thunder, where he played a subordinate role to Robert Downey Jr and Stiller himself. As I sat there in that darkened room, listening to his half-hearted pitch for what sounded like a thoroughly generic video game, it occurred to me that it would now be almost impossible to convince anyone under the age of 20 that there was actually a time when Jack Black did not suck.
- Tropic Thunder
- Production year: 2008
- Country: USA
- Cert (UK): 15
- Runtime: 106 mins
- Directors: Ben Stiller
- Cast: Ben Stiller, Brandon Jackson, Brandon Soo Hoo, Brandon T Jackson, Danny McBride, Jack Black, Nick Nolte, Robert Downey Jr., Steve Coogan
Black – the classic example of the raffish outsider who initially spits on the entertainment industry, then is seduced by it, and then comes to epitomise everything that is wrong with it – first came to the public's attention in the 2000 film High Fidelity, in which he played a hilariously idiosyncratic record store employee. Prior to that, he had appeared in a number of films, including The Jackal and The Cable Guy, in which he played the designated loser. Three years later, Black would achieve his greatest success in School of Rock, again playing a dyspeptic slob. As far as I can tell, these are the only films in his recent CV in which he does not flat-out suck. He sucked in Shallow Hal, he sucked in Orange County, he sucked in The Holiday, and he sucked in Tenacious D in the Pick of Destiny. He also sucked in King Kong, Saving Silverman, Year One and yes, Kung Fu Panda. It is almost impossible to suck in a film in which only your voice is used, but Black sucked anyway.
Even in the rare Jack Black film that is not explicitly revolting – the exuberantly irreverent and very clever Tropic Thunder is a perfect example – Black succeeded in turning in a useless performance while those around him shone. Tropic Thunder is the film in which Black, playing a fatso sourpuss, heroin addict movie star stranded in an Asian jungle, gets upstaged by Downey Jr, Stiller, Matthew McConaughey, Tom Cruise, Nick Nolte and basically everyone else in the film, including a small child who never says a word in English. That is really embarrassing. It may explain why Black pouts through the entire film. He knows he's getting smoked.
It is not our purpose here to upbraid Black for sucking, nor to encourage him to stop sucking, nor even to suggest steps he might take to at least suck less. At this point in his career, it is almost impossible to believe that Black could ever be anything other than what he is. Following in the trail blazed by Bob Hope, Dan Aykroyd and a few others, Black is a sterling example of the actor who starts out seeming like a breath of fresh air, and then turns into something stale, fetid, mephitic, nauseating. That is a process that it almost impossible to reverse. It can be done; it has been done. But you wouldn't want to bet the rent money that Black can do it.
This being the case, the wisest, fairest course is take a detached, scientific approach toward the situation and examine the very concept of hardcore, full-tilt sucking in all its manifestations. There are three questions that should concern us here: Were the seeds of thespianic vileness already planted in the performer's personality at an early age and the rest of us simply failed to notice it? Or was Black one of those supremely cunning individuals who masqueraded as an appealing, multifaceted, bona fide talent to get his foot in the door and then sprung the trap of suck on us all when the moment was propitious? Or was Jack Black always meant to be a churlish loser whose inherent obnoxiousness only became apparent once he moved out of the sidekick role and emerged as a star in his own right?
The shark awaits its cue
For what it is worth, here is my theory: When the fat slob Chris Farley passed away in 1997, Black gradually inherited the roles Farley could no longer fill. But unlike Farley, who emitted a sweetness and innocence - he did, after all, go to college in Milwaukee, hometown of Liberace and the Fonz - when he was actually born in Madison,Wisconsin., Black was almost certainly predestined to suck, because the very things that made him amusing when he was a sidekick would make him tiresome once he got top billing: his smirk, his snarl, his whining, his basic meanness, his poor grooming habits, his bred-in-the-bone creepiness, his face that only a mother could love, but not necessarily his mother. In the fullness of time, it was inevitable that Black would wear out his welcome. He would be given tasks too large for his meagre talents. Thus, in another nod to the Fonz, this is not a case where the shark got jumped inadvertently. Black's shark was just biding its time, waiting to be jumped.The single greatest problem posed by Black's appearance on screen today is a phenomenon sometimes referred to as the aureole of anachronistic atrociousness, whereby people who did not always suck are surrounded by a glimmering halo of barely visible non-sucking that evokes vague memories of the time when they were not fully fledged enemies of the people. Each time these actors perform, the Ghost of Goodness Past hovers above them, bathing them in a flickering light, serving as a bittersweet reminder of the time when they seemed fresh and new, when their very existence was a relief from the appalling triumvirate of Daniel Stern, Joe Pesci, and Steve Guttenberg. Like Judas Iscariot or Robespierre or Chris Martin, these people were not born monsters. They grew into the role.
Scarlett Johansson's seven-year-itch
Obviously, it would not be fair to Black to single him out as the only member of his generation who started out tickling the common man's fancy, and then told the public to stick it where the sun don't shine. When Scarlett Johansson first burst upon the scene, her air of normality, her sleepy manner, her reassuring lack of movie-star looks, made her seem fresh and new. This was back in the days of Ghost World and Lost in Translation. Now, years later, after Scoop and Match Point and The Nanny Diaries, as Hollywood has tried every trick in the book to repackage her as a postmodern Marilyn Monroe, that early charm has faded and she has been exposed for what she is: Scarlett Johansson.A similar trajectory describes the careers of Matthew McConaughey, Gwyneth Paltrow and even Jude Law. This trio made their names in films like Emma, Lone Star, The Talented Mr Ripley, Dazed and Confused, Amistad, Hard Eight and Shakespeare in Love. But that was a long, long time ago, and in the interval there have been How to Lose a Guy in 10 Days, Sleuth, The Wedding Planner, Two Lovers, The Good Night, Sahara, We Are Marshall, Failure to Launch, Fool's Gold, Two for the Money, Infamous, View from the Top, Alfie and, of course, Sky Captain and the World of Tomorrow. The difference here is that Paltrow, Law and McConaughey are talented actors who have lapsed into sucking but could easily stop sucking if they wanted to. Paltrow took time off from being useless to make The Royal Tenenbaums. McConaughey made Tropic Thunder. Law made All the King's Men. They may suck now. They will not suck forever.
The Travolta syndrome
We can all take solace from the realisation that those who suck can in fact revert to a pre-sucking state, if they only put their minds to it. This is a phenomenon sometimes referred to by clinicians as Travolta Syndrome. Caution, though: Those who suffer from Travolta Syndrome invariably have lapses and go back to sucking. There is also a second condition called Clapton's Septic Aphasia, which causes those who did not always suck to momentarily revert to not sucking. The non-sucking may never be repeated, but it is there. It also doesn't last very long. If you blink, you will miss it. It could be an optical illusion. I have a friend who insists that on 13 January 2002, Rod Stewart stopped sucking for a minute-and-a-half. She actually claims to have been there when it happened. She timed it. She even had a video of the event.I checked the videotape. Alas, she is quite mistaken.
Several years ago, after Dan Aykroyd admitted that he had never seen a good number of his movies, I wrote an article in GQ demanding to know why Aykroyd should be exempted from such misery while the rest of us had to suffer. The problem, as I soon learned when I was contacted by one of Aykroyd's simpering minions, was that Aykroyd himself was not aware of the low repute in which his films were held. I suspect the same is true of Jack Black. Black is not evil; he is merely oblivious. This is the difference between Black and Aykroyd and, say, Ghengis Khan. Ghenghis Khan was aware that he was not a nice person. He did not delude himself into thinking that the millions of people he put to the sword enjoyed it. And to his credit, he never tried to pass himself off as a maverick, an iconoclast, a subversive, or an outsider. Ghenghis Khan was a standup guy.
Ghenghis Khan knew the score.
• This article was amended on 9 October 2009. The original gave Chris Farley's birthplace as Milwaukee. This has been corrected.
BRAINY WEIRD REPOST OF THE DAY: Another 5 Insanely Titled Books - Oddee.com (oddly titled books)
Another 10 Insanely Titled Books - Oddee.com (oddly titled books)Another 10 Insanely Titled Books
Published on 2/17/2009 under Names -230,867 views
TAGS: Oddly titled books
What's Your Poo Telling You?
"All the greatest hits are here: The Log Jam, The Glass Shard, The Deja Poo, The Hanging Chad... the list goes on. A floater? It's probably due to a buildup of gas. Now think back on last night's dinner, a burrito perhaps? Yep, also here."
Cunt Coloring Book
"This book contains about 25 drawings of flower-like genitalia. Each drawing is beutiful and unique - just in the same way that every woman is beautiful in a different way."
Fuckin' Concrete Contemporary Abstract Algebra Introduction
"Reading Fuckin' Abstract Algebra is a small adventure that one undertakes before doing something profoundly conventional. Probably this is the most fucked academic book, but definitely it is the best one to have fun and to learn from."
How to Good-bye Depression: If You Constrict Anus 100 Times Everyday. Malarkey? or Effective Way?
"I think constricting anus 100 times and denting navel 100 times in succession everyday is effective to good-bye depression and take back youth. You can do so at a boring meeting or in a subway. I have known 70-year-old man who has practiced it for 20 years. As a result, he has good complexion and has grown 20 years younger. His eyes sparkle. He is full of vigor, happiness and joy. He has neither complained nor born a grudge under any circumstance. Furthermore, he can make love three times in succession without drawing out."
Zen of Farting
"No one knows much about its author, Reepah Gud Wan, who lived before the 10th century in China and Japan, except that he was a legitimate Buddhist monk who tired of the inability of his students to grasp the essence of his teaching. In order to shake them up, he introduced the Zen of Farting, expecting his students to see the joke, laugh at it, and then understand his Buddhist teachings better. Unfortunately, they failed to get the joke--and zen was the result. "
“Not Monday Night Football XXX” (VIDEO Link) TRIPLE-X HEADLINE OF THE DAY FOR MY LATE-NIGHT READERS TO DISCOVER: John Madden’s Penis Delightfully Absent
John Madden’s Penis Delightfully Absent From “Not Monday Night Football XXX”John Madden’s Penis Delightfully Absent From “Not Monday Night Football XXX”
Perhaps XPlay was concerned about offending fans? We personally would've been stoked to finally see Howard Cosell's little monkey.
Not Monday Night Football XXX
Studio: XPlay
Director: Will Ryder
Cast: Angelina Armani, Lela Star, Sarah Vandella, Layla Rivera, Jaelyn Fox, Jessica Bangkok, Britney Stevens, Ashlyn Rae, Alyssa Reece, Topanga Fox, Ally Ann, Yurizan Beltran, Amia Miley, Tatum Pierce, Delila Darling, Cindy Jones, Mai Ly, Sophie Dee, Laci Laine, Rick Madrid, Billy Goodrich, Lee Bang, Evan Stone, Thomas Ward, Scott Lyons, Eric John, Kris SlaterIt's one thing to parody a sitcom, but parodying an American institution like Monday Night Football requires both a solid sense of humor as well as serious focus on fucking. The challenge for XPlay is even greater with this parody because there are no protagonists to ground the plot, and no classic conflicts to spice up with sex. As a result, "Not Monday Night Football XXX" features an amalgamation of sportscasting legends doing what makes them memorable.
Rick Madrid plays the staccato-voiced Howard Cosell, who commands the preview show that the film is based around. He is joined by John Madden, played by Billy Goodrich, who spends time with fans, draws on the telestrator, and pimps tough-actin' Tinactin.
True to life, celebrities stop by to plug their latest projects/remind us of their scandals. OJ Simpson has his future read (keep in mind this is the 80s OJ), causing the fortune teller to flee the scene. Bill Cosby (manned by the same Thomas Ward who starred in "Not The Cosbys XXX") shows up as well, followed by a furious Laci Laine who demands Cosby leave his wife for her.
Although these allusions provide amusing intermissions from sex, they feel more like piecemeal potshots and less like parodies of the events they reference. Poking fun at the gimmicky, self-serving habits of a major network is clever, but without a strong, over-arching plot to center the jokes, the parody becomes a gimmick itself.
And like most parody porn, there's a clear distinction between the amusing and the arousing. There was one instance of Madden using the telestrator to discuss his favorite things about Angelina Armani (boobs, eyes, long, flowing hair), but it would've been doubly as funny to see him narrate an instant replay, telestrating the path of Eric John's cock as four cheerleaders tackle him in the locker room. Perhaps a "BAM!" or two would've been appropriate.
But there really isn't much to complain about. The simple fact that seventeen girls cram into five separate scenes is a daunting feat. With such an enormous cast, one might wonder how parody prince Will Ryder manages to coach this dreamteam to glory.
The answer? Teamwork: four gals for every gent, and no one hits the sidelines when the action is on. There's no showboating, no ball hogging, and the fans go wild for every play (seriously, there's non-stop cheering). Also, since every sex scene features a POV moment, viewers at home get to feel like they're part of the team! The sportsmanship is simply awe-inspiring.
Of course, there are a few star players. Evan Stone and Angelina Armani have the only one-on-one scene as the legendary quarterback Manhattan Joe and some floozy. He helps her get her foot in the door as a sideline reporter, so she helps him get his cock in her mouth.
"Well if I'm gonna taste your cock," she says, "I want you to taste my pussy." See? Teamwork.
Also exciting is the fact that Yurizan Beltran has her first non-solo scene. Yurizan, Lela Star, Mai Ly, and Alyssa Reece get bored watching the game at home, so they decide to ditch the remote and grab the vibrators. Even though it's her first time, Yurizan gives it 110% and really goes deep. I sincerely hope she continues this sociable trend.
The general mindset for parody pornographers seems to be "What if this show had hardcore sex in it?" Unfortunately, the finished product presents the question "What if this hardcore sex had jokes near it?" And while it's smart to unite the eternally homosocial institutions of pornography and sports, it's important to make sure they play together well. Perhaps "Not Monday Night Football XXX" could've used a couple more scrimmages before hitting the field.
And now I'm out of football puns.
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