Attack of the Hollywood Clones!

Amy Adams (left) & Isla Fisher (right).

Up until a few months ago, I thought that the two actresses above were one person. Actually, I'm still on the fence about this. Looking at the pictures without the caption, I dare you to tell me who's who; I had to rely on the sources on Google Images to tell the difference myself, and I'm forced to assume that they know what the hell they're talking about.

I guess I first became aware of Isla Fisher as Rachel McAdams'¹ psycho little sister who jerked Vince Vaughn off under the dinner table in Wedding Crashers; she was a memorable character and a large part of what made that movie funny. Later, I heard that she started dating Sacha Baron Cohen (aka Borat, aka Ali G, aka Bruno). So, when I watched Talladega Nights: The Ballad Of Ricky Bobby, which also starred Cohen, and saw her as Will Ferrell's love interest, I thought that they must've met during the filming of that movie.

Except that it was actually Amy Adams, not Isla Fisher, in Talladega Nights. I didn't become aware of this fact until I watched this year's Oscars and someone named Amy Adams performed the songs from the nominated musical Enchanted, which I thought starred Isla Fisher. So, I (probably much like you, right now) was thoroughly confused and had to do a little research on IMDb.

Upon finding out that they were indeed two separate entities and NOT one individual redhead, my first instinct was that under Sacha Cohen's mischievous guidance, Isla Fisher was just playing a joke on all of us by pretending to be a different actress who just happened to look and sound exactly like her.

Good one, guys. You got us real good.

And until I see them simultaneously in the same room, I'm sticking by that theory. I'm also willing to do a more, ahem, hands-on and exhaustive investigation on both of them to discern any palpable physical differences. What can I say? I'm thorough, if anything.


¹Coincidently, I thought that Rachel McAdams (below, left) and Elizabeth Banks (below, right) were the same person for a while as well. What can I say, white people all look the same to me...

Music Blogging Officially Jumps The Shark

Things I Like, Part 2: Heavy Metal

Is there a genre of music as moronic as Heavy Metal?

Probably not.

The macho posturing, the deliberate aural strain, the obtuse doctrine of louder+ faster= better, not to mention the outlandish lyrical themes, the phony satanic idolatry, and who could forget, the assless leather chaps.

It's all very silly. It's what made This Is Spinal Tap so funny, after all.

And it's exactly why millions of boys are drawn to it like moths to a flame. It's quite possibly the most fitting soundtrack to male adolescence. Aggressive, rebellious and its lyrics are entirely comprised of sex, drugs, violence, oppression and the occult --things that a 13 year old boy finds fascinating and terrifying all at once.

I was one of those boys. Heavy Metal, and more specifically Thrash Metal --an amalgam of New Wave of British Heavy Metal and Hardcore Punk-- resonated with me from the first distorted tritonal chord I heard. The Thrash Metal bands were not as flashy or reliant on the Dungeons & Dragons imagery as their brethren often was, instead focusing on musical prowess and low-key personas. This lack of pretension appealed to me.

And what band was at the top of the Thrash Metal game? Metallica, of course. I mean, they had the word Metal in their goddam name! Their 1986 album, Master of Puppets, became a defining record for the genre and quite a revelation in my early musical life. No other band in the genre mattered as much to me. Of the big four of Thrash (Metallica, Slayer, Anthrax & Megadeth) Slayer was undoubtedly the heaviest, but the absurd Sigil of Bathomet imagery and the Nazi undertones definitely turned me off, Anthrax was a bit too playful and fratboyish and I always thought that Megadeth's founder, and former Metallica member, Dave Mustain had a terrible singing voice and never lived up to his former bandmates.

Metallica, on the other hand, was a perfect blend of velocity, intensity and virtuosity. The title track off of Master of Puppets was a model representation of the band:



The song starts with a rhythmic staccato guitar riff stressed by drum and bass accents. That leads into a syncopated groove of the main theme that doesn't let up for two verses, bridges and choruses until it reaches a Metallica staple: the instrumental interlude. Not only does this curveball waylay the listener, but it also sets up the crescendo to the anthemic lyrical summation of the song and the subsequent guitar solo. And just when you think the song might be over, it kicks back in with another verse, bridge and chorus that leads into a coda and ultimately into the maniacal laughs of the titular Puppet Master.

From the moment I heard that song, the sound of Metal was ingrained in the nucleus accumbens part of my brain, producing great pleasure and satisfaction whenever heard.

Even though Metallica never really recovered after the death of bassist Cliff Burton and every album since has been progressively worse¹, that sound has lived in my subconscious ever since. As my tastes moved to the Pacific Northwest in the early nineties, the Metal tinges that bands like Nirvana, Soundgarden and Alice In Chains showed helped quench my thirst for headbanging as did the Melvins, Guns N Roses, Primus, Rage Against The Machine, Quicksand, Helmet, Tool, Pantera, Kyuss, At The Drive-In, the Hope Conspiracy and Paint It Black for years to come.

As I started playing guitar around the age of 14, I learned that there's nothing more fun to play than Metal, too. The beauty of a palm-muted, down-stroked, mid-scooped, distorted open E string on a cranked up amp is quite heavenly (or hellishly, rather; to keep with the theme). It's akin to firing an AK-47 or wielding a thunder bolt, Zeus-style --something you just can't get from playing Guitar Hero, I assure you.

The feeling doesn't fade with time either. Even just a few years ago, whenever my ex-roommate/drummer James and I would jam out in our basement, every session would eventually escalate to a crushing Metal riff-off, no matter how tamely we would start. The power is too alluring to keep from embracing it; I don't know how anyone with an electric guitar can keep from wanting to unleash devastating riffage, it's too much fun.

So don't get me wrong, I love a folk ballad with a three part harmony and a flute solo as well, but if you really want to get me going, I'm going to need double kick drums, Gibson Explorers through Marshall stacks, wah-wah pedals and a pissed off, Cookie Monster-sounding motherfucker with a fu-manchu screaming on top of it all.

If I have to give up my indie rock credentials for that, then count me out. I'll be blasting "Fight Fire With Fire" in a '67 Mustang.  

¹Although they did team up with Rick Rubin for their upcoming album, so let's hope he can inject some metal back in their ever-hardening veins.  

See Also - Things I Like, Part 1: Basketball

Ad Nauseum

I watch several food-related shows (Top Chef, No Reservations with Anthony Bourdain, Ramsey's Kitchen Nightmares, Iron Chef, etc.) and after a considerable amount of time, the number of food-as-sex analogies, metaphors and similes has finally reached critical mass for me.

Dishes are constantly being referred to as "sexy", "orgasmic", "arousing", "sensual" or causing "an orgy of flavor in one's mouth" --one chef even going as far as saying that his excitement for a dish resulted in a "culinary boner".

I understand the correlation between the innate joys of eating and the carnal pleasures of sex, but I'm also very keen to when an expression becomes a trite cliché, depleted of its originality or strength of meaning. This is one of those cases.

Plus, I don't want a sweaty, overweight, snaggle-toothed British chef to serve me his "sex on a plate". Keep that shit to yourself, mate. Pish posh, pop around the block, and piss off, tosser!

Let's find more original analogies for food, shall we?

May I perhaps suggest comparing your mélange of lobster and artichokes with fresh walnuts and foie gras caramelized in quince jelly to Leonard Cohen's New Skin For The Old Ceremony album? It's a classic, refined and gratifying, while concurrently expunging presumption with its congenial timelessness.

No?

All right......

Ads Killed The Video Star

As a follow up to a recent entry about good songs in commercials, I made a playlist last night reflecting the best ones I've heard in recent times. With one exception (The Walkmen, "We've Been Had" which wasn't on imeem, for some reason), the following is the playlist, shared here for your enjoyment:

P.S. - I could have included four more Wilco songs from the VW commercials, but I showed restraint.

Trailer Park

Don't you hate it when you're watching a trailer for an upcoming movie and it looks really good, but at the same time you know that the movie itself probably won't live up to it?

That's why I just enjoy the trailers and don't bother going out and spending the ten bucks.

This trailer is pretty enticing, though:



Scary, huh?! Perhaps then you should cleanse your palate with this one:



Robert Englund AND Jenna Jameson?!? Now that's got Oscar written all over it...

Anderson Varejao: The Human Gimcrack

Is there a player in the NBA as worthless as Cleveland's Anderson Varejao?

Let me answer that for you. No, there is not.

In his four year career so far, he averages over 20 minutes per game but only contributes 6 points and 6 rebounds. He shoots 48% from the field as a post player, and 57% from the free throw line. He commits about 3 fouls and 1 turnover per game. In case you don't know what I'm talking about, those are very pedestrian statistics.

He has no jumpshot. He has no inside or post-up game. He doesn't, per se, "play" defense as much as he "poses" defensively. He flops every single time he's touched and every play he's involved in ends with his chubby, unathletic frame sprawled on the parquet.

As far as I can tell, there is no redeeming value to his presence on a basketball court.

Yet, he has played for four years in a league that can afford to be extremely selective. How does that happen? He must have incriminating evidence pertaining to the Cavaliers' owner or president or something because I know there's got to be another 6'10", 240 lb body that can take up space better than his.

Plus, he looks suspiciously like a certain nefarious Simpsons character:

=

Be wary of this Brazilian, be very wary....