Kid Rock Says It's Okay to Steal

Money is getting tight. Just look at the stock market. Better yet, listen to the grumblings of the Screen Actors Guild. Don't think those puppies won't go on strike, throwing a monkey wrench in the fall TV schedule like the writers did last holiday season. You know things are bad when supposedly filthy rich actors try to squeeze every possible penny from a handful of greedy studio heads.

Looks like the bad economy may be causing an increase in intellectual property theft. Even with a Justice Department crackdown, the problem festers. People want their cake and to eat it too. So what if they've maxed out their credit cards, at least their iPods are stocked with the latest tunes.

A penny saved is not a penny earned when it's stolen from the pockets of artistic talent. Artists are able to live off money generated from the sale of their intellectual property only because law abiding citizens actually buy it. Is a lousy dollar too much to ask for a single download?

Apparently so. Folks who rationalize illegal downloading as harmless behavior don't equate such activity with stealing. That's why the FBI is up to its neck in this type of sting operations. Someone has to stop the leeching.

But wait. Someone else is stepping up to the plate. Why....it's....Kid Rock? Yep, that Kid Rock, Kirstey's Alley's fantasy boy toy. Who would have known that a scuzzy looking party maniac was such an intellectual? Smart enough to expose the fallacy of illegal download rationalizations by taking them to their logical conclusion. Why not steal everything else in sight too?

(WARNING: This video contains objectionable language. Play only if you are over the age of 18 and not easily offended by colorful idioms)

Makes sense and I love it. Finally, the ruin unleashed by unethical behavior explained in terms even a moron could understand.

Thanks, Kid.

New Feature Shines Spotlight on Spew

Hey, it's Tuesday morning and the start of a new month, so we're trying something new here at The Spewker. In an effort to shine attention on those who lavish us with affection, we've decided to start a Tuesday morning spotlight feature. What or who will be spotlighted? Why, you, of course.

Sure, things will be slow at first. We'll have to tug on some old links and do our darnedest to make anyone passing by complicit in the madness. But slowly, slowly, I expect more than just a few will succumb to the irresistible urge to bask in our glow, even if all we can offer is a platform in a frequently updated blog with a hankering for spew.

Don't be shy. There are no rules, really. Well, maybe just one. Write about anything you like, but somehow mention The Spewker in the body of your article and link to this blog. We don't care how you do it, just do it, although blatant flames will decrease desirability. Note how I didn't say "disqualify."

Sigh. Yes, reluctantly, we'll consider blatant flames for the winner of our weekly award. For now. But don't push your luck.

Searching for Gypsy Girls in The Mohawk Song

An enterprising crew out of California is gunning to imbue summer of 2008 with the boom boxing beats of "Hawks." Make no mistake, those hair-raising spikes and soft fades are making a definitive come back with a catchy new anthem leading the way.

The Mohawk Song, recently released in a collaborative video, is more than steamy grind and rhyming jibber jabber. It's distinctive rap with a cool stomp, the kind of song that could easily heat up the clubs. Mix in Ellen DeGeneres and soon we could be up to our ears in shaved heads and spiky extensions.

Not that I would ever become a convert, but mohawks rock. They're edgy, in your face, somewhat out of place, punky, and distinctively cool. Like waving a big flag over your face and announcing to the world, "Who cares what you think of me or my hair." A kind of shove it where the sun doesn't shine attitude capable of diverting unwelcome stares to a body part within one's control. Got to admire a hairdo with that kind of clout.

But recently featured Amanda, Bianca, and Erica are nowhere to be found in the viral video contender. After an earnest search for their "Mohawk Girls" video turned up squat, some caring soul fingered "The Mohawk Song" as their possible debut. Sad to say, but if these fresh-faced young souls thought "The Mohawk Song" was their ticket to fame, they got gyped (sorry, no pun intended). Either this isn't their video or Future Stars left the girls on the cutting room floor.

Either way, my search for their tube continues. Links welcome.

Kung Fu Panda Kicks Chinese Behind

Since we can't seem to retaliate against the Chinese for poisoning our toys, tainting our pet food, and hacking sensitive computer operations, let's make 'em scream at the box office like a little girl. I'm talking a good old fashioned American patootey whooping.

Hiiyyyeeaa!

Over the protests of loyalists and nationalists, Chinese audiences turned Kung Fu Panda, Dreamworks latest animated feature film, into one of China's biggest summer blockbusters, grossing more than $12 million in a little less than two weeks. Chicken feed for Hollywood but big bucks in a country rife with piracy and anti-American sentiment. The movie is showing in various cities throughout the Communist regime, including the recently devastated Sichuan Province.

I don't know what's more idiotic, trying to exact retribution against Steven Spielberg by boycotting his production company's fluffy entertainment piece or withdrawing from the Beijing Olympics in an attempt to pressure the Chinese government to end genocide in Darfur. As if.

Look, I applaud the efforts of Spielberg, Mia Farrow, George Clooney, and everyone else trying to end the horrific Sudanese tragedy, but mixing politics with a world sporting event, or for that matter a benign cartoon, is a at best a symbolic effort making not an iota's worth of difference. The arts end up taking the brunt of the beating, a sad casualty of well-meaning but misguided efforts to rid the world of government oppression.

Just look at what they did to Harvey Weinstein. You tell me that isn't tit for tat.

Happy Birthday Dear Spewker

Giving myself a small pat on the back because The Spewker is officially a year old. Yay! For about two hundred some days of the last three hundred sixty-five (oh, whatever), I have managed not only to find worthwhile material, but also blog about it. For someone like me that's huge.

What do I mean someone like me? Well, I'm not exactly prolific, in case you didn't notice. I just like to follow controversial stuff and mouth off about it.

I gotta be me. Just like you gotta be you. We all gotta be somebody. My somebody just happens to be an attention craving opinionated street urchin seeking to reinvent herself after wallowing away in a life sucking profession with no socially redeeming value. Not the most endearing combination of characteristics, but nothing to apologize about either. If it helps me carve out a niche in the blogosphere, so be it.

Of course, the challenge of discovering how the person who is me can most creatively entertain the ubiquitous masses who are you is not such a simple task. The many facets of me - mother, daughter, sister, wife, friend, freelancer - leave very little time for much else, let alone engaging blogging.

The way I look at it, anyone who knows how to work a computer can blog. Only by developing an ongoing two-way interaction can a blogger consider themselves a success. Obviously, I'm not quite there, but I feel like I'm in the vicinity

And just in case The Spewker's appearance for the past two weeks has anybody wondering, I'm not ready to throw in the towel. Far from it. In fact, I may just be hitting my stride.

Algonquin

Man Camping

Last weekend Mike, Ryan, and myself headed up to Algonquin for a Portaging trip. It was first time in the provincial park so I didn't know exactly what to expect. The weather forecast was against us even up until the day we departed, yet suprisingly the weather was mostly cooperative. I say mostly because it was almost always warm and sunny except for Friday night when the thunderstorm literally turned our tent into a waterbed. While our tent leaked I tried to seal the seams with some (appropriately named) seam sealer. Unfortunately it covered my hands in an insoluble plastic chemical. My solution was to run outside the tent and clean my hands. Well it didn't get 2 feet away before I was soaked to the bone. I could not see the opposite shore through the dense rain and the thunder could make you jump right out of your knickers. I am actually extremely surprised we didn't get hit by lighting in our tent.
We did manage to make it out alive and enjoy the rest of the weekend. Please enjoy the photos I managed to grab. We have a baby snapping turtle, a moose, our canoe, and our resident model Michael.

Margot at the Wedding: A Movie Review

Abusive parenting. Inappropriate relationships. Absence of personal boundaries. Fractured personalities. Budding adolescence. Stunted personal growth.

Good foundations for an hour and a half exploration of the human condition, especially during a pivotal milestone such as a sibling’s impending nuptials. Even more so when a good chunk of the plot unfolds at the point of origin, her waterfront childhood abode. Unfortunately, these building blocks don’t coalesce into a believable movie going experience, making the storyline from this fascinating cast of characters a futile mishmash of gestalt.

Margot is in the midst of a life crisis, much of it her unconscious undoing over which she has very little control. To make matters worse, she wreaks havoc on the lives of those around her, some of them quite vulnerable and unable to defend against her insidious nature of attack. This has always been her modus operandi, but coupled with her personal dilemma, her gears seem to have switched into overdrive. Her sister’s unemployed fiancé isn’t good enough for her. Her son is becoming too angular. She goads dinner companions to test their seemingly normal son for autism, and viciously scolds her estranged husband when he transports an injured animal from the highway to the hospital.

Margot is not a monster, just showing a pair of horns. Her exploits are more palatable because she frequently changes her mind, and Nicole Kidman’s attractive physical exterior helps explain why she still has an inner circle of love and support. But the sum of these parts isn’t enough to buy into the dichotomy of Margot at the crossroads. And with a cast this good, the movie ends up being a terrible waste of talent.

So much of Margot at the Wedding is extrapolating the meaning between the lines. If it didn’t emphasize the climax with pictures, the laborious ending would be a complete waste of time. Come to think of it, much of what happens here is an eh, who cares?

The real problem is the story doesn’t make much sense. Her tweenage son should be trying to distance himself from a mother slowly going off the deep end. Instead, he clings to her for dear life. Her sister feuds with neighbors over a tree she envisions in her wedding, then makes her fiancé cut it down on the day before the ceremony. These essential plot movers are more like Claude screaming at the top of his lungs between moving trains than the signposts of life going bad. With a family this dysfunctional, I want to fully immerse myself in the angst and pathos. For much of the movie, Margot and her loony bin kept me at bay questioning the swirl of disaster from outside.

Go rent Margot at the Wedding for a touching debut from child actor Zane Pais. Great movie making from writer/director Noah Baumbach will have to wait for another time.

Wellington

This blog was hastily put together so it's a bit unrefined. Wellington was my favorite of the cities that we visited. Downtown was quite dense giving it the feel of a big city while the neighborhoods and coastal areas had a much calmer, relaxing feel that you'd expect from a much smaller town. Even in the business of downtown though, things seemed a lot more at ease than a typical large city. Everywhere away from the city center is thickly forested mountainous terrain. Combined with the unmistakable English influence made it seem to me kind of like London taken over by a jungle.



We were very fortunate to be able to stay with a former workmate of Maree's. Sam and his girlfriend Anna were gracious hosts and made our visit to the city very enjoyable. They look to have a good life down there. Thanks a lot guys!



Some streets were green.

We ran into all kinds of neat places just aimlessly wandering around while Sam and Anna were at work. One of Maree's major goals in New Zealand was to get a tatoo. So one of our days was devoted to that. During that time i wandered around some more and found some cool cars that aren't available in the United States. Nissan Skylines, Mitsubishi Lancers, and cars by a company called Holden. One in particular was pretty nifty and called the Commodore. Ironically, the company is owned by General Motors.




A university building.



Another day we went to the Te Papa Museum of New Zealand. It's an excellent art/history museum and it's free to get in. I was stunned to see a few paintings that we studied in art history back in college. I guess i didn't learn at the time that they were Kiwi artists.


Anna and Sam took us to a couple of nice restaurants. This one was Thai. Another was Mexican where i was able to have Lychee Margaritas. For unknown reasons Lychees are not imported into the United States so i was excited to try one. The flavor is good with a fruity sugarcane taste to it.


The view from Sam and Anna's dining room.

We stayed in Wellington for 3 days. Most of the time we took the commuter train which was a short 15 minute ride from Ngaio through what was a kind of forested little canyon to get right downtown from the neighborhood. One day we drove over to an area called Evans Bay, where Miramax studios is located. We met up with Jay Gambell, a friend of my friend Jimmy. Jay had recently moved to Wellington from L.A. to work at Weta. We were hoping to get a tour of Weta but i guess security was too tight because James Cameron is a paranoid freak (that is my opinion, Mr. Cameron, not Jay's, who is a good worker). Jay had picked a nice place to have lunch, which was strangely inside a gardening store. It was interesting to hear his account of what it was like living as a new transplant in the country.




The downtown waterfront.




The new (sort of) and the old.




A skateboard bench.


Fun twisty roads led to the top of this hill.


The view of downtown from the top of the hill. The city actually continued on all sides. The area where Miramax studios is was on the back side of the hill.


A commuter train. The seats flipped over backwards when the train changed directions.


The train stop in Sam and Anna's neighborhood. Maree's new tattoo is visible on her ankle.



We went for a walk through the neighborhood.


A HUGE walking stick bug. Almost as big as from my wrist to my elbow!



Totem

Our ideas of what to do after Wellington changed while we were there. Originally we were going to take the ferry to the south island, but after talking to our hosts and aquaintences we decided we might save a lot of time by flying to Christchurch instead. Flying between major cities on the two islands was remarkably cheap. The ferry would be only a little cheaper and the process could take up a good part of the day. It would have been even cheaper if we'd bought our tickets sooner. So after 3 days we left Wellington, had an extremely easy going time at the airport, and flew to Christchurch, about halfway down the south island.


A Moa, formerly the world's largest bird.


The biggest nautilus i've ever seen.


Inside the museum.


A smart car.


A local sports hero.

Spontaneous Acquiescence.

The right attitude for studying the way is just complete spontaneous acquiescence. Who cares whether it takes twenty or thirty years; you'll be naturally at peace, without the slightest bit of doubt or confusion. How can there be any obstruction again after spontaneous acquiescence? How can anyone arrive by way of externals?

-Ming-pen

James: We make things so difficult for ourselves don't we? We can't seem to accept that liberation is easier than we think.

~Peace to all beings~

George Carlin Gone to that Great Comedy Club in the Sky

There will be so many tributes to the great stand-up comedian George Carlin this morning, I don't feel as compelled to add my voice to the din. Besides, I have a date with destiny, aka the dentist, in about half an hour. Who has time?

George Carlin. Gone at 71. Complained of chest pains last night. Dead of a heart attack this morning. I'm suddenly feeling a need to check out Lipitor.

What can I say? In honor of a true pioneer, someone who dared to go where others would not, the best I can do right now is free association and YouTube.

Dark Side of the Moon. Strobe lights. Love beads. Seven forbidden words. Something lit. Incense. Lava lamps. Flairs. Frank Zappa. LMFAO. Men in pony tails. Lenny Bruce. Richard Pryor. Mood rings. Here comes the judge. Spin the bottle. The beep line. Late night runs to Taco Bell. Slam books. Cheech and Chong. BH. The Groove Tube. Smoke on the Water.

Carlin, man. Carlin. The world is now a more somber place. R.I.P.

Beyonce and Jay-Z Play Gossip Roulette

Don't know about you, but I have no patience for celebrity cat and mouse. I'm starting to notice a trend of leaked falsities and clear as day realities denied, the latest a Nicole Richie Joel Madden hoax. My frustration goes beyond whether Beyonce or any other celebrity du jour is pregnant.

Oh how I long for the days of dependable celebrity gossip (yeah, right). We'll all know in good time, my pretties, all in good time.

Taking John Waters to Task for Backlash Against Honfest

Once a year, the Hons take center stage here in Baltimore. Hampden, to be precise, home of the Miracle on 34th Street," is also Hon capital of the world. Hon ground zero, if you will. The annual Honfest hit the ground running this past weekend and attendant fireworks didn't disappoint.

But before we get to the persnickety controversy, let's get one thing straight. The celebration of Hons is a time honored tradition in these quirky parts, a dubious distinction Baltimoreans proudly wear on their sleeves.

This Baltimoron is no expert on Hons, having grown up in the vicinity of the now mammoth Sinai Hospital complex and world famous Pimlico Racetrack, later becoming a faceless mass in the white flight to suburbia, but I do know a thing or two about visceral affiliation with hometown identity. Los Angeles is inextricably linked with all things Hollywood, Wisconsin with cheese, San Francisco with streetcars and the Golden Gate Bridge, Detroit with Motown, Washington D.C. with the business of politics, and Baltimore with hons and crabs.

Is that a faux pas? I'm just speaking from the heart, hon.

No, seriously now, the distinctive accent, fixation with spirited birds, crab a la everything, Nipper the phonograph dog, Natty Boh, marble steps, Bromo Seltzer Tower, Preakness, and Honfest distinguish Baltimore from its more tony neighbor down I-95, although as far as the cartographers are concerned we might as well be one and the same. Ever notice how Washington, D.C. is prominently featured on every map and Atlas but Baltimore barely cuts the grade? Do you have any idea what it's like to live in a town with a combined population approaching two million (Baltimore City and Baltimore County are governed by different municipalities but are essentially the same area) and forever be lumped into the same locale as a place that couldn't be more different if its survival depended on it?

Yes, I'm talking about D.C. Twin cities we are not. Siamese twin polar opposites is more like it.

Just like the Preakness and pro sports teams named after birds, Honfest is uniquely Baltimore. The history of Hons, so I'm told, began with the hard-working woman of World War II. When the GIs returned, these enterprising young ladies continued to work. Hey, Baltimore is not a town of Ritz. I imagine back then money was just as tight as it is now. These second incomes helped support an upwardly mobile but modest lifestyle during the boomer age. You can't fault women for wanting better lives for their families.

As the story goes, women didn't work in executive positions, they took hard scrabble jobs. So on weekends, they liked to get dolled up and party. And Baltimore being the kitschy town that it was (and is), dolled up meant tight outfits, massive jewelry, appalling makeup, and hair piled high to the sky. Think New Jersey south of the Mason-Dixon. Beehive hairdos were all the rage and nobody wore them better than east side Baltimore. The higher, bigger, shinier, and stiffer, the better. Believe me when I say John Waters didn't have to think long and hard when he thought up the title to Hairspray.

More about dear John later.

Anyway, these dolled up, tight laced, beehive wearing, red lipped, smoking ladies eventually became known as Hons. It must have something to do with the way Baltimoreans talk because I remember being called Hon quite a bit on the streets in and around the racetrack. Even now when I venture to the Inner Harbor some gum cracking waitress will shout out a Hon or two. A term of endearment really, just an abbreviated "honey" with the glory of Baltimore "OH" lovingly wrapped inside.

Ever been to a sporting event with Baltimoreans and notice how they scream in unison "OH" when they get to the "Oh say can you see" part of the Star Spangled Banner? It's all connected I'm telling you, in an Oriole birds and "dem O's" quirky kind of way.

When Baltimore's Hampden neighborhood decided to reinvent itself as the suburbs of City rather than a dingy mill section of town, Mom and Pop businesses moved in like crazy. Today, a stroll down The Avenue is like walking around New York's TriBeCa, there are so many unusual shops and restaurants to see. Not to mention a liberal dose of second-hand store gold mines. Hampden is one of a kind because it's uniquely Baltimore, much like Fells Point but without the water.

Some time ago, CafeHon -- the jewel of Hampden -- began a one day neighborhood gathering to celebrate Baltimore fashion and culture, affectionately christened Honfest for those who dare to be kitsch. The annual event has since morphed into a two-day festival with an anything goes mentality, many abandoning all form of reason in their quest to become Hon chic. These people have their hair done in beehives, wear obnoxiously loud clothing and stilettos, don so much makeup they look like Kelly Osborne on Halloween, and enter Hon competitions for the chance to be crowned "Miss Baltimore Hon."

I know. I know. It sounds like an Iowa corn festival and maybe in some respects it is. Baltimore is a big city comprised of little neighborhoods. There really is a hometown feel, an indescribable slice of life you can't get anywhere else on this planet. Honfest has the potential to transform into a monumental party on the same scale as today's Mardi Gras (but definitely NOT Mardi Gras before Katrina -- that would be stretching the build up too far).

Okay. I've done my best to describe Hons and Honfest. Now we get to dear John. Don't get me wrong, I'm a big fan, a huge fan of John Waters, his brand of entertainment, and his take on life. If it weren't for Waters, Edith Massey would never have become "The Egg Lady," there'd be no such thing as front lawns decorated with pink flamingos, and Divine would have been just another drunken whore stripping for tips down on The Block. Waters savored these seedier spawns of Baltimore and in doing so made them mainstream. The magnitude of his success is a little shocking considering his film making origins. I mean honestly, back in the 1960s, he was the probably the first person to film a transsexual devouring dog crap. Steaming dog crap. With a hint of lemon.

As a native Baltimoron who wears her Honness as a badge of honor, I have no qualms taking Waters to task for his recent statements against Honfest. For the record, he lambasted the celebration saying the Hon image was so overused he would no longer utter the word or use the idea in any of his scripts. Not only that, he urged the City of Baltimore to stop supporting the event, claiming people who now participate do so to denigrate Hons.

Yup. The native son and one who paved the road for unbridled madness now turns his back on the monster of Honfest, professing lack of authenticity mars the luster. Reminds me of Dr. Frankenstein and monster remorse, although in that story the monster tried to kill anything in its path and wreak mayhem.

In contrast, Honfest is a harmless lovable fuzzball, a chance to bond with homegrowns giving Baltimore a distinct flavor separate and apart from that political metropolis down I-95. The fact that the idea caught fire with so many out of towners is all the more reason to revel in all things Hon, don't you think? Waters really missed the mark and that's a low down dirty rotten shame.

Seriously, hon, we're talking two days. Two days of blissful merriment and bustling business for tiny Hampden. Waz all de fuss har?