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The AbsurdistThe Absurdist

Tuesday, September 28, 2004
  Indecent scents

Two new men's frangrances worthy of fits of childish giggles:

Hummer
"If you can't afford to drive one, or are having a hard time getting someone to give you one, then at least smell like one."

Cumming
"Splash a little on your neck."

Additionally, the Absurdist has heard a rumour of a fabled new cologne in a similar brand extension a la Alan Cumming's lapse in judgement:

Pitt by Brad Pitt
"Smell all Pitt, all the time"
 

Friday, September 24, 2004
  Sir Elton John vs Vile Pigs

It's rather amusing when celebrities attack. Particularly at airports. True, the level of privacy intrusion we celebrities must endure, even such minor incognito internet luminaries such as myself, is positively astounding. Sanity crushing. Male menstral cramp inducing. But when queeny, knighted, "living legend" celebrities go apeshit in foreign countries in flamboyant dramatic extravegance? Bring it on.

While touching down in Taipei's Chiang Kai-shek airport, a touchy Sir Elton was reportedly mobbed by a bloodthirsty pack of media attack dogs. In the ensuing swarm, the following dialogue transpired:

Sir Elton to media mob: "Rude vile pigs! Do You know what that means? Rude vile pigs! That's what all of you are!"

Retorting Photographer: "Why don't you get out of Taiwan?"

Retorting Sir Elton: "We'd love to get out of Taiwan if it's full of people like you. Pig! Pig!"

The Absurdist *hearts* Elton John bitch slapping foreign press. It has assumed supremcy over Bjork going feral on a reporter in Thailand and fey fitness guru Richard Simmons open handing a foolish taunter.
--------------------------
Sent from my BlackBerry Wireless Handheld
 

Monday, September 13, 2004
  Celebrity acts of deplorable, brazen homosexuality and/or perversion we'd like to see


As I cruise around Yorkville, the decadent, botox-infused, high end fashion district of Toronto that blossoms into a den of gawking starfuckers every time the Film Festival rolls into town, I stumble across this photo of publicly heterosexual, yet supect closeted pillow biter actors Hugh Jackman and Matt Damon. Yes, the man in the gold lamé ass huggers is "Wolverine" and the man in the stiff blue denim receiving the slippery stick fight is the "Bourne Submissive."

Naturally, this grotesque exercise in wrongness made public on Broadway stage yearns for suitable celebrity pairings of like depravity. Here is my two cents from the Film Festival:

- Hot young sapling Jason Schwatzman bear wrestling with elder apple tree Dustin Hoffman. (both staring in the upcoming I *Heart* Huckabees)

- Selma Blair and her back breaking prosthetic robo-breast (John Waters' upcoming "A Dirty Shame" jello fighting with pre-Trimspa gold-excavating sucubus Anna Nicole Smith.

- Jamie Foxx (In the Ray Charles biop "Ray") doing the blind man cheshire gin sway in dark sunglasses while corn-holing Will Smith for inflicting all that crap Americana on the world.

- Merchant of Venice thesp Joseph Fiennes solo and self loving.

- Stunner Zhang Ziyi and The Absurdist in our private House of Flying Dildos.
 

Sunday, September 12, 2004
  A tale of a whale, but not really

Continuing in the marathon cinematic viewing of the Toronto Film Festival, A Whale of a Tale, by local Toronto documentarian Peter Lynch is a tale not really of whales and whale such, but instead a journey of obsession, obsession and obsession. It is a story of a man possessed by the mystery of single whalebone excavated during the construction of the Toronto subway. Odd? Maybe, but downright confounding due to the fact that Toronto is thousands of kilometres away from the nearest ocean. The chase ensues as he charts a course across the continent speaking to prominent whale experts in a vain attempt to prove his belief correct. The documentary morphs from a journalistic report on the origins of the mystery whale bone to a personal revelation of into one’s own relentless vision, blinding objectivity and evidence, supplanting the result for the journey. Plus at the end of the film, I got to touch the whale bone. It was old and probably wouldn’t make a good soup.
 

Saturday, September 11, 2004
  Festering at the Toronto International Film Festival

Ladies and gentleman, I have officially landed at the Toronto International Film Festival- the epicentre of the oft snowy Canuck film industry, the Hollywood North that has Governator Arnold Schwarzenegger's posing suit in the twist for diasporic, cheap movie production costs, and most importantly, the home of every melancholic Atom Egoyan film to emote from this fair northern climate. Although I have not been accredited, nor plundered a fake festival pass off eBay, I aim to take in as much wanton cinema as possible. In fact, I was at one such film last night at the Cumberland, watching actors Jacob Tierney and Emily Hapshire covort through themes of prostitution, bisexualism, heroin junkie relapse, S&M and, naturally, incest. It is, after all, the Toronto Film festival and no film would be complete without the youthful nubile bodies of preternaturally underaged looking actors dialogue on-screen in various states of undress under the watchful eye of an older, male director with a closet or two to kick open.

The film itself was highly engaging- no mean feat for one shot using minimal cuts, only two principal actors and a screen play adapted from a heavily dialogue driven play. Jacob Tierney is engaging as the sexually confuse heroin survivor turned priest wannabee. Emily Hampshire plays the crude jukie sister prostitute to type. In fact I don't think she has quite left character a, during the Q&A she tettered like a drunk and espoused four lettered words like a sailor. Not too classy, I fear. Director Jerry Ciccoretti graciously answered questions posed by "look how clever I am" festival dorks despite how pretensiously ass the questions actually were. I would have like to hang out after the show to schooze the cast, particularly that Jacob lad, but alas, I had to dash with my retiring entourage of Friday workday burnouts. Ahh... Toronto!
 

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