POTPOURRI

MOVIES: I don't think I made this entirely clear on my previous entry, but in addition to mocking the Showgirls special edition DVD, I also truly, sincerely covet it, and plan on buying it this weekend. Damn right!

COMICS: Because I'm now listed on the Comic Weblog Updates page (and proudly so, I might add), I kind of feel some pressure to post a little more frequently about, you know, comics. So, in the beating a dead horse department: Eightball #23.

When I posted about it a couple weeks ago, my entire review consisted of:

I liked it fine. It made me a little sad. Louie was kind of a dick.

And I wasn't kidding. (Well, not much.) I mean, it's a good comic. Very good. What little I've read of Clowes' stuff has had the rare ability to make me feel something when reading a comic (most often, melancholy and a squirming discomfort... which is probably why I haven't read more of his stuff -- those aren't pleasant feelings in large amounts). I think he's really quite an excellent comics creator.

That said, I don't get all the hoopla. The comics "blogosphere" (I'm still lacking a better, non-idiotic term) seems to have risen up as one and decreed Eightball #23 its new lord and master. As I said in that previous post, this comic is being as infinitely praised and minutely deconstructed as if it were a newly discovered James Joyce novel.

I don't see all that. It's very smart, very enjoyable, it makes you laugh, makes you cringe, it's an insightful look into a troubled mind. But it ain't Ulysses. Or even Watchmen. Is it better than most comics? Is it the best single issue of the year? Maybe, maybe. But even so, I can't see writing a thesis on it.

Maybe that's why I don't write about comics more often.

TV: Last night on Bravo I caught a repeat of Kathy Griffin's stand-up special, The D-List (which, by the way, isn't even listed amongst her credits on IMDb.com -- that's odd). Basically, from her vantage point as a minor, minor celebrity ("For a while I was hovering around the C-List, but once you do 'Celebrity Mole' it's straight to the D"), she talks shit about all the better-known and infinitely weirder celebrities she encounters in her professional life, from a weepy, John Lennon-quoting Sharon Stone, to a menacing, profusely sweating Whitney Houston, to a near-comatose Anna Nicole Smith. And I loved it. You know there are millions of sick and twisted stories about the Hollywood elite floating around, and Griffin is your direct access to those stories. The humor flows naturally from the bizarre people and situations; she barely even has to craft punchlines around them, they're so hysterical to begin with.

The caveat is, you have to be able to take Griffin herself in order to enjoy her storytelling. She's got a grating, raspy voice, an abrasive, aggressive, sometimes flighty delivery ("Oh I forgot to tell you this!!"), and a far-too-chummy attitude with the audience. I can see how some might be turned off right from the beginning, and never even give her act a chance. Personally, though, I enjoy the whole package, and I'd really like to see this turned into a series of specials. I'll bet she's got enough stories to produce a new hour at least monthly, maybe even a half-hour weekly.