There's been controversy brewing behind the scenes of Method Man & Redman's new hip-hop comedy on FOX. I understand most of their gripes, but one that caught my eye was this:
"Method Man lashed out at the "lame jokes" which have managed to find their way into scripts. He also bemoaned the use of a laugh track, which he said he never agreed to. [italics mine]"
C'mon Meth, you gotta have the laugh track, how else are the white folks supposed to know when to laugh?
Look, I voted for Bill Clinton twice, and I'd do it again, but I'm really kind of sick of seeing his face everytime I turn on the TV. But the real question is this: what's with the weird bracelet, Bill? Is it a house arrest device that Hillary slapped on you? is it woven from the dyed pubic hairs of intern conquests? Is it like those sex bracelets the kids are wearing? Are you merely rockin' the retro-80's madonna fan thing? what?
Castro warns US not to attack Cuba.
Well, we weren't going to Fidel, but now that you brought it up....
Methinks Senor Castro might be getting a bit sedradled.
Besides if we did attack Cuba, half the country would be climbing up the battleships with suitcases saying "Take me to Miami!"
In the name of artistic advancement, and because the events of these weekend don't add up to a cohesive story, I've decided to simply be impressionist in this entry and give you resonant details.
Like going on a walk through Astoria park and finding a pair of black thong panties unceremoniously draped over the iron railing by the river.
Thinking we had some kind of gas leak until I looked outside and realized my neighbors were having a cookout.
Watching the East Indian family 3 doors down, sit on their patio in headscarves and robes playing sitting on an oilcloth playing what appeared to be Gin Rummy.
Introducing Lisa to the joys of the Mojito at a neighborhood cafe.
Also, Metallica is in therapy. This country's going soft. I blame women and the French.
Yesterday was fairly uneventful, except for when while standing on my back porch, I found out that the woman in the house across the street likes to lounge around in black panties.
Remember the stoop-sitting old woman I blogged about?
Well, the situation has clarified. About a week ago I was coming home one particualrly hot evening, when my landlady and he mid-40's son were sitting on the stoop enjoying the sun. They waved hello.
"Y'know," I said "there's this woman who likes to sit on the stoop sometimes and talk in some strange language."
"Oh, she's coming to see me. She's old [mind you my landlady is over 80 herself]. But she's talkin' Greek."
"It didn't sound like Greek."
The son piped up, "In her case it's Ancient Greek."
"So I could mention Socrates, and she'd say 'Oh, him. Nice boy but he asked to many questions.' "
"That's about right."
So last night I saw my landlady and the Venerable Stoop Sitter (who apparently lives around the corner in the same house with a young blond woman who likes to hang out on her porch and strike sultry poses in a tank top) having a chat. I nodded to V.S.S. and said "Yassou." She smiled a a toothless grin like a newborn baby.
Also, last night The Godfather was shown uncut and in it's entirety on TV. So I did my ethnic duty and grabbed some Mallomars, Sour Cream & Onion Ritz Chips, Easy Cheese and a few Genny Screamers and hunkered down.
Oddly while all the cuss words, shootings, garrottings and stabbings are left in, the scene where Michael's Sicilian wife disrobes is censored, featuring digitized blurring over the boobs. This is a technique, I've never quite understood. Are we supposed to imagine that something else is coming out of her chest? And if not, since we can handle implied nipples, I think we can handle the real thing, especially after sitting through a couple hours of mayhem.
Damn Janet and Justin and their nipple jewelery.