Musical Notes

[rsadelle]

In the waiting room of Student Death (also known as the James A. Taylor Student Health Service), I picked up a copy of People magazine with the headline "The Plot to Kidnap Russell Crowe" emblazoned on the front cover. I, of course, chose to read about said plot to kidnap Russell Crowe. Tthe idea behind kidnapping Russell Crowe is not merely so that one may say that one has successfully kidnapped Russell Crowe and now has him in one's possession, but rather so that one may demand a ransom for the safe return of Russell Crowe, which brings to mind the following question: Who would want him back? This is neither as cruel nor as trivial as it first seems. Collecting ransom is not some arbitrary third party action; someone, some concrete person, has to pay the ransom. Presumably the money would ultimately come out of Russell's own bank account, but who would be the person fronting it in the first place? He has no wife, no children, no girlfriend, no boyfriend (that we know of). He says he was a disappointment to his parents, and although I'm sure they love him and would want him back, would they be able to get to the money? Perhaps Joaquin Phoenix would front the money, or Ridley Scott. The best bet, however, is that his accountant would cut the check under the assumption that it would be an approved expense.

Before the Oscars, I, and many other people with television sets, saw the commericals for Britney Spears' Pepsi commercial. During the Oscars, the semi-hyped (I wasn't aware of more hype than the previous commercials, the reports of just how many millions of dollars she's getting out of the whole deal, and the gossip that Britney herself is a Coke drinker, not surprising as she's a Southern girl) commercial aired for the first time. It's an awful ad. Not only does it fit right into Britney's pattern of selling herself as a sex object first, last and only, but the commercial itself is badly done. The dance routines are hardly exciting, the words that are supposed to be coming out of Britney's mouth are not synchronized with the movement of said mouth, and even the supposedly humorous scene of the diner cook letting the stove burn as he watches the commercial is not funny. The commercial is not, however, completely without its good points. Britney does look healthier than usual, and the Bob Dole bit at the end of some versions is rather amusing.

Speaking of Britney, there is a picture of her and Justin Timberlake in the same issue of People as the Russell Crowe kidnapping plot. While I can't stand NSync, I do find Justin marginally interesting as one of Britney's accessories. It is great fun to write stories in which she dumps him for being the spineless, boring, stupid boy he most likely is. Nette and I are still looking for interesting people to pair her with. Although Eminem and Christina Aguilera are both viable prospects, we'd like to give her someone less fucked up than Eminem, and I can't seem to write Christina without having her want Fred Durst.

Thanks to Nette, who found things out at Metal Sludge, I am now quite enamored of Scott Ian of Anthrax (the band, not the disease) and VH-1's The Rock Show fame. I love him for his brain, truly I do. He's smart. He's Jewish. He's shaved his head. What more could you want in a rock star to admire? Ah yes, the music. I listened to Anthrax clips at CDnow (I honestly don't have Napster), and liked them. I'm very slow about deciding to buy CDs, but Anthrax is definitely now on my list of things to buy. Scott Ian is doubly wonderful because he's friends with Metallica. Anthrax and Metallica even lived in the same, run-down, old building in New York in the early 80s. Even to this day, Scott and Kirk are friends and Scott even commented on Jason's departure from the band saying, among other things, "People should do what drives their passion. I know Jason. He's incredibly passionate about his music and metal. And he's probably thinking, I gotta do what I gotta do. I gotta move on."

I made the mistake of watching most of the made-for-ABC version of South Pacific. I saw the play produced by the late, lamented (by me, at least) Chico City Light Opera years and years ago, so many years ago, in fact, that I barely remember it. All I could recall was the line "I'm gonna wash that man right out of my hair." In the made-for-ABC version, the song is rendered even more ironic by Glenn Close's very close-cropped hair, although that may be in the original script. Quite possibly the worst bit in the whole movie (that I paid attention to, anyway) is the scene in which Bloody Mary pimps out her daughter to a Lieutenant, and after having sex with her once, he imagines himself in love. He will not, of course, marry her. It's that kind of play.