Billy Mays

[note from the editors: Normally we wouldn't publish something about the non-living, but because of the proximity of our last post to the death of Mr. Jackson we thought the following would be worth sharing.  Keep in mind that it is simply a draft, created a few weeks ago by one the staff who was planning on finishing it up this week.  If you know any of us personally you might want to think twice if we offer to buy you a beer.]

We here are deadman/party are all late-night and hangover television watchers and are simply fascinated by what shining beacon Billy Mays is.  His over-excited holler delivery is far superior to that of his close second in the arena of television pitch-men, that vaguely colonial british accent guy.  It is a fond, foggy memory we have of a bearded hulk of a man selling us washing powder mixed with oxygen.  From there he has branched out into the arena of hanging things, ladders that one would use to hang such things and magical kitchen implements that will make tiny burgers meant to travel through the intestinal tract in a flash.

Also, we assume that his penis bears more than a passing resemblance to a mink and, like Charles Bronson’s flesh hammer, has a knuckle.

Michael Jackson

Is there anyone on Earth that needs a beer more than this man?  A beer and a shot?  We here at deadman/party would be more than happy to buy the motherfucker the whole bar.  Because we love the music. We wake up in the morning, sleepy and hop in the shower.  While in that shower, getting all sudsy we know that we can throw any Michael Jackson single and our day just got happy.  We could be on our way to a funeral but we would be farting unicorns and rainbows all the way to the cemetery.  No other artist even comes close to this pinnacle of positivity.

And before you mention it, we are sick and tired of people bringing the whole molestation thing up.  It is truly sad how often people find a Jay Leno cast-off joke wise.  (And if you must, we would prefer a well timed OJ joke.)  Time and time again we will be extolling the virtues of “Man in the Mirror” and some tired fuck will heave a big sigh, push their glasses up their nose and complain, “You know he touches kids.  Also, wrestling is fake.”  So he has probably touched some kids.  Or he is probably feeling a little conflicted about wanting to touch some kids.  But if you are gonna toss out your copy of Thriller because Michael Jackson is a pervert you best be prepared to toss out Who’s Next; Cats, Cops and Stuff; Ferris Bueler’s Day Off; The Frugal Gourmet Cooks with Wine; Howl and that Gary Glitter suit you’ve been wearing to church.

Leave the man alone and let us buy him a beer.  He has been working hard and deserves a sholder to cry on.  Let it be ours.  And after the tears we can share a few choice words about the ladies in the place.  What good times we will all have.  As long as he keeps his hands above the bar.

Steven Soderbergh

Ah yes, the auteur that is Mr. Soderbergh.  His body of work is a pulped, grayish mass of half-baked political ideas, self-indulgent stylization and very attractive actors.  Though the aforementioned could describe scores of directors who are given enough money to house homeless populations of minor American metropolises in order to put there masturbation fantasies upon the big screen, Soderbergh stands out in his particular combination of egomania and utter lack of talent.

Sure Oceans Eleven through Twenty are entertaining.  Who doesn’t love watching famous people having a whole bunch of fun half-assing their way to millions of dollars?  It was like a live action version of the “Celebs.  Just Like Us!” section of People Magazine.  But it isn’t to hard to imagine Joel Schumaker or Barry Sonnenfeld doing a comparable job (please excuse the overtly Jewish names, honestly the first two blockbuster directors that came to mind who have nothing to do with special effects).  But who is willing to defend Erin Brockovich as anything more than a tampon ad crossed with a High School Civics class?  Or Traffic as anything worthwhile at all?  But “Hey!” you say, “He used different filters for each setting of the film!  That’s Artistic!”  Is it really?  Are you in Jr. High?

Now we are not in the business of just shooting down anybody who happens to make a movie that we don’t like.  It is Mr. Soderbergh’s staggering ego tempered by false modesty that puts him here.  To quote, “The fact that I’m not an identifiable brand is very freeing, because people get tired of brands and they switch brands. I’ve never had a desire to be out in front of anything, which is why I don’t take a possessory credit.”  Sounds like a pretty reasonable guy.  Downright modest.  Except when he says things like casting baseball players as themselves (upcoming film version of Moneyball) is the way “movies will be made in the future.”  Just like in the future all movies will be released in theaters and HDnet the same day with the DVD version for sale four days later but no one will see them because they are pieces of shit.  Also porn stars will star in ’serious’ movies in the future, but as prostitutes because, after all, they are porn stars which precludes one from being anything else unless Mr. Soderbergh swoops down from his intellectual mountain and raises you up to the dizzy heights of HOLLYWOOD.  Does he have a “normal people R people 2″ t-shirt somewhere? Ignoring that, let us applaud a man who refuses to possess his movie, to resign himself to the background of what he creates, just don’t you dare try and ’steal’ it from him by making an illegal copy or putting it on the Internet.  Mr. Soderbergh, if you want to know the future of movies, you have found it.  Downloading for free. Though in his case it is simply a waste of bandwidth.