Aquafina Guy Wrecks Nocturnal Spell

I have it on the highest authority--the highest--if it were any higher, I'd have to capitalize the "h" in "highest"--that Elvis Mitchell will appearing on tonight's episode of HBO's Entourage, following a full hour of John from Cincinnati in which Butchie tries to scrounge up a pair of matching socks for a semi-formal clambake. It was with a twinge of disappointment that I learned that Elvis would be "playing himself" on the show, not that his self isn't manifold and inherently dramatic. It's simply that I hoped/dreamed/prayed that he might be playing an existential hit man on a 24 hour deadline to rub out Adrian Grenier for his mousy performance and embarrassing dry humping in Harvard Man, knock off Jon Piven for taking Jerry McGuire to the next hambone level, and wipe out the rest of the cast to eliminate the possibility of an Entourage spinoff. But I doubt Elvis would be able to fit in all that activity under the umbrella of a "cameo appearance."

I by no means am trying to upstage Elvis by announcing some little news of my own: this summer I will be touring with Rue McClanahan in The Gin Game, replacing the great Harvey Korman, who decided the hell with it. So far we're only booked into one town, a sylvan village called Metropark North, Virginia, but if we can land another theater, that'll offically constitute a tour.

Swan Lake Samba Girl attended that "Slow Dancing" shindig at Lincoln Center, nobly sacrificing her time so that the rest of us could remain far from the madding crowd:

...I'm going to see it several more times before it leaves NY, but so far my thoughts are that the project is a great idea that has some real kinks to work out.

For starters, Lincoln Center is really annoying me and if I was Michalek [David Michalek, the creator of this super slo-mo video project] I would be pissed. Slow Dancing starts at 9 p.m and continues until 1:00 in the morning; Midsummer Night Swing ends at 10:00 p.m. But after the MNS band stops playing, Lincoln Center really shuts down: the alcohol and snack bars all close shop, making it impossible to enjoy a drink with friends while watching the films, and, more seriously, a very noisy cleanup begins. The Aquafina guy noisily dismembers his metal booth then hauls it all, bit by bit, to a huge garbage-like truck waiting, motor running, in the nearby taxi cab lane; the bar guys clinkily clear bottles and glasses from their shelves; garbage collectors noisily bag trash and load it onto little trucks, which they drive dangerously through the crowd darting in and out and around groups of people, sometimes even honking if you don't see them coming -- how's the audience supposed to focus on the film with all this crap going on? You feel like Lincoln Center's telling you it's time to go home now, show's over, you're out past your bedtime. Until July 29th, when this exhibit ends, could they possible re-arrange clean-up schedules? It's hugely disrespectful to the artist and his audience.

That's why I'm staying home, to lodge my protest vote, and not because I'm lazy.

A veteran of those mean streets in that brick-falling era, Tom Watson pinpoints what's missing from ESPN's The Bronx Is Burning miniseries, in which John Turturro plays scrappy Yankees manager Billy Martin (could anyone be described as "scrappy" today? we're all such smoothies...even those with fucked-up childhoods have a slick coating of psychobabble to retail their hardships) and somehow delivers a persuasive performance despite being cursed with a pair of prosthetic Prince Charles ears. So what's missing? The milieu, the mise en scene, the surrounding verismilitude, if you will; oh just read the piece. It's true that hose of us who lived in NY then are prone to a certain nostalgia de la boue, to dust off another French phrase in honor of Bastille Day. Those were dark times, my friends, in 1977 the spirit of punk with its gallows humor had even invaded the locker room and the postgame interview, as evidenced by third baseman Craig Nettles's classic shrug-off of Steinbrenner's flying visits to berate the team whenever it hit a losing streak: "The more we lose," Nettles philosophized, "the more Steinbrenner will fly in. And the more he flies, the better the chance there will be for a plane crash." Really, Richard Hell or Dee Dee Ramone couldn't have said it better.

TBogg takes a skeptical look at Michael Yon's Sweeney Todd yarn, which the tatty-feathered warhawks have been embracing as Grand Guignol gospel.

Me, I think it's admirable when a boy pitches in to help with chores around the ranch, which is why it's so disheartening that the Undercover Black Man would hint at there being something untoward about this wholesome frontier tableau.