Benny Jay: Give the Oscar to Raquel Welch

Well, it’s Oscar season — which means, time for me to weigh in on who I think should win the big awards.

Being The Third City’s movie critic and all.

Let’s start with Best Picture….

Well, there’s The Artist. Oops, didn’t see it. But my sister did. I’m not sure how relevant that is — just thought I’d tell you.

Anyway, there’s The Descendants. Didn’t see that one either. I was going to, then Anika told me it’s depressing.

Anika being one of my oldest daughter’s best friends. What’s up, Anika?

My feelings about depressing movies is simple: Avoid them at all cost. Life’s depressing enough without having to see a depressing movie.

Or as Cap from my bowling team once put it “Fuck that depressing movie shit!”

Actually, Cap never said anything like that. Just wanted an excuse to say — what up, Cap!

Back to Best Picture….

Raquel and Jim — give `em the Oscars!

I did see Moneyball. That’s the one where Brad Pitt plays this guy who puts together the really good Oakland A’s baseball team of 2002.

Great flick.

I’d say give it the Oscar except I hate the Oakland A’s on account of the fact that they’re always beating the White Sox.

In fact, I rooted against the 2002 A’s.  So watching Moneyball win the Oscar would be like living through that miserable season again.

Wouldn’t want to do that.

Here’s an idea — make a movie about the 2002 White Sox and give that movie the Oscar!

You know, I’m kind of tired about talking about Best Pictures, so let’s move on to another category.

For best actress give the Oscar to Raquel Welch. I love Raquel Welch, especially in 100 Rifles.

That’s the one where she plays this gorgeous Indian chick who hooks up with Jim Brown and Burt Reynolds and takes on the whole Mexican Army — the American army, too. As I recall, they beat both armies.

Cause they roll like that!

There are so many great scenes in that movie. Like the one where Jim Brown and Raquel Welch have this steamy sex scene.

Hello!

And the one where Raquel Welch takes a shower.

Whoa!

Burt also got some action in 100 Rifles….

And the one where Burt Reynolds and Jim Brown are facing a firing squad and Burt looks at Jim and says: “I’m sorry I got you into this.”

And Jim says to Burt: “Not as sorry as me.”

Now that’s great dialogue!

You know, as long as we’re giving Raquel the Best Actress award, give the Best Actor award to Jim Brown and give Burt Reynolds the one for Best Supporting Actor.

What’s that you say — 100 Rifles came out in 1969? So what. They should have won the Oscars back then. It’s never too late to right old wrongs.

That leaves us with Best Supporting Actress. Give it to Melissa McCarthy from Bridesmaids. I love Bridesmaids.

There you go — that’s the one that should win Best Picture.

Huh? Bridesmaids didn’t get nominated for Best Picture?

Are you fucking kidding me! What a joke!

All right — here’s what we do. Give an Oscar to Bridesmaids whenever you can. And when you can’t give it to Bridesmaids, give it to Woody Allen.

Cause I love the Woodman!

So that’s about it on the Oscar beat.

Oh, wait, best documentary….

Give it to Hoop Dreams.

What? It came out in 1994?

Well, it should have won it back then.  Like I said — it’s never too late to right old wrongs.

No Blaise: The Very Weird Day

Yesterday was a Tuesday to remember.

I wake up a couple minute later than I probably should’ve, dash around to get dressed. I’ve got all my stuff together, am about to head out the door when I realize…Where are my keys?

Goddamnit.

I empty the contents of my purse, check all the necessary pockets of my coat, my boyfriend’s coat, my roommates coat. I browse the kitchen, the living room, all bedrooms.

They are nowhere to be seen. GREAT! By now I was completely out of time and had to run out the door.

Not the best start to the day.

I fast walk to the train (running would just be too embarrassing). As I’m heading down the stairs, I have to finally let my pride go and run to jump on. I think I’ve run for the train a total of five times in my entire life, but desperate times call for desperate measures.

I, of course, am traveling during prime morning commute time so I have to cram into the doorway in order to make it. Standing in the doorway is probably the worst place to be in the morning, but I figure since I’m so tightly packed no one in their right mind would try and push themselves in after me.

Boy, was I wrong.

At the next stop, more than one person shoves their body up against mine in order to get on. One lady even goes so far as to say, “Excuse me”. Oh, you are not excused.

I get to work feeling extremely violated.

Then at noon I walk over to the new Walgreens at State & Randolph because I have to get my photo taken for my passport.

As soon as I walk in, my mind is blown. This is the Walgreens of the future. Sushi bar, liquor station, two floors, a lady robot voice telling you which register is open. They also apparently do mani/pedi’s somewhere, but my senses had about all they could handle just trying to find the photo section.

This place is the mother of all Walgreens…

When I finally do, it turns out the area where they take your passport photo is pretty much in view of everyone at this massive store. Cool.

I should also mention part of my running out the door this morning meant minimal makeup, and very crazy looking hair.

Ok, back to Walgreens. The man who’s taking my picture is extremely into it.

“Oh yes, you look great!”

“Stand up a little straighter, smile!”

“Perfect, just like that.”

“Oooo, let’s do one more!”

We finally pick out one that seems the best choice, he prints it for me, and I’m on my way to meet my dad at the passport office.

Well, first I have to wait for my dad outside of a courtroom in the same building because he’s finishing up a trial, or something.. (He’s a lawyer).

I sit down outside, next to a man who is just continually muttering, “Go to jail because you fail, go to jail because you fail, go to jail because you fail….”

Mmmmmm k…

My dad finally emerges and we go to get my passport.

Once I’m back at work the day slows down, in terms of weird happenings. Thank goodness.

Oh, forgot to mention that my boyfriend ended up finding my keys in his coat pocket, a spot I checked that morning. Awesome.

Whatta day.

Benny Jay: We Love You, Ozzie Guillen!

Good news — Ozzie’s back! Bad news — he doesn’t really let it all hang out.

Now for the explanation….

As everyone knows, I’m a big fan of Ozzie Guillen, the former White Sox manager in part because of his wildly entertaining eruptions.

At The Third City, we encourage people to express themselves. As in: Fuck the Heat!

Ah, felt good….

As far as we’re concerned, Ozzie was the only exciting thing the Sox had to offer last year.

In short — please come back, Ozzie!

In September, Ozzie, sensing he would not be rehired, went on a verbal rampage against the Sox.

My favorite part was this:  “If I leave here, I will say, `I leave here because I want to make my [bleeping] money.’ You know why? Because no [bleeping] fans, no [bleeping] Jerry Reinsdorf or [bleeping] anybody is going to take care of my grandkids and put me in a 62-foot boat.”

Two things you need to know….

One — Jerry Reinsdorf owns the White Sox.

And two — by replacing the entertaining words with “bleeping,” the Sun-Times left what Ozzie actually said to the imagination of its readers.

Apparently, that was a heavy load for many readers to bear. Because the next time Ozzie erupted, the Sun-Times felt compelled to help us out by giving us the first letter of each bleeped-out word.

Ozzie’s back!

Turned it into an Ozzie crossword puzzle.

As in this sentence: “I stuck up for my coaches like a m———–.”

Hmm, 12-letter word starting with m? I spent the better part of the morning trying to figure it out.

Finally gave up and called Milo, who knows a lot about swearing on account of the two years he spent in the Army.

“Benny,” Milo said. “I believe the full word is mother fucker.”

“Dang — I thought it was menstruation….”

“Close enough, Benny.”

At this point, I’d like to humbly suggest that the Sun-Times print the whole word.

I know the editors probably want to shield readers from nasty words. But, editors, let me break something to you — most of your readers use these words every day.

In fact, I’d say about half of your staff’s using them right now.

Back to Ozzie’s latest eruption….

It has to do with a contention made by Sox pitcher Jake Peavy that Ozzie quit on the team last year.

And he’s really mad at his old pal, Jerry….

Ozzie went on the offensive, tweeting: “I will kill peoples felling no mercy I turn the page but they no let me a long then get ready going to be bad”

Apparently, Twitter doesn’t employ proofreaders.

Sensing a scoop, Sun-Times columnist Joe Cowley called Ozzie to get the good shit.

Or, the good s—, as the Sun-Times might put it.

But this time around — not so entertaining.

There was: “Now that the truth is out there, I can look people in the face and tell them, f— themselves.”

And….

“I f—– up. When you f—– up, take responsibility.”

And then — “all that bull—.”

By the way, it’s good to see the Sun-Times is printing more than one letter. If this continues, by the start of spring training, they’ll be up to “bullsh–.”

Actually, the most interesting part was Reinsdorf’s response….

“Regarding Ozzie Guillen’s departure, I want to make it clear that that country cocksucker left with our organization’s blessing because I didn’t want to see that sorry mother fucker one more day!”

Oops, that was the first draft — before the Sox cleaned it up.

Sorry, White Sox, my bad.

Letter From Milo: Otis and the Wild Things

I’m used to seeing wild things roaming around my neighborhood. I live about a half block from the Chicago River and the river is a magnet for wildlife. Raccoons, opossums, muskrats, skunks, turtles, rabbits, ducks and geese are common sights along the riverbanks and nearby streets and alleys. There’s even a beaver living under the Montrose Avenue bridge.

None of these creatures poses a threat to life or limb. At worst, they can be nuisances. However, not all the wildlife in the neighborhood is harmless. A few years ago a mountain lion was spotted in Roscoe Village, in frightening proximity to children. The police had no choice but to shoot the animal.

And, recently, several of my neighbors saw a coyote loping down the middle of Eastwood Avenue, at about six in the morning. For a few days, the coyote sighting was the talk of the neighborhood.

“Coyotes are everywhere now,” one of my neighbors told me. “They’re as common as squirrels. Lincoln Park is overrun with them and the suburbs are being terrorized by packs of coyotes.”

“Jesus! That’s frightening. I didn’t realize coyotes were such a threat to people.”

“Well, they’re not much of a threat to humans. But they’re a real danger to pets. They prey on small dogs and cats.”

“Wait a minute. Are you telling me that coyotes kill and eat cats?”

“Coyotes love to eat cats. They’ll snatch a cat right off someone’s porch.”

No self-respecting coyote would even consider eating a plate of lutefisk.

A little later, I was in my back yard, enjoying a cigarette with my morning whiskey and thinking about what my neighbor had said about coyotes. I felt bad for the dogs that were taken by coyotes, but I had no sympathy, at all, for the cats.

I know cats and dislike them. I have a cat, a big greasy fucker named Otis, and I hate the bastard. He’s made my life a living hell ever since he showed up at my back door and weaseled his way into my household. He’s an ugly, mangy and odoriferous beast whose greatest joy in life is torturing and killing helpless little animals. My back yard is littered with the pathetic, partially eaten carcasses of songbirds, ducklings and bunny rabbits. I rue the day my misguided wife and children ganged up on me and bullied me into keeping the cat.

Milo’s niece, Mara, took this picture of him trying to kill that cat….

From the moment the cat muscled his way into my home, I was determined to get rid of him. But I had to be careful. My wife and daughters had, for some inexplicable reason, grown very fond of the cat. They knew I despised the son of a bitch and would immediately blame me if something happened to him. It had to look like an accident. I had to appear blameless.

I had almost gotten rid of the cat a few times in the past, but my plans never worked out. My best opportunity came when I nearly sold Otis to my dear friend Mr. Choi, who owns a very popular home-style Korean restaurant on the North Side, but the deal fell through at the last minute. Needless to say, I was hugely disappointed.

But I’m a patient man. All good things come to those who wait. When I heard about coyotes running wild in the streets of Chicago, I knew that my time had come. After all, how could I possibly be blamed if a coyote happened to run off with the cat?

First, I had to do a little research. I learned that coyotes are nocturnal hunters, most active for five or six hours after the sun goes down. They are also scavengers, attracted by the odor of rotting, rancid meat. They thrive on the most disgusting, maggot-ridden slop imaginable. They can smell the foul stench of putrid, decaying meat from a mile away.

A couple of days later, my wife came home from work a bit later than usual. “I just saw the oddest thing,” she said.

“What’s that, dumpling?”

“There’s a couple of Big Macs, a Polish sausage and a burrito on the sidewalk in front of our house.”

“That is unusual.”

“By the way, where’s Otis?”

“I let him out.”

“It’s kind of late for the cat to be out, isn’t it?”

“He’s a fat ass. He needs the exercise.”

I quickly discovered that luring coyotes is not that easy. Apparently Big Macs, Polish sausage and burritos are not disgusting enough for them. But I’m not a quitter. I can’t even spell the word advircitie.

Every day, as the sun was going down, I’d let the cat out and plant my coyote bait. I tried everything – lutefisk, corn dogs, turducken, haggis, Vegemite, gefilte fish, Chicken McNuggets, s’mores, slabs of Velveeta, cans of Franco-American spaghetti, bags of barbeque flavored pork rinds, and a lot of food-like products made by Hormel – but nothing seemed to work.

Still, I didn’t get discouraged. I was determined to get rid of the cat. I knew that as long as I kept trying, as long as I kept setting out bait, one day a coyote would come along and settle Otis’ hash, once and for all.

A couple of days later, my wife approached me with a puzzled expression on her face. “There’s something weird going on around here,” she said.

“What’s that, precious?”

“Otis, two skunks and a raccoon are eating this big pile of food that somebody left on the sidewalk.”

“Ah, shit. This is fucking unbelievable.”

“Yeah, why would somebody dump 20 pounds of tuna noodle casserole on our sidewalk?”

No Blaise: Shit We Say

If you haven’t heard about some version of the “shit girls say” parody, I’m worried about you.Pretty much any cultural demographic has their own.

Some of my favorites are “shit white girls say to black girls”, “shit nobody says”, and “shit spanish girls say”, and, the classic, “shit girls say”.

“That is NOT ok”

My friends and I watch them all the time. Our laughter comes mostly from how much we are relating to a given scenario in the video. We often react with an “I do say that!”

“Do you wanna split a cookie?”

“I had to get up at like six this morning!”

“Is that a mojito?”

“That poor dog needs some water!”

So on, and so forth…

Since we love it so much, we’ve started pointed out lines in our everyday that would work along a similar vein. If this were a video, I’d name it “shit we say”. But, since my medium is the written word rather than youtube, I’ve turned my observations into a list. The following phrases are either things my group of friends has actually said, or things we think either we’d say, or someone else in our cultural demographic would say.

“Did you just get an iPhone?”

“I LOVE Trader Joes”

“Do I have time to go to yoga?”

“You guys!”

“You guysssss!”

“You guys.”

“I am so sorry.”

“Where are we?”

I’d add more, but I got locked out of my apartment and so I don’t have my notebook of observations. MORE TO COME!