Blockbusted

If you're keeping score at home ( and you seem like the type, and that's meant in the best possible/ positive/ uplifting / insert other attempts at flattery way, honest!) you know it's hotter than a bonfire in Uganda, which probably has you sweating like Patrick Ewing in a parka. Couple that little bit of trivial obvious-ness with the fact that there's nothing remotely watchable on tv in the way of sports (wake me up for the playoffs, baseball), celebridiculous reality shows ( bring back Hulk Hogan Knows the Flavor of Brett Michaels' New York Midget Love, VH1) or addictively tedious dramas (where's my methodone-flavored replacement for Lost, ABC? I'm gettin all scratchy and shaky over here!) and you'll probably come to this cul-de-sac of a revelation: It's Summer!

And summer means movies. Lots of movies. Lots of really big, loud, obnoxious... people, complaining about movies. Yes, if there's a movie opening on Friday then there's somebody bitching about it on Monday. Unless of course you read the reviews, in which case someone is bitching first thing on Friday morning. And all because these cinematic simpletons can't decipher a kids movie from an adult-oriented gorefest.

That's right, it'll be your own damn fault and no one else's if most of the flicks you flee to aren't up to snuff. You're not that important; no studio has planned their entire slate of money-makers around your tedious tastes. These big-ass blockbusters are directed at specific age groups and audiences, and that can't possibly please the royal we even half the time. So get wise and make smarter decisions (like milk duds over ju ju bees, for starters). Take a deep popcorn- scented breath and consider your true self. Are you a 15 year-old boy? No? Then what are you doing attending an Adam Sandler/Mike Meyers double-header? Does your significant other posses the same genitalia as you? Didn't think so. So why did you drag them to that Jerry Bruckheimer blow-em up or that Sandra Bullock weeper? 

If you enjoy a fart joke that runs for and hour and half straight, then by all means, check out Eddie Murphy playing seventeen different characters in one fat suit. If not, don't go. Or go, and do us all the favor of keeping your apple-pie hole shut afterwards. The Dodger game is on, and I'm trying to take a nap in front of my industrial warehouse- sized fan.

Let's Commence!

It's graduation season, and if you aren't scheduled to go to any, you better fix that, and fast. Look up an obscure relative aged 18 or 22, tag along to your roomate's sister's hairdresser's kid's coronation, or just drive around town until you find a good one to crash (easy to spot hallmarks are generally balloons, sundresses, and mothers organizing group photos, so keep your eyes peeled). Because while disguised as a culmination of a specific phase of the education process, and considered to be a woefully boring familial springtime duty, it is, in actuality, one of the greatest people-watching adventures you could ever hope to embark upon.

Remember when you had an assignment in school, and you'd think, "Man, I'd pay good money to get out of this right now", because paying money seemed way easier than doing schoolwork? Well scratch that one, kemosabe, because there is no more unhinged and excitedly deranged creature present during the matriculation ceremony than a parent recently freed from the bonds of tuition. They scream. They yell. They bring noisemakers they were recently overcharged for at Party City. If they're aware that their little Einsteins are moving back home directly after the keynote address, they ain't showing it; their behavior would fit snugly into a WWF cage-match crowd or some kind of Guiness-fueled soccer riot. Apparently going to school is a lot easier than paying for school, and boy does it show.

Add the sheer volume of people present at such an event with this mixture of puffed up pride and financial freedom, and you've got a veritable cavalcade of adults that have essentially lost any sense of rationale or self-control whatsoever. Mothers strain with binoculars to locate their grown bundles of joy, who all happened to be dressed alike. Fathers aim telephoto lenses into the sea of caps and gowns like Ahab looking for Moby Dick. And entire extended families gawk at their own relatives as if a circus clown had just unleashed them into a cage of feral bengal tigers with only a squirtgun for protection.

It's chaotic. It's insane. It's entertainment not seen since the days of the Roman Colisseum. So take a long hard look at that invitation on the refrigerator, and rejoice! Then wait an hour or two til' the graduation party, and watch the parents faces closely, when the kid announces they're going to medical school.

Jersey Boys Part 4: The Mamba's Revenge

(An Unexpectedly Happy Ending to Our Somewhat- Awaited Finale)

So you've all been waiting patiently like the good 'lil Bigmouth fanatics that you are, but fanatics get restless, as is their way. Where is the conclusion of this engaging opus on the state of Laker Fan-dom? What fate has befallen our courageous author on his quest to expose the very intricacies of this superfluous social quagmire?

Well truth be told,  your narrator has been doing what he's supposed to as a holier-than-those-guys Laker fan: watching the playoffs. It's hard to write when you're screaming at a flat screen; words fail as you monosyllabically high five your co-workers the following day in the elevator. And if honesty is your game, then try this jersey on for size: The original plan for this final piece was to blame Kobe Bryant for the bandwagon, the bro-sephs and the whole backwards affair.

But it can't be done. He won the MVP. He thanked his teammates ( whom he refers to as "The Bench Mob", which is a great nickname) in his speech after accepting that award. He jumped over a speeding Mazeratti in one YouTube video, and a pool full of dangerous snakes in another. He's gotten his own nickname, "The Black Mamba", because he's so dangerous in the fourth quarter. 

So what once seemed like such an easy equation (selfishly fickle superstar+fairweather fans= what the hell we've been blabbing about for four whole posts) now seems like a pretty big glass of Haterade. You win, Mamba. Now bring on the Celtics so we can make fun of those drunken chowderheads from Massachusetts.

Jersey Boys Part 3: Return of the Man-Children

(The End Draws Near)

The existence of such fairweather fans, while not forgiveable, is understandable. Why watch a struggling sports franchise when you could be enjoying your next door neighbor's star-making appearance on "Cops"? What is utterly incomprehensible to me, however, is how a so-called adult could willingly rock the uniform of a team he is not a part of while watching a sport he doesn't play.

There are t-shirts, hats, sweatshirts, sweatpants and a myriad of other options that display your team's emblem, sir. These items politely showcase your affection while still conveying that whole "grown-up" vibe that everybody seems so keen on these days. Give it a shot. You might find yourself looking remotely employable as a result.

The addition of these jersey boys to any social setting is much akin to the addition of the Ewoks in "Return of the Jedi"; although they're intended to be endearing, they're actually just really, really annoying. Children love Ewoks. And jerseys. And that's ok, because they don't know any better. Imagine if one of your friends told you that they realized as they got older that "Jedi" was their favorite "Star Wars" installment because of the Ewoks. How would you view your friend after that kind of comment?

Anthony Kiedis wears a Lakers jersey to games. Jack Nicholson doesn't. Case closed, amigos.

Jersey Boys Part 2: The Bandwagon Strikes Back

(Our Epic Saga Continues)

So here we have morons of every shape, size and color sporting a specific piece of athletic wear dyed in regal purple and brilliant gold. Although their surnames all differ, the handle on the back reliably reads, "Bryant"; the 2 and the 4 displayed prominently just below are also a given. Are they diehards? Kobe cultists? Over-enthusiastic supporters of the mesh tank-top? Our sideline reporter Amy Winehouse says no, no, no... then nods off in a junk-induced tv time-out.

What they are, in fact, are members of the Lakers Playoff Bandwagon, which unlike migratory birds, cannot be counted upon each spring. Their presence is as erratic as their gameday behavior at the local watering hole, and about as enjoyable to experience as a kick in the mouth with a golf shoe. You'll know them from true Laker fans when you see them, and you'll probably hear them calling Pau Gasol, "Paul" before that. These are the same residents of this fine city of angles that have no problem rooting for USC football and UCLA basketball simultaneously, because you can't have a favorite college team if you never went to one. These are the "proud" fans at Dodger stadium who throw beers at fathers and sons who happen to be wearing the visiting team's hat. They are, besides their beloved Kobe Bryant (who demanded to be moved so much and so often last summer that some people mistook him for Al Davis), the real reason why fans in every NBA city learn the "Beat L.A." chant at birth.

But never fear, faithful Laker supporters. Their joy, like their fanaticism, is fleeting. For how can you appreciate the success of a team if you've never experienced the sorrow of years past?

How do you rejoice over Robert Horry or Derek Fisher's three pointers if you've never witnessed a Van Exel brick? How do you delight in the grace of Pau Gasol when you've never cringed at the dreaded Divac flop? How can you chant "Kobe" when you've never cursed Kwame?

You cannot. Anyone who endured the Del Harris years will tell you that. So we will have our memories of the good, the bad, and the Vlade, and they will have their sleeveless shirts.

Jersey Boys

(A Bigmouth Special Report/Scintillating Sociological Discussion in Four Parts)

On a recent trip to Baja, my friends and I delighted each other by 1) Purchasing wrestling masks
2) Passing out Otter Pops to vendors as we waited at the border ('tis better to give, people, and infinitely more amusing,) and 3) Laughing our asses off at the Grownups Gone Wild shenanigans witnessed at the world famous Papas N Beer cantina in Ensenada. (Big Mouth Note: If your girlfriend goes on one of those 3 day cruises to Mexico, break up with her before she leaves. It'll save you both a LOT of trouble.)

My laughter came to a grinding halt, however, when I realized that 97% of the Sir Perv-a-lots in attendance at that god-awfully entertaining establishment were rocking Lakers jerseys and/or Dodger hats. I was initially perplexed as to the lack of Padres paraphernalia, given the proximity to San Diego, until I realized that all those idiots were probably attending a home game for said team in said city.

Then last night, while I was at the gym (rare occurence alert!) sweating my bald little brains out (everyday occurence alert!), I noticed many a meathead, broseph, and dude-brah sporting the legendary purple and gold as well. Now perhaps, beloved Big Mouth enthusiast, none of this strikes you as odd in the least. Fair enough. But to me this brings about two very disturbing trends, which will be discussed in a four-part post-ravaganza.

The bandwagon has rolled back into Los Angeles, and a bunch of neolithic man-children are celebrating it's arrival in uniforms for a sport they don't play.

I Love Dick

It is safe to say, dear reader, that I am a rather complicated man. One would only have to peruse the menagerie of topics and obsessions contained within these digital pages to figure that out. But the human dichotomy that is your narrator never gets weirder than this: Of all the lovable rogues in this strange and wondrous world of ours, none has a softer spot in my heart than the modern Darth Vader himself. Ladies and gentlemen, I am in love with Dick Cheney.

It sounds insane, I know. How could he, you ask yourself, and you would have every right. How could I indeed. Me, a Bush-hating, hemorrhaging-heart liberal whose brain has nearly blown a gasket after the last eight years of lies, war, torture, wire-tapping and other imperial nonsense of which Dick is the primary architect. But hey, I'm a lover, not a fighter, and seeing as how I was previously obsessed with Saddam Hussein ( and Genghis Khan before that), it's pretty clear that I've got a thing for the bad boys.

Because if you play helpful co-dependant to Dick's abusive tyrant, he comes out looking like a badass. Let's review. He's had four heart attacks and is still alive. He talks in a kind of drunken Donald Duck voice where the first syllables of any answer he gives go "whah, whah whaaaaah". He was evacuated before the president on 9/11. The place to which they evacuated him is some kind of secret bunker that I'm fairly sure has a stripper pole and a bevy of flat screen tv's that show old John Wayne movies on a continuous loop. When told recently that 85% of the country currently opposed the war, his answer was, "So?" And finally, HE SHOT A GUY IN THE FACE, and THE GUY APOLOGIZED for HIS FACE being in the way of CHENEY'S GUN. The guy makes Chuck Liddell look like a Backstreet Boy. He should change his name to Dick Dreamy. Seriously.

So as happy as I am that Governor Bush and his cronies will be off drinking near-beer and snapping towels at each other far and away from our country's seat of power, I'm honestly gonna miss old Dick. Because the villain is always cooler than the hero, and Cheney is as skull-numbingly stone cold eveeeeeeel as we'll ever get in the White House. I guess I'll have to find a rebound dictator to help me get over it. Anybody have Kim Jong Il's number?