10-Game Beer Pong Win Streak Ends, Appropriately, With Gladiator Reference

ATHENS, OH-- OU Senior Paulie Schultz finished last night's solid ten-game win streak in beer pong with yet another reference to Gladiator. Witnesses at the beer pong tournament reported Schultz, immediately after watching an opposing ping pong rim his final solo cup and funnel downwards to the bottom, whispered, almost inaudibly, "Shadows and dust. Shadows and dust..." before downing the alloted quantity of beer and squeezing his girlfriend's ass. Schultz had been making both friends and enemies at the Mill Street party all night with a near-constant bombardment of references to the Ridley Scott film, particularly while enjoying his major ten-game streak. Mark Johnson, subletter of the Mill Street home and host of the party called Schultz "a trip" and "really toasted": "Paulie is definitely a polarizing personality. You either love him or hate him. It seems to have gotten worse recently, too, given his near incessant need to bring Gladiator into every situation," adding, while collapsing his fourth beer pong table, "But I love that fucker." 

According to Caitlin Richards, the Gladiator references began at approximately 11:45 EST, directly after Schultz's fourth straight victory. Numerous witnesses corroborate that, after beating a duo of squat freshman and having had to drink only two of the customary twelve cups of beer, Schultz spun around, his hands in the air, addressing the bulk of the party in a roar: "ARE YOU NOT ENTERTAINED!?!? ARE YOU NOT ENTERTAINED!?!?!" While half the party seems to have either ignored, missed, or erased the incident from their minds, a few periphery fans of the beer pong action remember it well, to varying responses: "I guess it was pretty hilarious. I mean, he did kick the crap out of those kids. He had, like, ten cups left on the table or something. So yeah, we were entertained," Mark Johnson said. However, some party-goers less familiar with the acadamy-award winning block buster film were not impressed, and more puzzled than they were ever entertained: "That guy was such an asshole! What was he even talking about?" 5'5'' sophomore Karen Karen reported, who, several upperclassman agree, was completely toasted last night and a "total cocktease." 

As the victories piled up, Schultz's references continued on with less and less effectiveness. At one point, Schultz cornered a future adversary on the tournament list, slowly guiding him away from the party as he recited, word for word: "My name is Maxiumus Decimus Meridius, commander of the Armies of the North, General of the Felix Legions, loyal servant to the true emperor, Marcus Aurelius. Father to a murdered son, husband to a murdered wife. And I will have my vengeance, in this life or the next." John-John Crabtree, the aforementioned adversary, was perplexed if not impressed by the verbatim reference: "I didn't really understand what he was talking about....I did end his five-streak win last week. Maybe that was it. But it was impressive, yeah. I can never remember all those, those names and stuff. He really loves that fucking movie." 

When Schultz's long-time partner dropped out after the eighth game, retiring to the back corridor to "get some trim," Schultz remained steadfast at the beer pong table, enlisting the first person he could find, a relative novice with a backwards cap, assuring: "You can help me," gesturing to the opposite end of the table, "whatever comes out of these gates, we've got a better chance of survival if we work together. Do you understand? If we stay together we survive." Then, apparently confusing his battle-scenes and Russell Crowe monologues together, Schultz added, "What we do in life echos in eternity." Partyers were either way too smashed or oblivious to correct him at the moment, choosing rather to continue on ignoring Schultz like they had for a majority of the night. 

Despite the glaring slip-up, however, Schultz's references were sound, as he dazzled a group of two people with his amazing ability to apply almost every Gladiator quote to beer pong competition. The celebrated Mill Street, known both locally and beyond for its talented beer pong competitors, has never seen a player like Schultz before. A beer-ponger with the remarkable ability to both win games and lose friends at the same time. While there have clearly been polarizing players like Schultz before, the rich forty-five year beer pong tradition on the Athens campus has rarely enjoyed someone with such a versatile command of the Gladiator quote-book. Schultz promptly left the party after losing his first game of the night, "exhausted" and "really in the mood to watch A Good Year." 

Local Student Discovers He Likes Matt Dillon

ATHENS, OH-- Ohio University sophomore Corey Phillips discovered Monday, to his dismay, that he is a Matt Dillon fan. Friends close to the Bio-Chemistry major reported that in the evening, at approximately 8:10 EST, Phillips was hanging out with his girlfriend, checking his DVD's, and generally chilling when the revelation suddenly hit him. "I don't know how he hadn't figured it out, already," former roommate Dewey Dewey said, claiming he suspected Phillips was a Dillon-o-phile from the first week of school. "I mean, the guy brought an Outsiders poster to school and hung it up in our room. It was embarrassing." Most friends and relatives were shocked, though, upon hearing the news, from none other than Phillips himself. Many of his oldest, less-important high school friends were clueless, having known Phillips for close to ten years and living totally ignorant of his secret life as a Matt Dillon fan. Dewey, however, was totally unphased, adding: "I knew it all along."

It was an abrupt occurrence for Phillips himself, who told the Associated Press he was "taken aback" by the discovery and "totally off guard."

"I was looking at my DVD's, trying to pick out a movie to watch with my girl. I was reading the titles outloud to her when it just hit me, with a sudden crystalline clarity: Holy shit. I like Matt Dillon. I had to read them to myself over and over: Deuces Wild; One Night at McCool's; You, Me, and Dupree; Wild things. I can't believe I hadn't seen it all before."

Phillips' girlfriend was unavailable for comment. 

Now, almost five days after the initial discovery, friends close to Phillips claim things are starting to make sense: the desktop head shot of Dillon on his computer, the conspicuous DVD collection, the nights spent waxing rhapsodically on Dillon's 'hidden talent,' the button-up, business-casual style of dress. Years spent musing on Phillips' preference for male actors has finally come to a conclusion. "You know, he would always flippantly talk about how undervalued the guy is. How great he was in this and that movie, how he should have gotten the Oscar-nod for Crash. We would all be drinking, looking at each other, like: 'Okay, Corey, whatever. Whatever you say man...'" Best friend and fellow Clippinger hall intern Joey Joey recalled. "It could get kind of awkward," adding, whilst gazing wistfully out the large, lab window: "How could I have missed this. It is so obvious." 

As of press time Friday, it is unclear how Phillips is coping with the life-changing discovery, whether or not he'll remain with his girlfriend, or maintain any relationships with the same group of friends. "It is a pretty big deal, yeah," Phillips said, while calculating the amino-acid content of Wrigley's chewing gum in his lab, "It was a hard thing to admit to myself, and I've been coming to terms with it, slowly. Karen [Hocking College art history major, Karen Walsh] and I have been taking about it every night and I've had to sit down with some friends," Phillips continued, suddenly dropping a beaker, "Holy shit, has anyone told my parents???" 

On Subway Footlong's

On Loneliness

By Dr. Lowell Howard Roby, Professor of Solitarianism Studies and Alcohology at Oxfordshire Community College in Oxfordshire, Indiana, North Campus.

Solitarianism Studies 100: Loneliness - MWF 12:00-12:51
Office Hours - MWF 8:00-11:50, 1:00-6:00; TR 8:00-6:00

Good morning, class. Or afternoon, that is, at the present moment. Time, as in days and hours, has meant little to me over the past several years, or perhaps more than several, as years hold little meaning as well. I realize you are all in the prime of your respective lives, bright-eyed and bushy-tailed, as it were. Nothing can stop you. Nothing can hold you down. The upcoming years for you all mean everything to you, as they are the years that you assume will bear the most fruit. And I wish you those most fruitful of years. Anywho, let us begin. Loneliness. It is a feeling, obviously. A feeling of intense pain, a pain that far exceeds any of the physical variety. The lonely feel isolated, as if they are inhabiting an uninhabitable ice planet, Hoth, perhaps, without even a loyal Tawn-Tawn with which to snuggle up. Everyday is a struggle to simply exist. Fellow human beings seem like alien creatures - like Jawas, if you will. Forging relationships is an exercise in futility - a hopeless, awkward dance. Conversations are circular rigmaroles. The lonely get nothing done. It is all they can do to wake up in the morning and shower, shave, brew coffee, get the damn paper with its multitudes of inane, depressing world news, repeating itself day in and day out like history. But we all feel it sometimes. We all get lonely. It is a universal feeling. Which is a bit paradoxical, innit? How can one feel lonely if he knows that there are thousands, millions of others who feel as he does? Chew on that one while I take roll.

Aardvark? Is Mr. Aardvark here? Ah, there you be... Abbadabba? Ms. Abbadabba? Oh, Mrs.? Mrs. Abbadabba hyphen Dabbababba? I wasn't invited? Congrats, anyway... Ace? Ms. Ace? Got you. Raise those hands high, children... Mr. Adler? Adler? No Adler?... Aeon? Mr. Aeon? Uh huh... Mr. Afterwitz? Afterwitz? Indeed... Ms. Aggee? Got it... Ms. Ah? Su Pak Ah? Nice haircut... Mr. Aingh? Aingh? No Aingh?... Ajoo? Ms. Ajoo? Perfect... Akira? Lee Akira? Okay... Allen? Noelle Allen? I see you, dear... Ms. Amway? Got it... Anatole? Where is young Anatole? Anyone know? He's yet to show... Mr. Aok. Yes... And... Oh, I saw Ms. Applebee. I'd know you from those tanned, shiny gams alone, deary. Good to see you, Ms. Applebee.

Now, loneliness. Who here is lonely? Nobody? Well, children, you just proved my next point: the social stigma carried by the lonely. It is taboo. Nobody wants to admit to their loneliness, yet we know that everyone feels it at least once in a while. Another paradox. But aren't all taboos paradoxical? Inherent in the definition of a taboo is the fact of its existence. How can something that exists be taboo?! Don't you see? It exists for a reason, yet we choose to deny its existence! It's like if I were to say: "Ms. Applebee isn't post-adolescent sexiness incarnate. She isn't the epitome of all that is simultaneously good, raw and unholy in this unforgiving world. She isn't currently occupying the caverns of my heart and the filthiest recesses of my middle-aged mind." We all know that those statements are false, yet we choose to believe them for the sake of propriety.

Now, how does loneliness come about? The easy answer is a lack of meaningful relationships. But how does one achieve a lack of meaningful relationships? This is the crux of Solitarianism Studies. To learn how it is achieved is to learn how to avoid it. Essentially, it comes down to interests. The more interests one has, the lonelier he is. For example, uh, Mr. Akira: what are your interests? Hm? You don't know? Okay. This young man, ladies and gents, is a veritable Party God. He has sex with multiple partners every night, sucks down/on immense quantities of alcohol/titties, respectively, whenever he so chooses, all the while never feeling lonely. Is this fair to say, Mr. Akira? See? And, conversely... hm... Ms. Ah. What are your interests? Uh huh. I see. Piano, violin, and cello? And reading and butterfly collecting? Wow. Behold, my students, your old-fashioned American prude. A lonely virgin I presume, Ms. Ah? Of course. And how do I know all of this? Simply due to Mr. Akira's complete lack and Ms. Ah's wealth of interests. A lack of interests is inversely proportional to a lack of meaningful relationships. The more interests you have, the less meaningful relationships you have. The less interests you have, the more meaningful relationships you have. It's called the Loneliness Curve. A man and a woman, empty-souled, devoid of thoughts and unburdened by the information related to interests are free to get down to nuts and tits; to fuck, if you will. Whereas Ms. Ah needs a partner who shares her specialized interests, a person whom it is difficult to find. You may be thinking, "But Professor Roby, can you really count sex partners and titty-suckees as meaningful relationships?" To which I would respond: "Kid, once you get to my age, those relationships are the only ones that matter."

Now, why does a lack of interests translate to more abundant meaningful relationships? It's all related to time. Time spent accruing and harvesting interests is time spent not talking up a leggy redhead in the back booth of O'Shenanigan's. Time spent jogging is time spent not fucking. It's as simple as that. Like to write, Afterwitz? So did I, once upon a time. But I wised up. It's a lonely endeavor, a deeply personal activity. My wife, Beatrice, God rest her soul, used to say to me every night: "Lowell, sweetie, stop writing that multi-volume magnum opus of yours that will never be published and come to bed so that we can have intercourse." I should've listened to her, Afterwitz. Now she's dead, I'm alone, and I've got thousands of pages of unpublishable horseshit on my hands (the bulk of which, by the by, class, is the textbook for this course and is available at the Kinko's on Buckingham Ave., across from the Quizno's).

Are we out of time? Okay. On Friday we'll talk about self-medication. Read the first several dozen pages or so of my book by then. And I don't want any of you pointing out my typos. Ms. Applebee, could I see you for a moment?

Singer-Guitarist Refuses to Conform to Potbelly Classic Rock Ethos

Chicago—Mike Adamsick, 26, yesterday stunned and offended sandwich eaters at a Lincoln Park Potbelly with the sheer eclecticism of his solo musical performance. A member of a number of local rock bands in Chicago, Adamsick recently decided to supplement his fledgling music career by booking solo daytime gigs.

“I was eating lunch at a Potbelly one day and some guy was playing classic rock covers on a little raised platform,” says Adamsick. “He was really getting through to the people there. I realized that day that when people open their mouths to voraciously consume warm sandwiches, they open their ears as well.” Adamsick scheduled a tryout, which he would eventually pass playing languid versions of songs by The Doors and The Rolling Stones. “Mike wowed us with his rendition of ‘Soul Kitchen,’” says Morgan Fay, the Potbelly manager who scheduled Adamsick to play on his location’s claustrophobia-inducing stage. “We booked him thinking that he would pay homage to the classic rock genre. Boy, were we wrong.”

Adamsick’s live performance, far from extolling one specific genre of music, was rather a meandering appraisal of them all. According to Stephanie Pontius, who was eating lunch with her friends at the time, “He [Adamsick] started his set with ‘Old Man’ [by Neil Young] and ‘House of the Rising Sun’ [by The Animals]. I was like, ‘Oh yeah, this is what Potbelly music is all about.’ His next song was one I recognized, although I don't know the artist or the title. 'She's a Bad Mamma Jamma' or something." The solo performer then went into Prince’s “Purple Rain.”

The audience responded to the jump in pitch and chronology with a mixture of perplexity and disappointment. “I didn’t even know it was possible to play Prince on a single acoustic guitar,” says Pontius. “Nothing short of betrayal,” says Potbelly employee Rick Salisbury. “The guy billed himself as a champion of classic rock, and then all of a sudden he starts bringing the funk and all this other crap.” According to sources, after Adamsick finished his first set with Earth, Wind and Fire’s “Boogie Wonderland” and approached the lunch counter for a cup of water, Salisbury refused, telling Adamsick he had to play “some fucking Crosby, Stills and Nash” before receiving refreshment.

Potbelly has long been a bastion of the ‘60’s and ‘70’s classic rock zeitgeist. Its inviting wooden walls, warm sandwiches, and intrusive employees are redolent of a time in our nation’s history when free love, baked brains, and abrasive personal and political rock and roll reigned supreme. And so Adamsick’s seemingly random impersonation of Everlast front man Erik Schrody’s gruff voice for his loyal cover of “What it’s Like,” was considered an exercise in deliberate grotesqueness by many in attendance.

“I come to Potbelly for three reasons,” says Mitchell Hunt, who was around for half of Adamsick’s second set. “To eat warm sandwiches and chili with Kraft singles on top, to deal with employees who ask me too many personal questions, and to listen to classic rock music. If you’re not going to play classic rock music, I just don’t get it. You’ve got to be nihilistic, or something. I mean, what’s the point?”

Adamsick, meanwhile, firmly opposes the charges of false advertisement, perfidy, and nihilism. “I simply wanted to represent a variety of musical styles and to showcase my talents,” he says. “For an apparently laid back place, Potbelly turned out to be pretty fascistic. I don’t think I’ll be back to perform, but I simply can’t quit their tuna salad sandwiches.”

Friends Suggest New 'Topless Tapas' Bar, Quickly Forget About It

"It all started with Mikey," Gerald Swerner reported, Friday, from his dimly lit Alhambra home, "He was telling us about these stuffed mushrooms or something. This dish he got with his girlfriend's mom and his girlfriend."

"They are called 'Spanish Stuffed Mushrooms,'" Mikey D confirmed, nodding his head, sitting in his equally muddled den.

"Anyways," Gerald continued, "We were sitting around, doing some brew, when Gerald started talking about these mushrooms. It was Riley, Harshank, Meatstick and I. Anyways, he asked us if we'd ever been to a topless bar before. So, naturally, we started cracking up. Whaaaaaaa-tt? We asked." 

The best friends are, of course, frequent strip club attendees and had, incidentally, just gotten back from Cat Land on Atlantic Boulevard-- where they saw, "serious bush." Mickey D shook his head, red-faced and laughing, correcting himself: "Tapas bar! Tapas bar!" 

A few residual chuckles sounded, as well as some whistles and a moment of pro-longed, pure silence. It was then, Gerald reported, Meatstick put his beer down on the coffee table, looked up at his friends soberly, and asked: "What about that? What do you guys think about a topless tapas bar?" 

Nervous laughter followed, as well as a few sideways glances, when Harshank finally broke in: "I think it sounds tits, man." 

A flurry of brainstorming started then as the moderately smashed group of friends began outlining their corporate business model and sales pitch. "We all got to, you know, own it. All of us...like, what's it called, a 'co...co-comune," Meatstick motioned, standing up and pacing the room. "No one is boss. I hate bosses, man." 

A series of "yeah's" and "hell yeah's" followed, as the group continually raised their glasses to their lips and consumed more alcohol. The exotic, vibrant flavors of Spanish cuisine combined with vibrant, exotic dancers and large breasts were a perfect, natural combination, Gerald reported, "at the time." Lovers of Spanish tapas like the famous Spanish omelette and goat cheese in marinara sauce could at once tap in to the vast and, the friends agreed, talented Alhambra topless culture while feeling right at home with a potato wedge in hand. Lovers of big boobs, girating buttocks, and coquettish 18+ girls could open themselves up to a new cultural experience through delicious, Spanish foodstuffs. In both instances, the combination would be, in theory, a "sensory experience second to none." They would be bringing two disparate yet similar-sounding worlds together. 

"And then Mickey had this crazy idea that we could serve the food on the dancers. And that, that was like gangbusters at the time. We went nuts," Gerald shook his head, with a cluck of the tongue, "That was some pretty crazy shit." 

The friends also outlined plans for renovating Old Man Benson's recently condemned ranch house on the edge of town, giving the friends a prime real estate location apart from the densely cluttered Atlantic Blvd. bars, as well as pondering the possibility of enlisting Harshank's sister, Karen, "a ten," as lead dance instructor. 

All brainstorming suddenly ended for the night as Mickey D popped in Sublime's Forty Ounces to Freedom album and proceeded to mouth the lyrics to "Waiting for My Ruca" in its entire. Meatstick, Harshank, and Gerald woke up on the floor. As of the next morning and following day, none of the friends has mentioned it to the other. 

"Fuck it," said Mikey D. 

Can Someone Pitch Me a Movie That Doesn't Require Special Effects?

By Brendan Fraser

I'm an actor who believes in symmetry. So, for instance, I've balanced my role in Encino Man with my role in George of the Jungle; Blast from the Past with Bedazzled; Dudley Do Right with that Looney Tunes movie. After playing a sometimes bumbling yet overall competent and heroic adventurer in The Mummy movies, however, I decided to throw everyone off by taking on the much more complicated role of Alden Pyle in The Quiet American. I played opposite Michael Caine in that movie. Did you know that? But alas, my need for balance and symmetry eventually got the better of me, and I would play another heroic adventurer in Journey to the Center of the Earth. I don't know where this urge for order, this preference for cosmos over chaos, comes from. Perhaps a desultory childhood spent moving from one place to another with my traveling cosmetics salesman of a father is responsible. In any event, I am caught in a special effects-ridden spiral. It's horrible. And I don't know how to extricate myself from this cyclone of CGI-dependent madness. How did this happen? Remember how great I was in a special effects-less movie like School Ties? Can someone pitch me a movie that doesn't require special effects? It can have special effects, just as long as one scene doesn't. One scene. That's all I'm asking for. Can someone just write a fucking sequel to School Ties?

Tell-uh-vision Purview: The Beest! on AandE, Thursdays, 10 pm e.s.t.

By Chucky Waka of T.V. Guide, Host of "You Heard it Here Either Second or Not at All: An American Roundtable of America's Tabloid Scriveners," on TV Land (Mondays at 3 am e.s.t., Wednesdays at 3:15 am e.s.t., every other Friday at noon, e.s.t., and Sundays at 7 am, e.s.t., 11:30 am, e.s.t., 5:15 pm e.s.t., and 11 pm, e.s.t.)

Last nite premiered The Beest! on the Arts and Entertainment Channel on the Tee Vee, starring Patrick Dempzee as, I believe, a man named Butch, and a slew of orbiting peripheral secondary characters whose names I can't match with their tele-visages at this moment. A man named Seizer played an important role in the narrative, as well as a buxom dirty-blond female new to the city proper, trying to make her way in either the business world, a high-profile law office or an architectural firm, who has to wake up earlier and earlier each morning in order to further anticipate her proclivity to become lost, unaware of her surroundings, encircled by structures that literally scrape the sky and provide mammoth memories of a bygone Gothic era in which Gargoyles were still en vogue and less expensive, due to inflation being at an all time low, so that even a humble hut, like Harry's Sandwich Shop on Dearborn, could afford a Gargoylet to spook away wayward pigeons and, consequently, their accompanying, unsightly, dirty-pearly shit stains. Because this is the metallic village in which The Beest! lies waiting: Chicago.

I am tempted, as other Tee Vee-nalists have been in recent days, to name the township of Chicago - established in 1837 by Indian Canoe-ists, come from Michigan by way of the eponymous Lake due to the scarcity of the wolverine, their primary source of sustenance, tired from their multi-mile journey, arms weak from paddling carved-down Oak Branches, who dragged themselves ashore, proclaimed the vast inland as theirs, vowed to reform their savage ways upon envisioning the austere beauty of the virgin prairie and build an Indian-heaven never before seen on Earth: steel horses galloping along the edge of the immense Lake, sandwiched by parks of greenery and brown-gray buildings of infinite strength housing the unseen faces of elders and the otherwise forgotten bearers of their past and the prematurely remembered artisans of their future, along with a successful marketplace in which fur and fish and figs from faraway lands freely exchange hands, and many more advancements they could not then foresee - as the main character of this tell-uh-vision program, but I will refrain from doing so. Because a setting is not a character. Characters engage with the setting, typically, and The Beest! is no different: quasi-dirty dealings transpire within the majestic, futuristic cosmic architecture of Willenium Park, Butch firearm-threatens a mouthy, mumbling maiden on a park bench overlooking Montel Harbor, a down-on-his-luck husband smokes himself through the fleshy underside of his mandible with an unregistered six-shooter underneath the sizzling tracks of the fat Blue Line, and Gorky meets at a Wickerman Park spot with the young urban professional of his night visions, dreams fueled by blue balls, the loss of his religion, and Rapid Eye Movement.

Gorky Gonzales, I believe to be his show-name, played by former model Shel Silvershell, is not one of the aforementioned peripheral secondary characters. He is second in command of The Beest!, the most superior planet orbiting Dempzee's star. He is the ne'er-do-well novice, the bane of Butch's being, a theme to which we are introduced in the opening scene: "Thwack! Thwoomp!" say two bullets in a terminal call-and-response, the bronze ejaculate of a government-issued Glock held by Butch's thorn-impaled paw, stopped just short of their gory climax by the lead-laced microfibers of Gorky's surreptitiously-donned Flak Jacket. A brilliant display of the duo's commitment to the case file-prescribed charade. The two Undercover Federales afterward make up, but, like that made by the Needle, the damage is done.

Gorky seeks stress-relief in meetings with the Yup. The romance between the young agent and the fabled long-lost blond swallowed by the city, too far gone yet still so close (the apartment directly above his, specifically), is titillating and wondrously executed. Two citizens, lost in two different ways, struggling valiantly against herd-thinning forces that seek to destroy, find each other over coffee, cocktails, and through mutual indifference to orthodox dating procedures. Will they fall in love or simply submit to the hot carnality of that deadliest of sins? They are, ostensibly, the Ross and the Rachel of this post-9/11, Blagojevich era, Butch being equal parts Chandler and Joey.

Patrick Dempzee is perfectly cast as Butch: gaunt, whiskey-faced (aided and enhanced by the war being waged on his pancreas), a sparsely-whiskered jaw-line. He is faux-criminality incarnate with the pipes to back it up, his voice intermittently loud and hoarse, a subtle drawl that fades inversely proportional to the rising of his rage, culminating in a wrathful, crass, sinister crescendo, an upward sound slope that starts with one of Gorky's many fuck-ups and ends with him cursing both Butch and the day he enlisted in the Academy. It's a tell-uh-vision dream, a conflict worth following.

To watch The Beest! is to attempt to decipher the indecipherable, to become acquainted with the arrogant Undercover Federale, a wholly unknowable being, while privy to a fact which he is not: that he is merely a dirty-work-pawn, a Federal Cipher. How does the viewer invest in such a stereotype, a man renowned for his ability to take on the persona of any scum-dwelling villain, be it arms-dealer, drug-distributor or corrupt cop, with his practiced slipperiness and hardened exterior and manic-depressive interior? Who knows? But I sure had one helluva wild time trying!

MAN ON FIRE

Following the Indie-smash office success of Darren Aronofsky's The Wrestler, and after twenty years of having "left Hollywood for good," Mickey Rourke Signs on to Star in the New Fox Searchlight Picture: The Actor, Once Wildly Famous in the 80's, Who, Upon Shunning Hollywood For Athletic Fame, Destroys his Face, Gets Drunk, Cleans Up, and Bursts Back with Oscar-Worthy Performance. Experts be Damned. Ladies and Gentlemen, Mickey is Back.

Story by Joan T. Chadham                     Photos by Carol King-Kingsley

As Previously Featured in Elle Magazine. 

I'm sitting on the Lower East Side, in the famous Kat's Delicatessen, watching debris swirl in cones outside the front window when Mickey Rourke walks in. There is a shock in seeing him, a shock you try to hide at once, then ponder on for minutes talking to him. His face, a pale Scots-Irish complexion, is worn in like a 1940's catcher's mitt, one played through by a leagure lifer and stoic, made of 100% US horsehide. It is beaten now, yes, but there is a softness left in it, at once feminine and bold, reticent of the shocking good looks he once possessed travailing the streets and films of 1980's Hollywood. The slick beautiful sheen of that once new glove. It is the same face, with the same sharp contours in cheek and nose, but different all the same, a shadow of its former self and dotted with two full blue eyes, like pools of sorrow and sharp with reptilian experience. Staring right at me, as if to say: this is a man who has seen things. 

He is relaxed, wearing a slouchy cabana button-down (Hugo Boss $76) unfurled at the top with torn, acid-wash jeans (Levi's $55), and bottomed off with Bruno Magli Taccola slip-ons ($395). His hair is long and pristine blonde, pulled back in some Eastern guru's ponytail, with wild ends poking out over his ears. 

"Doing The Wrestler was great, yeah," Mickey Rourke chuckles, his puckered hands absolutely manhandling his pastrami-on-rye, "It's like, Hollywood finally is letting me back in--opening up its arms actually. I did a few films people noticed, like Sin City, but this is the big one. And now," Rourke pauses for effect, "I'm ready to really do something different." 

That "something" is the much whispered about Fox Searchlight feature, The Actor, Once Wildly Famous in the 80's, Who, Upon Shunning Hollywood For Athletic Fame, Destroys His Face, Gets Drunk, Cleans UP, and Bursts Back with Oscar-Worthy Performance, written by some guy and tentatively slotted for Steven Spielberg's directorial service. But Mickey Rourke isn't phased by all the heavy star power and, well, that's the special thing about Rourke. He is a man who has made some powerful mistakes, mistakes he has had to live with. An Everyman who has been through hell and back. The scarred-but-humble anti-hero who has "really been put through the wringer, sometimes." And the result is an actor unflappable, ready to take on serious challenges in both his life and craft. 

Which is also why he is perfect for this new movie. It is impossible not to see a few parallels between Rourke and his newest role. Mickey has led a life similar to the walk-the-line protagonist of The Actor, Once Wildly Famous in the 80's, Who, Upon Shunning Hollywood For Athletic Fame, Destroys His Face, Gets Drunk, Cleans Up, and Bursts Back with Oscar-Worthy Performance. He was big in the 80's, with his famous catering service based in Hollywood, and in which all the famous Hollywood celebs ate at. He enjoys strippers, just like his film counterpart. He has blue eyes. He is white. And, like the protagonist who leaves acting to become an equestrian polo rider, left Hollywood to be a hot air balloon driver, thus leading industry experts to call him finished in California catering: kaput, no-more, zilched, officially out of the rat race. He also really enjoys cheese, a major part of his down-and-out character. 

Rourke gives another one of those husky chuckles, putting down his sandwich, "I hadn't thought of that. That's interesting. I guess there are a few similarities, here and there, between me and the character. But, you know, this is acting and, uh," There's another one of those big shot smiles, "I've had to do some serious research. Not to mention the hours and hours of make-up to create the effect my face was totally, not mostly, destroyed by hard living."

"There were some hard times, yeah," And Mickey dabs his mouth, taking my sandwich off its place and eating half of it in a yawning bite. He chews, "Women, drugs, booze, priests, guns, samurai swords, roller coasters, Ottonian silver dubloons, and some Dutch investors. Man, it was a crazy time, but I'm serious now." 

And when I leave Kat's I know it is true. Mickey has really turned this thing around, on the upswing of some Boethian wheel rotation, the man in black given a second chance. The word America echoes in my ear, over and over and over. He's got more movies coming out, too, at least four more come-backs in the coming years, before this American hero is through. I walk down Houston Street, shaking my head. Long live Mickey Rourke. 

Israel Proposes Second, Alternative Zion in Ft. Lauderdale, FL

Israeli Vice-Prime Minister and Minister of Foreign Affairs, Tzipi Livni, shocked the international community Monday, announcing that the Israeli government was preparing to open a second, alternate “zion” in the “luscious, lively, and verdant city” of Ft. Lauderdale, Florida. The project comes directly on the heels of a two-week old Israel offensive in Gaza, a military operation that has sparked outrage and protest across Europe, the Middle East, Northwest Asia, Southeast Asia, Africa, Australia, and generally every place, we suppose, but North America. “We think it will be for the benefit of the Israeli people and international Jews everywhere to have a back-up plan in case, you know, this “holy land” thing doesn’t work out,” Livni said in the ministry’s global press conference, quickly adding, “Because, let’s face it: shit is pretty fucked up right now.”

While the exact zion-zoning has yet to be determined, US and Israel officials have begun outlining this newfangled, “Zion Jr.” to replicate the exact size, shape, and demographic of the current Jewish zion, Israel. Tentative plans include a significant chunk of Boca Raton, Ft. Lauderdale, and metropolitan Miami under the scope and limits of this new, mini-nation. “We don’t know much about Ft. Lauderdale, or Miami for that matter. But my cousin, Jacob, assures me there are a ton of Jews there,” Acting Prime Minster Ehud Olmert told reporters, “He just opened this all-you-can-eat buffet in downtown ‘Lauderdale, Jacob did. Try the blintzes. Try them.”

Since its inception in 1948, the Israeli nation has fit into a precarious position there, way out there, somewhere in the Middle East. Surrounded by hostile Arab countries, Israel has, since “day fucking one,” needed to defend itself from invaders and combatants, both foreign and domestic: “Let me tell you. It is just exhausting. All these bombings, and airplanes, and guns. I just talked to my mother in Miami on the telephone: ‘come over’ she tells me, ‘I’m sitting on the beach. What are you doing all that fighting for, anyways? Think you are such a big shot. Big, Mrs. Israeli Foreign Minister. Why don’t you call your mother anymore?’ I think it is just time to hang it up, maybe,” Livni rambled, holding up a postcard her mother sent her from the US: “I really want to see an alligator, too.”

Junior Israeli officials whose names we can’t pronounce or spell displayed images of the coast of Israel and the Eastern coast of Florida, assuring journalists that the second zion will look just like Israel, “only flipped around, you know this?” Theoretically, “Zion Two” will be a respite from the constant pressures of belligerent nations and disgruntled citizens who want to wipe Israelis from the planet, or at the very least take their land back from them (we’re not sure). Jews coming to this proposed “Jewland” will be able to soak up the sights and sounds of southern Florida, sitting on the beach for multiple days on end and eating chimichangas for the first time. But, “to make them feel more at home” and to prevent culture shock, Israeli’s moving to Florida will be obligated to take one Palestinian with them, so as to “make the transition smoother” and only until they “find out where all the good movie theatres are and where to get fresh groceries.”

Israel will begin conducting birth-right trips to Ft. Lauderdale during the Summer, in conjunction with the current birth-right trips they finance to Israel, so American and European Jews can better understand and immerse themselves within authentic Jewish culture, society, and the origins of the Jewish people. Agreeing to move there permanently scores you prime, beach-front property and two free tickets to see The Reader.