First off, Bowling for Columbine, the new documentary from Michael Moore. Moore’s documentary on the Columbine shooting and America’s gun culture is all a bit hit or miss. Moore has a lot of good material, but doesn’t seem to have the right narrative push to put it all together. The individual bits stand up well: Moore signing up to a bank that gives away guns as their promotion, a comparison of Canadians and Americans, an interview with NRA leader Charlton Heston. Moore provides no answers, but I guess I should just be happy that someone’s still asking the questions.

Next up was Jackass: The Movie, which really defies any categorization whatsoever. Anyone that likes the TV show will love the movie, anyone that doesn’t care probably won’t be convinced. That said, Johnny Knoxville and Bam Margera’s crews push the outer limits of pain tolerance and good taste for those willing to stomach it. It can be very hard to watch at times (I really couldn’t watch as Knoxville voluntarily paper cut the webbing of his feet and hands), but it is wholly entertaining. It’s a good thing that the Jackass crew has poisoned the minds of a whole generation, because they surely are not providing a next generation of Jackasses from their demolished genitals. Intellectuals need not apply.

I personally found it painfully funny, even as I felt my brain cells degenerate into slush. Curiously, they still run the warning slides, as if I needed them to tell me not to box with Butterbean or shove a toy car up my ass.

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Punch Drunk Love. A romantic comedy starring Adam Sandler and Emily Watson, directed by Paul Thomas Anderson (Boogie Nights, Magnolia).

I know all those words, but not in that particular configuration. I’m happy to say that the odd collaboration works. Watson’s terrific as always, and Anderson gives Sandler a role where he could put his two personas (lovable doofus, enraged lunatic) to work in a drama.

The film runs like a romantic comedy for much of the time, and the format actually helps reign in Anderson a bit. It’s actually short, and most of the narrative is fairly focused and purposeful. Anderson’s shotmaking is really good at reflecting Sandler’s somewhat bipolar personality, as most everything plays out in a high contrast, with lots of dark colliding with extreme brightness. Many silhouetted shots, many edits that crash from velvety blacks to squint inducing sun. Good stuff.

Boy meets girl. Boy has problems. Luis Guzman does funny stuff in the background. Philip Seymore Hoffman yells. Oh, and Anderson constructs a shot so nifty that he couldn’t resist using it for the movie poster. It’s vaguely reminiscent of my favorite shot in Chungking Express.

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The World Series is two games in and dead even at 1-1.

I haven’t really had a chance to weigh in on this post-season at all, so I’ll just drop some random thoughts, in chronological order:

1) Damn, it was nice to get the D-Backs, Braves and especially the Yankees out of the postseason early.

2) With the final four teams being mid-market clubs, can we start to settle down on the big market/small market hubbub? Build a team to get to the postseason and you’ve got a shot, because it’s all a crapshoot in the playoffs anyway.

3) I think the Rally Monkey’s really annoying.

4) For a genius, Tony LaRussa sure manages stupidly. His roster for the NLCS had 12 pitchers and an injured Scott Rolen. That left him carrying only four guys for pinch-hitting and substition. Even more baffling, of the 12 pitchers, he pretty much used the same 7 or 8 guys anyway. It cost him.

5) Barry Bonds makes a mockery of this game. Did you see that shot he hit off Troy Percival in Game 2? I don’t even know where that landed. He’s been playing batting practice with the best pitchers in the world for two straight years. I’m expecting him to take out a lightpole next game, or possibly hit a ball so hard that it catches fire like one of those videogames.

6) I still hate the Giants. Go Angels.

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The Carl Wilson Foundation put on their 5th ever benefit show tonight at Royce Hall, UCLA. The show was billed as “Brian Wilson and Friends” featuring the Beach Boys’ mad genius himself along with Eric Clapton, Matthew Sweet, Van Dyke Parks and others. The event was the second half of a weekend of fundraising for the foundation, with a charity walk and auction going down yesterday, with all proceeds going to charities that deal with all aspects of fighting cancer (research, patient care and one charity that helps musicians that have been diagnosed with cancer).

The first half of the benefit show was a mixed bag, featuring Matthew Sweet, Sugar Ray and a seemingly endless stream of Wilson offspring. Matthew Sweet was really great, performing a beautiful pop vocal arrangement that fit in right along with Brian Wilson’s work. When he sang along with Van Dyke Parks, Sweet absolutely beamed being able to work alongside one of his heroes.

Wendy and Carnie Wilson (formerly of Wilson Phillips) also threw out a couple of songs. It’s hard to watch Carnie without thinking about those years where she seemed hellbent on besting Brian for being the Nuttiest Wilson (broadcasting her stomach stapling surgery on the internet is about as over the top as it gets). Justin Wilson, Carl’s son, also performed with his band, In Bloom. Overall, all the Wilson kids performed well, if not spectacularly.

I’m not a huge Sugar Ray fan, and quite frankly I went into the concert quite terrified of their portion of the night. Unfortunately, I was not disappointed. It’s easy to zone out on Sugar Ray when they’re on the loudspeaker of the Gap, but it’s almost vomit inducing to actually have to watch McGrath prance around. Luckily, they only performed three songs. The members of Sugar Ray all have more money and fame than I will likely ever see, so I can only pray for some form of karmic retribution in the form of an incurable STD or something. I happily hope their tragic Behind the Music episode comes sooner than later.

After Sugar Ray there was an intermission, which was great because I got a chance to smack my head against the wall repeatedly. When the curtain opened, Eric Clapton stood there with his guitar. No fanfare, no introduction, just Eric Clapton, cutting into the beginning of Stormy Monday.

I’m no huge Eric Clapton fan, but he only performed two songs, including the full version of Layla (complete with piano outtro). That’s one of the few Clapton ditties I really enjoy, so it was fun to see it live. Clapton looked like just stepped out of the mall, in a plain button down and khakis, but there was no mistaking the playing. The signature compressed tone he gets out of his strat really is unique, and his lead playing almost lives up to all the hype he’s gotten over the years. To be fair, none of that hype is from Clapton himself, and he seemed just as happy to be part of the house band as soloing on Layla.

Brian Wilson finally came out to perform. After years of seclusion and a few complete mental and physical breakdowns, it’s surprising to see Wilson up and around and performing at all. Still, it’s pretty obvious what the years have done to him, as he really looks out of it most of the time. He stares off into space a lot and looks a bit confused the rest of the time. Only when he’s actually singing does he look happy and at peace, and even then, only just so.

The idea of a Brian Wilson “performance” is a bit silly, as mostly he sits and sings, with little emotion. At this point, stage charisma really isn’t his strong point. In fact, he sat behind a giant Yamaha keyboard and didn’t even play it once. How odd is that?

The performance was more of a testament to Wilson’s staggering songwriting and arrangement skills. When Pet Sounds released, it was light years ahead of everything else, and even now a song like God Only Knows stands far above. Few people have been able to marry the expansive sonic landscapes and arrangements with the gorgeous pop structures like Wilson.

Bouncing around from older Beach Boys numbers to the more esoteric work from the never-released SMiLe, Wilson and the house band (The Wondermints) filled Royce with heartbreakingly gorgeous melodies and harmonies. Considering Wilson’s symphonic arrangements, it’s hard to imagine a lot of the songs working live, but they seemed to pull if off effortlessly. There were about 10-12 musicians on stage at once, each one of them singing and about four of them being multi-instrumentalists, switching often. With this kind of versatility, they were able to get across Wilson’s complex song structures. The show bounced from slow to fast, before ending with huge group raveups of Good Vibrations, Barbara Ann and Surfin USA.

There’s a hugeness in the sound that’s hard to describe. It’s orchestral and symphonic without sounding “classical.” There were no strings and rare woodwind usage. Instead, Wilson goes for soft horn usage and lots of mixed percussion. Considering the relatively primitive recordings available, I’ve never heard the material sound better.

When Van Dyke Parks introduced Wilson as the Greatest American Composer of the 20th Century, he chose his words carefuly. He didn’t mean to compare him to Lennon/McCartney and Dylan, but to people like Aaron Copeland or George Gershwin.

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If you see any of the ad content for the new Hannibal Lecter movie, Red Dragon, you might see the symbol above there. It’s the same symbol for Red Dragon, the company that specializes in clothing and gear for skateboarders.

OK… that’s all well and good, except that symbol doesn’t say Red Dragon. It means “middle.” As in Middle Kingdom. As in China. There are 2000 Chinese idiograms. Don’t give me the mahjongg thing either. Stupid ad people need to pick a different one.

(Axel asked for something other than Sleater-Kinney, so I moved on to my other favorite topic – “Why White People Are Stupid.”)

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Remember how I said that the guy that pissed on everyone at the Sleater-Kinney concert was about the worst thing that could happen? I am so wrong.

Apparently there’s a guy in Seattle that goes to Sleater-Kinney all ages shows and unzips himself and thrusts his pelvis into unsuspecting girls in the midst of the crowd. Thankfully, they busted the creep this weekend at the Showbox and he’s headed for lockup.

*shudder*

On a selfish note, this jackass makes it even more uncomfortable for me to be the random Asian dude at the Sleater-Kinney show.

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