S U C K

"a fish, a barrel, and a smoking gun"
for 27 February 1997. Updated every WEEKDAY.
 
 
 
 
 

Hit & Run LXXIII
 

[Hey. Look.  It's a monkey.]

What with Star Wars, Chevy

Chase, Clint Eastwood and

a disaster movie topping last

weekend's box-office tally, it

could have been 20 years old.

But look a little further down

that list and one comes across

the disturbing news that Fools

Rush In, the Matthew Perry

romantic comedy, came in sixth

with $16.6 million in two weeks

on 1,702 screens. Translation:

This much money on that many

screens means that of all the

failed Friends feature film

projects, Perry has emerged as

the only one to carry a movie.

David Schwimmer's Pallbearer

couldn't sell six tickets, much

less open wide, and Jennifer

Aniston's presence couldn't prop

up a low budget yawn like She's

The One. Except for Marcel, who

went opposite Dustin Hoffman in

Outbreak, no Friends star has

opened a movie. Until now. It's

good news for the cast of

Friends. The bad news: more

Matthew Perry movies.

 

[Toast]

Affecting new mannerisms of

hipness is so draining. When we

heard that using AOL's direct

mail CDs for coasters was so May

'96, we just couldn't be

bothered to move our martinis.

Our funk was relieved this week

by news that we could soon

condescend to AOL and several

Grammy nominees simultaneously.

AOL has a plan for continuing

its mass distribution ways

through BMG, whose parent

company owns a 5 percent stake

in the Virginia vendetta magnet,

and will stuff AOL software in

the leftover space on its music

CDs. Put a CD in your stereo for

the folky good times of Dave

Matthews; put the same CD in

your CD-ROM drive for the

minimalist charms of a busy

signal. The mind reels at the

possibilities for our next

cocktail party. "Finished with

your scotch? Just put the glass

down on Republica over there."

 

[U2]

Trade publications in the

textiles and fashion industries

have been abuzz for the last

couple-three quarters about the

debouchment of consumer cash

into the water table known as

the moderate market. Some

industry boosters see this

development as a sort of

free-market levelling of the

traditional couture/mass-market

divide - hence the current

drivel in Vogue and Harper's

Bazaar about "seasonless

dressing." But it seems pretty

obvious that the real issue is

one of economic necessity: Few

can afford the really choice

threads, but then no one wants

to admit they shop at Ross Dress

for Less, either. Meanwhile, the

record industry is panicked that

sales are flat for the third

year in a row. And so the

harmonic convergence of these

two minitremors in the era of

late, really late,

goddamn-analog-watches

capitalism has produced a mutant

offspring: rock stars who

self-consciously slum in the

economic tidepools of kitsch.

Examples? KISS, in a long

profile in The New York Times,

complains about being manhandled

by managers and how they

squandered $100 million. And U2

was recently spotted passing out

teddy bears to fans in the

lingerie department of Kmart on

Broadway in New York. Fashions

may change, but bad taste is

eternal.

 

[Hey. Look. It's a sheep.]

Maybe if it hadn't come from the

country that invented Mad Cow

Disease we wouldn't be worried:

Now that decision time is here,

the ethical debate on cloning

hasn't moved much beyond the

Manichaean terms of The Boys

from Brazil. Any dope can judge

that cloning is good or bad when

the subject is Jonas Salk or

Saddam Hussein. But who can

decide whether to make a new

Waylon Flowers and Madame?

Further complicating matters is

the likelihood that only the

most wide-eyed proscience geeks

(think Alan Alda on Scientific

American Frontiers) will be lame

enough to take an interest in

xeroxing themselves. Our

recommendation: Let the market

decide, and the Borgesian

temptation of being your own mom

and dad will render debate

superfluous. Just beware of

those ol' hard lessons of life.

After all, when your clone turns

out to be the same unhappy

fuckup you are, can you still

blame your parents?

 
 
 
courtesy of the Sucksters

 
 
 

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