Author Archives: Rob MacD

Go to the Box Office Oracle and fill in your own blanks to have the oracle tell you how much money your movie willl make. Since Hollywood is all about dollars, see if you can beat me. I grossed (domestically) 14-24 million dollars.
Here’s what I did with a movie called “The Annekenstein Monster” (due to a problem with my browser, I couldn’t use the ‘choose other’ option. If I could, I’d have made totally different picks):

The Annekenstein Monster (PG-13)
(Revenge Fantasy/Talking Animal)
Starring Ewan McGregor and Rosario Dawson
Also Featuring Orlando Bloom, Viggo Mortensen, and Maggie Gyllenhaal
Directed by John Woo
Screenplay by Stephen Gaghan

Projected Budget Range: $70-79 Million
Planned Release Date: November

Projected Box Office Receipts:
$16.63 million (Opening Weekend)
$94.86 million (Total Domestic Gross)

Chance of getting Oscar Nomination: 9%
Chance of winning at least one Oscar: 2%

Critic Most Likely to Praise: Ron Wells, Film Threat
Critic Most Likely to Skewer: Michael O’Sullivan, Washington Post

I guess some topics are just guaranteed blog-worthy. The aim, I also guess, is to be the first in your incestuous circle of bloggers to publish a post on those items. Because once posted by another, nobody wants to be a copycat.
So, I’ll not post about the Habs third jerseys.

Perhaps Peter’s ‘post outside the box’ reply to this is the bee’s knees when it comes to contemplating new posts.

When watching professional baseball, moreso than in any other sport, you can still see the little kid in the athlete.
Football (American) players are too hidden by the equipment. Hockey players too. Golfers look too much like dads. Football (the rest of the world) players aren’t hidden by equipment, yet, for some reason, don’t imply the little kid that they once were.
I think a lot of it has to do with the fact that baseball players spend a lot of time standing around, waiting. In all other sports, the athletes are active, and in that activity we see the professional. When ball players stand around, waiting, we can glimpse the Little Leaguer who stood around. They kick the dirt, bite the strings on their gloves, chew gum, young and old alike.
Just an observation.

I swear, I had this movie pitch written up weeks ago.
So, here’s the movie:
Well-off, successful, happy businessman Ben Oldfield (Tom Hanks) is a huge Cubs fan. Trying to catch a foul ball, he may have caused the then-leading Cubs to lose Game 6 of the NLCS. Ben has to be escorted away by park security. Cubs lose game, and all hell breaks loose for Ben and his family. Cubs lose game 7 and it gets much worse for Ben.
The rest of the movie is how Ben and his family (wife: Diane Lane, kids: whoever) cope, suffer and strive to regain the normalcy of their lives amid the insane and fanatic hatred and anger they receive from many of the people of the city in which they live. It’s all about fate and the delicate thread upon which we live our lives.
I swear I had this pitch written weeks ago.

MetaFilter today has a post linking to a site where people can post their confessions, big or small (an internet rip-off of my Canadian Confessions idea). This got me thinking about what I might confess, and that drummed up this repressed memory:
When I was 18 and in my first year at UPEI, I shoplifted a pair of black fake-leather pants from Zellers. I did this because I planned to go the The Barn’s Halloween party dressed as Billy Idol, and I needed those pants. I couldn’t afford, nor bring myself to purchase, a pair of awful nogahyde pants that I’d only wear once. So, I went to Zellers with every intention of stealing them. And I did. It was easy. I felt exhileratingly guilty about it. I think it was the only time I ever shoplifted.
The night of the dance came and I prepared the rest of my costume. I already sported the blond spiked hair, and could manage the Idol snarl whenever I needed it. I also had the punk-inspired gloves, all I needed was a black vest, black studded wrist bands and some cool footwear. I had none of that. So, I went to the kitchen and got a black garbage bag, cut out a vest to wear over my shirtless torso. Then I cut out a couple of black garbage bag wrist bands and painted some white liquid-eraser studs on them. Only the footwear left, and all I could find that were black were my father’s black rubber overshoes. Well, what’s an Idol to do, so I wore them, too many sizes too small, to boot.
Out into the frozen night I went, dressed in garbage bag and stolen pants.
At the dance, “Rebel Yell” inevitably played, and I, at this point needing little coaxing, went out on the floor by myself and slam-danced the hell out of that song.
Surprise of surprises, I won the costume contest, too. I didn’t even know I was entered. I won a 50 dollar bar-tab and shared it with all my friends that night, new-found and old.
So, take that, Crime Doesn’t Pay.
However, as an offer of humility, and to show the error of my ways, I offer up this photo as a sort of penance. You have to imagine the sneer.

In the movies, here are three moments that are guaranteed to make at least one tear fall from my right eye (I find that my left eye is more tolerant of emotional drama).

In It’s A Wonderful Life, George Bailey forego’s his honeymoon and heads back to the Savings and Loan to try and hold off a bank run. He uses his honeymoon money to keep his customers satisfied until the uncertainty ends, and goes about asking each of them how much they need to get by. When the old lady asks for 53 dollars (or whatever the small amount is) and George hugs her, I’m teared up fine. There are a few moments in that movie that consistently get to me, but that one is a sure bet.

In Lonesome Dove, after they’ve reached their destination in Montana, and Cap’m Call is about to take off back to Texas to bury his friend; just as he’s about to depart, he leaves Newt in charge. He desperately wants to tell the kid that Newt is his son; and Newt desperately wants to hear what he already knows, but all Captain Call can muster is to give Newt his best horse. That’s a for-sure tear-up moment among many more tear up moments in that excellent movie mini-series.

In Rudy, at the end of the movie, and Rudy finally gets to dress for the final Notre Dame home game. With only a few seconds remaining in the game, ND sure of victory, his team-mates start chanting ‘Ruuudy, Ruuudy’ attempting to get him in the game. The crowd joins in, and sure enough, Rudy gets in for play and manages a sack on his only play. He gets carried off the field, triumphantly, and my right eye drips.

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Want to know your true Pirate Name? Head to this site and fill out the 20 questions.

Turns out I’m a scoundrel called Captain Roger Vane. This is how I’m described: Even though there’s no legal rank on a pirate ship, everyone recognizes you’re the one in charge. You tend to blend into the background occaisionally, but that’s okay, because it’s much easier to sneak up on people and disembowel them that way. Arr!

Get ready to be boarded!!!

I’m pretty sure we all know the commercial from which this quote is taken. When it first came out in the 1980’s (and for years afterward), it was parodied quite a bit and became something of a catchphrase (during a time when everything was a catchphrase).
I hadn’t heard, or thought of, the phrase for a long, long time. I heard it today on the radio on my way to work. It was played, sort of as an “aren’t we a cool station for playing this clip” clip that gets played during the lead in to a song. I was taken aback at how I reacted to it.
A couple of weeks ago, my mother, who is getting up there in age, fell while trying to keep her great-grandson from running out onto the road. She hit her head, which resulted in a huge lump over her deeply-blackened eye. She also hurt her knee and hip, which were already delicate and achy. She was shaken up rather badly, but is recovering okay, I guess.
Because of her fall, when I heard the phrase, I imagined my mother falling, her momentary helplessness, and it kind of hit me.
I pulled the car over, and I wept.
No, not really, but I was surprised at how the phrase that I had heard thousands of times without really hearing, suddenly seemed so relevant.
Now, it’s got me wondering what circumstances will occur that will cause me the same types of feelings when I hear “Where’s the beef?”

This idea is free for the taking by any entrepreneurially-adept, forward-thinking producer; or by Craig Mackie.

A nationally-aired weekly, one-hour radio program called “Canadian Confessional”. It’s a phone-in program where Catholics can call in and anonymously make their weekly confessions of sin. A priest is on hand to offer the necessary penances from damnation. Perhaps there could be weekly guest priests. Maybe the week’s best confession could win a prize, like a Mainstreet license plate, or a CD of Stuart MacLean’s latest stories. Rex Murphy would not be involved.

Any other ideas to make this radio program a sure-fire hit?

Watching baseball yesterday and this thought hit me:
Why does the crowd have to be quiet when golfers golf? I mean, is the golf swing that much more difficult than the pitcher’s pitch that everyone in the vicinity of it must hold their breath? Same goes for tennis, too.
I say it’s time the crowds stopped pussy-footing around these athletes and started getting vocal. Get a wave going all around him as Tiger tees off on number 9. Get into a Williams’ head as she’s serving: “Veeeeee-Nuuuuuusssssss. Veeeeeee-Nuuuuusssssss.”