Hollowood

Sometimes, hollywood gives me the shivers. Despite unreasonably large quantities of warm, pungent Nu Er Hong consumed, my first viewing of Anger Management left me cold with apathy at how low movies have sunk in scooping dregs from wrecks.
The humour is so contrived, so abysmally warmbeerflat, you want to asphyxiate Adam Sandler to death by gagging him with sheet after sheet of lame scriptwriting.
This, after a respectful afternoon of watching Blame it on Rio for the nth time, applauding Larry Gelbart’s Tootsiesque genius, unfolding as always in the nervous wiggly brows of Joseph Bologna and the stiff upper cranium of Michael Caine.
The only saving grace was Marisa Tomeri, who remains to this day, god bless her half Lebanese soul, the foremost whiteskinned actress I’d like to share a meaningless conversation with.
Her birthday falls on December 4th, and do remember to send her a wish.