Heylo everybody heylo, welcome to the proceedings if you're new here, and welcome back if you've been around for a while, and if you're not here, then I don't know what the hell to say to you. Also, did anyone find out if Harlan Ellison managed to survive the weekend? I had him in the dead pool. Anyway, here's all the news that I print in fits:
Perhaps predictably, the MGM/New Line adaptation of The Hobbit has hit yet another delay, this one in the form of a labor stoppage in New Zealand. Pajiba goes over the sad history of the troubled production, the reasons for the many delays, and why Peter Jackson is really kind of a douche.
Billie Joe Armstrong is going to join the cast of the Green Day musical American Idiot for eight days while a regular cast member takes a personal leave. here's hoping Billie Joe gets good notices, because a Tony award would be the most punk thing EVER.
It's official: Max Weinberg will not be returning to the Conan O'Brien Television Media Type Thingy. Apparently Max will instead focus on his big band, on his hookers, and on his gig drumming for some songwriter dude from Jersey that nobody's ever heard of.
Johnny Knoxville has gotten married. At press time we were still trying to confirm that he got married in an oversized, rocket propelled shopping cart while wearing a jockstrap, a SCUBA tank, swim mask, and a top hat.
Comedian Greg Giraldo, one of the judges on Last Comic Standing, is in critical condition after overdosing on pills in a New Jersey hotel room on Saturday, possibly as an attempt to dull the pain of being stuck in a hotel room in New Jersey.
Chloe Moretz has parlayed her foul-mouthed, ultraviolent turn in Kick Ass into being the hardest working kid in Hollywood. In addition to having no less than four movies on her schedule, she's also been signed for the title roll in Emily the Strange. Here's hoping she can survive being the target of goth girls' adulation as well as she survived being the target of creepy internet comic book nerds' adulation . . . ew. I think I need a shower after writing that sentence.
Many, many people are wondering if Saturday Night Live copied a sketch idea from Tim And Eric this weekend. I am not one of those people because I do not give a tin shit one way or the other, as I think both shows kinda suck. But it's a slow day and I need to fill some space, so here's the link anyway.
Jerry Seinfeld went on The Today Show this morning to reveal the identity behind the author of the Letters From a Nut books . Turns out it was . . . some nut! Albeit a nut who used to work for Seinfeld. Also, it turns out this bit was done in the 1970s by Don Novello as The Laszlo Letters and it was a lot fucking funnier then.
Mel Gibson may be in talks to appear in an episode of Mad Men. Then again, he may not be. It depends how much you believe Liz Smith. Frankly, I would watch such an episode just for the potential of a "Sugar Tits" line being directed at Christina Hendricks.
Michael Lohan says God wanted Lindsay's release from jail. If that's so then God either works in ways more mysterious than we ever suspected, or else he's just as addicted to TMZ exclusives about her as Lindsay is to booze, coke, pills, public blowjobs, car chases, mug shots, courtroom appearances, bad scripts . . .
You'd think that cheap bitch could afford an umbrella by now, dept.: The Rocky Horror Picture Show is now, 35 years after its release, the longest running limited release movie of all time. Congratulations to Richard O'Brien for giving us Tim Curry, Susan Sarandon, and three and a half decades of tarted-up theater majors exploring their gender identity issues while the rest of the audience throws toilet paper at them. God, I love America.
And that's it for now. The new Track By Track column is still being worked on, it's just slow going thanks to work being busy and home being busier, and having a review due for Rambles.NET that I need to get done this week. Hang in there; I'm trying to do the same. 'Twill appear soon, I promise. But not now. Because now is the time on Nighthawk Postcards when we dance . . .