Hey filmmakers: Want to guarantee that your movie feels dated by the time the BluRay comes out? Give the task of writing your theme song to whoever yesterday’s taste du jour was, regardless of whether or not their sound works with the tone of the film. See William Friedkin’s To Live in Die in L.A. and grok the Wang Chung score to see what I’m laying down. Or just give this song from Quantum of Solace a listen.

Don’t get me wrong, Alicia Keys’ voice is the sex, and she’s one of the few mainstream name-recognizable music artists out there worth a shit. And though I dig Jack White quite a bit (especially sans his Down Syndrome incest wife/sister/drummer), while his nasal tenor crooning would befit a Guy Richie post-modern take on the spy genre, I fear it’ll be as out of place as a Tapout tee-shirt, flip-flops and camo-cargo shorts on a Bolivian donkey during the silhouettes-of-naked-ladies opening credit sequence of a James Bond film. It’s too bad too, because this song falls just short of being awesome thanks to its kitchen sink approach. The piano line is awesome, Jack White’s 60’s garage fuzz guitar is awesome, and when Alicia’s singing by herself it’s right on the money. But Jack’s voice is grating and out of place, and the horn blasts are there just because, reminding me a bit of “Apple Pie” by one-hit-wonder funk-metalers’ White Trash.

(”walking through the ghetto on a Sunday afternoo-oon!” Like those hair-farmers would’ve made it fifteen mintues in the ghetto without getting ass-raped).

It’s a shame Amy Winehouse lost the gig due to her being a gangrenous zombie crack whore. While I take great joy in ridiculing her public persona, as a potential singer of James Bond themes she was a strong choice – at least a helluva lot better than Chris “Pissing on my Legacy” Cornell. Couldn’t the producers have lured her into the studio with some crystal meth, Jack Daniels and human brains? “Braaaaaaaaiiins” might be the only lyric she’d be capable of singing, but it’d sound like something straight out of a 1960s spy movie!

Destination Dirt Pipe 2? Try Another Beverly Hills Ninja. This cake-loving slut (the slanty-eyed one) will be the only thing worth watching in it.

Seemingly unaware that the star of the original died of a cocaine overdose 11 years ago, Sony is moving forward with a sequel to the 1997 Chris Farley vehicle Beverly Hills Ninja.

In addition to its vulgar pointlessness, the planned sequel will be noted for being the first mainstream Hollywood film to shoot in South Korea. Production will be handled by the Korean company ATM Worldwide. Seems like there’s a joke in there… what’s something funny the acronym “ATM” could stand for? Hmmm. Can’t think of anything. Damn, I wish I were more cleverer.

Sequel will be helmed by Mitch Klebanoff, who co-wrote and co-produced the original. Klebanoff will be shoving his feces-smeared penis into the mouths of a cast that includes David Hasselhoff, Lucas Grabeel – who was apparently one of the chicks in High School Musical — and Thai sex hooker Lin Chiling (pictured above tempting Chris Farley’s ghost with delicious cake). Wow, with a cast like that it can’t be bad, right? No word yet on who’ll be filling Chris Farley’s circus-tent-sized gi, but I’d bet dollars to donuts (well, mostly just donuts) that it’s gonna be Chris’s career-leeching brother Kevin Farley. You know you’re something special when you make Jim Belushi look legitimate by comparison. I bet Kevin has kept Chris’s corpse in a cryogenic chamber for the last 11 years just waiting for a role like this to come up so he could make a fat suit out of it. That’s right Kevin, just gut the fucker and crawl inside like he’s the last tauntaun standing between you and hypothermia. I’m sorry, was that insensitive? So is making a low-budget straight-to-DVD sequel to a film that its star loathed so much he freebased himself to death out of shame.

I know I’m jumping the gun as these things tend to come in threes (whereas I tend to come in banana peels with the fruit scooped out and a couple of dollops of Noxema tossed in), but a couple of awesome people died this weekend and you should know about it.

David Foster Wallace

During that dreadful decade that capped off the last century, David Foster Wallace was the de facto poster boy for Generation X post-modern literature — perhaps because of his grunge beard, gang-banger bandana and hesher locks, or maybe because he turned out the be the only one of his ilk who could actually write (I’m looking at you David Eggers). Sure his work was sardonic, snarky, cynical, gimmicky (hello footnotes!), detachedly ironic and slathered in MySpace-level narcissism. But unlike Eggers et al, DFW was a master of the language and could turn phrases like they were 14-year-old runaways and his name was Iceberg Slim. His pièce de résistance, and the book he’s best known for, was the massive and possibly prophetic tome Infinite Jest – which is probably in my Top 5 as far as non-Kirk/Spock-slashfiction-literature goes.

DFW’s wife found him Saturday swinging from a rope, dead from a self-inflicted “fuck you” to his own success. While he wasn’t cool enough to use a gun like Robert E. Howard, Wallace at least picked a somewhat manly way to off himself. This was no pills n’ booze “cry for help” gone wrong (cough*LEDGER*cough). You do it with a rope because you know what you want and you know how to get there. OR because you’re into auto-erotic asphyxiation. He was 46.

Richard Wright

As anyone who’s ever done hallucinogens can tell you, Pink Floyd was one of the most important rock bands to emerge from the psychedelic 60s. Like DFW, their work was complex, dense, darkly humorous, frustratingly diverse and yet still managed to cull a good deal of mainstream appreciation for reasons that escape fruitful analysis (heh, I just said “fruit” “full” and “anal”). Pink Floyd’s keyboardist and founding member Richard Wright was dispatched to the Great Gig in the Sky today at the age of 65 after a long battle with the Big C.

My prediction for the third peg in this celebrity death triumvirate? Tony Danza. Not because Danza was nearly as awesome or creatively vital to our society as DFW and Richard Wright were, but because fuck Tony Danza.

All fourteen of you who check this website every weekend for the box office predictions and final tallies were no doubt disappointed to see us sadly lacking in that regard. I regret to inform you that this is a direct result of our resident box office seer DB having been mauled by a cougar early Friday morning.

The cougar, 46-year-old Beverly Hills resident and recent widow Chevronne Abromowitz, allegedly smothered her victim between two mammoth saline implants as he drunkenly attempted to snort Colombian pixie dust from her cleavage, resulting in a concussion and some minor brain damage. DB was discharged from Cedars-Sinai Medical this morning and is recuperating in the Valley someplace. Meanwhile, in an attempt to make it up to you, all 14 of you, here’s the seven minute preview of Fox’s upcoming The Day the Earth Stood Still remake, which the Fox Television Network broadcast last night during an encore run of their new J.J. Abrams’ nonsense show Fringe. Hope you enjoy-ish.