Fred Posner

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Fred sees Superman Returns


Not since the final Star Wars film or perhaps even Spider-man had I been this excited to see a film. For the entire day, the thought of seeing Superman Returns has kept me in a great mood. Maybe it was too great of expectations, or perhaps it was an amazingly high pedestal that I could never allow a movie to reach; but in the end it comes down to one thing. I didn’t love Superman Returns.

Don’t get me wrong, here. I liked it. And when I break it down, I have to wonder why I didn’t love the movie. I thought Kevin Spacey was awesome-simply awesome. I thought that this movie had the best Lois Lane ever. Superman himself looked and felt like what Superman should be. The acting was great; the humor was there, but in the end… I just didn’t love this movie.

The first time I saw Superman on the big screen was with my mom in 1978. Even though I was a young boy, the movie so amazed me that I still vividly remember watching the film in the theater. I can recall the feeling I had when the toddler Clark lifted the Kent’s truck and smiled… or when Clark caught the bullet from the mugging… or even watching Superman return the little girl’s cat from the tree (and the smack afterwards). To me, Superman was real. This wasn’t special effects; this was the real adventures of a Superhero caught on film.

In almost 20 years of time, we’ve seen an amazing amount of movie magic. Thin about it… when they made Superman in ’78, there were no blue screens to help Superman fly. So, when Superman Returns debuted tonight I expected magic. I expected to feel the same way I had all those years ago in a small New York movie theater. And even with the great performances, I came away with the feeling that I just didn’t love this movie.

Am I being too hard? I don’t know. Spider-man is my favorite super-hero of all time. And when Tobey Maguire put on the Spidey suit I had enormous expectations– Huge, Colossal, Gigantic expectations. Even knowing that one of my favorite aspects of the hero had been changed (his web shooting), I still had almost entered the movie theater as if with a dare… in a way daring this new Spider-man to impress me. I walked out of the theater with the biggest smile on my face and saw the movie two more times that same weekend. This film took my dare and shoved it in my face. The movie not only lived up to my expectations; it surpassed them.

I expected nothing less from Superman. Was it a good film? Sure. But, I thought some of the coolest new effects of the movie I had already seen in the trailer (Superman being shot, etc.). And even though the performances were great, my favorite part of the movie was a trailer… and that trailer is for Spider-man 3.

Spider-man 3!!!

Yes, I’m psyched that Superman opens tomorrow… but did you know that Spider-man 3 has a new trailer out? And we all know that Fred’s number one favorite super-hero is the web-head himself… (followed closely of course by Captain Marvel).

Download The New Trailer

Rescue Me is the Best Show on TV

How good is Rescue Me? How good? I can’t even sum up the fucking words to give the due credit this show deserves. I was going to sum up my feelings of the show is nonsensical song lyrics, such as: Rescue Me is simply the best. Better than all the rest. Or perhaps: If I could trap time in a bottle, the first thing I’d want to do is watch Rescue Me.

But then I thought, nah… there’s only two words that can describe this show: Fucking A. That’s it.

Those two words sum up everything you could possibly express… Hey Fred, you watch Rescue Me last night? Fucking A. How funny was Rescue Me last night? Fucking A. How sad was it when Tommy found the glove? Yeah, Fucking A. How hot was Marissa Tomei? Fuck King A.

Speaking of Ms. Tomei… I’ve had a thing for her ever since I saw My Cousin Vinny with Peter Egan in the middle of the old Oaks Mall theater… the one that’s now the food court. There’s something about an attractive, dark haired woman with a New York accent that drives me crazy. She had me at “yeah, you blend” or “world fucking traveler.” At one of those moments, I knew that one day I wanted to be Mr. Marissa Tomei.

Anyway, one night a week I give myself an hour of no work, no phone calls, no blackberry. Just complete and total Fred time. And that one hour I spend sitting in front of the big screen, watching Rescue Me and truly realizing that the best show on TV is Tuesday’s at 10pm on FX. Check your local listings for channel information. 🙂

Fred's Bourbon Sour

Well… the diet is still going on (and on and on) and yes… I know it’s only been 2 days, but I’ve phased out a lot of corn syrup and other crap. So, the one vice I’ve allowed myself is a nightly drink. But how can I make my favorite drink (bourbon and diet) without Diet Pepsi? The answer is my OLD favorite drink… the Bourbon Sour.

I’ve modified it slightly…

2 ounces Bourbon
1-2 ounces Lemon Juice
Splash of Lime Juice
Splenda to taste
Shake well, server over ice, and smile.

Make way for the Bad Guy!

I love Scarface and I love HDTV… so when you put the two together… well it’s like a chocolate-peanut butter combination of home theater. And yes, I believe that theater is spelled with an er and not for some reason spelled theatre. So as I watched one of the greatest films of all times in amazing digital video and Dolby sound, I couldn’t help but take note of my favorite lines. For example, the Bad Guy speech:

What are you looking at? You’re all a bunch of fucking assholes. You know why? ‘Cause you don’t have the guts to be what you want to be. You need people like me. You need people like me so you can point your fucking fingers, and say “that’s the bad guy.” So, what that make you? Good? You’re not good; you just know how to hide. How to lie. Me, I don’t have that problem. Me, I always tell the truth–even when I lie. So say goodnight to the bad guy. Come on, the last time you going to see a bad guy like this, let me tell ya. Come on, make way for the bad guy. There’s a bad guy coming through! You better get out of his way!

I need to lose weight

It’s getting ridiculous again. Sometimes I feel like I’m out of breath just walking to the pisser or to get up and get the phone. So, I’ve always said that sometimes you need to hit rock bottom before you realize how far you’ve fallen.

Well, if I’m not at rock bottom now, then the next step is diabetes or a feart attack. So, let’s try to avert that and stop eating canoli’s like they’re going out of style.

I’m going to try to start moving my fat ass and burning some calories the old fashioned way… by exercising and eating less.

Anyway… here’s to nothing!

I stay home for Rescue Me

Rescue Me is the best fucking show on tv– that’s right… I think it’s better than The Soprano’s, Buffy, and whatever else I used to stay home to watch. This year’s finale of The Soprano’s killed me. It was such a good series and the finale ended with a horrible thud– great expectations with a result that left you so disappointed you couldn’t believe it. Almost like building up a great, loud, bean and onion fueled fart only to soil yourself for the effort. Horrible.

Anyway, Rescue Me never let’s me down. It’s a great show and I can’t wait for it each week. So, in honor of the show, I post Denis Leary’s “Are You Man Enough?”

Here’s a cold hard fact that you must now chew and swallow: if you are reading this, you are not macho. Period. Case closed. Real men do not read anything other than GUNS AND AMMO, SPORTS ILLUSTRATED, or SHAVED BEAVER.

Do not mention FIRE IN THE BELLY. Do not clutch your copy of IRON JOHN. Sit your soft little ass down and listen up. Understanding macho means that you don’t possess it. I have proven myself to be the pussy that I am by writing this piece. (I’m wearing a powder blue cotton print shirt and peach panties as I type) [sic] Ernest Hemingway, you say? Wrong. Ernest lived a very macho life and wrote some very macho stories. But Ernest threw it all away by blowing his head off with a shotgun. Very unmacho. Real men do not commit suicide. Real men know just how much life sucks. Real men grit their teeth and take it bill after bill, war after war, tumor after tumor. You don’t greet Death, you punch him in the throat repeatedly as he drags you away. I think John Wayne said it best when he said, “Fuck Death and the lung cancer he rode in on.”

Macho is a very slippery thing. You don’t read about it, you don’t write about it, you don’t even know the correct spelling of the word. In a vain attempt to keep some semblance of masculinity, I didn’t research the roots of the word while writing this article, but I can only assume that “macho” comes from “machismo,” which sounds a hell of a lot like machine. Being macho implies a tough, hard, blocklike approach full of pistons and rods and axles and other big steel-type stuff.

It’s hard to live by the old macho code these days. They’ve chipped away at it over the years, slowly but surely. Drinking has been reduced to a few beers or a couple of whiskeys, if that. Otherwise, your AA friends begin to stare across the table with that “I personally think you have a problem and that all alcohol should be banned so that I won’t feel the urge to drink myself into a naked stupor but I’m not gonna say anything” look on their faces. No mess, no mauling, no mistress, no mas.

From time to time, people try to use macho as an image builder. Bush tries to make himself seem like a card-carrying Mace Club member. He’s not. The last macho pres. we had was FDR. FDR-a man stricken by polio, stuck in a wheelchair, fighting the Nazis all the while smoking 3 & 1/2 packs a day. “The only thing we have to fear is fear itself!” Yeah, and staircases, of course. And soccer and dancing.

I think the death of macho is easily located on a very recent map. Sometime in the late ’70s-right around the time the Village People released “Macho Man” and Barry Manilow sang “Copacabana” and Robby Benson was mewling his way into the hearts of teenage ultra-virgin, men made a serious mistake. We started TALKING to each other. We stopped punching each other and began discussing why we wanted to punch each other. I’ll bet my right nut that if I had done some research, I would have found a dramatic decline in facial cuts and brain contusions starting in 1977. Now we’re supposed to be sensitive. We are supposed to share our feelings and cry at funerals and care about our hair. We’re, in short, supposed to be women. Hello, my name is Shirley. Touch me in the morning.

I believe in equal rights. I believe that women should get equal pay for equal jobs. I believe women should have control of their bodies and be in positions of power. I believe we should have the same size shoulder pads in our suits. But I also believe that men should be men and women should be, well, women. Women should be soft and smart and mysterious. And men should have their own tools. I pine for the sheer stupidity of the old macho days, when men would brandish hammers and build huge, bulky cars that sucked up gas and tore open the ozone layer and crushed small animals beneath totally useless but totally cool-looking tail fins. When men were apes with good shoes and a dental plan. John Wayne, John Huston, Bill Holden, Bob Mitchum, Clark Gable, Babe Ruth, Lee Marvin, Sam Peckinpah. Men who drank and fought and puked and ate raw meat right off the bone and drank some more and fought some more and puked again and kept on drinking. Men who died of massive heart attacks or sudden brain seizures or who just plain fucking blew up. Men who had cancer six or seven times. Men made out of leather.

My dad was one of these men. My dad once cut off his thumb with a power saw, duct-taped it back on, and drove himself to the hospital smoking a Camel un-filtered on the way. My dad’s theory was simple: no pain-no fucking pain. My dad smoked 5 packs a day, worked 3 jobs 7 days a week, ate beef for breakfast, lunch, and dinner. One night in 1985, he ate a big steak dinner with a side order of bacon and extra steak fries. He ordered some coffee, sat back, lit up a cigarette, and exploded.

I don’t wanna hear about Arnold Schwarzenegger. Even Arnold caved in. In Terminator 2, he was all of a sudden Mr. Caring Guy, protecting the kid and hoping the earth wouldn’t end. Bullshit. There was even a sequence at the end of the movie where a huge truck full of flammable liquid tears down a highway for about 3 minutes and then doesn’t blow up. A sign of the times if ever there was one. Every real man knows the 1 golden rule of macho movie making: if you see a truck on screen, blow it up. In Thelma & Louise, the women saw a truck. What did they do? Susan Sarandon pulled out her gun and blew the truck way the fuck up. Another sign of the times. Arnold’s tromping around praying for the earth to save itself and Ms. Davis and Ms. Sarandon are drinking and shooting and screwing their way all over the macho west. Citizen Kane? A masterpiece. But every real man knows it would have been better if a huge Mack truck with the word ROSEBUD emblazoned on the trailer drove through the front gate of the mansion and then KAA-POWWWWW!

Another movie matter I’d like to get off my girly little chest: asses. Part of this new male code has men baring their butts on screen the way women used to do. Mel Gibson, Kevin Costner, Michael Douglas, and of course, Arnold. Hey if I wanted to see Kevin Costner’s ass, I would’ve married him. You never saw Bob Mitchum’s ass. I am in a macho movie called GUNMEN, and I can guarantee you that you never see my ass on any screen but if you do, it will not be shaved. It will be hairy and hoary and very, very white.

Our macho movie idols have changed forever. No wonder they end up baring it all. Listen to the names–Mel, Kevin, Michael, Arnold. In the old days movie stars had real names: John, Bill, Duke, Buck, Chuck, Rip. Kevin sounds like your skinny Irish cousin with the big Coke bottle glasses and a heat rash; Mel, the guy in charge of aisle five at Woolworth’s. (“Excuse me Mel, where are the light bulbs?”)

It’s getting very bad, boys. We don’t blow up trucks anymore. Hell, we don’t even drive trucks anymore. We drive simple little Japanese cars with air bags. In the old days we used to rip out the seat belts and fly through the windshield ready for action. “Thrown from the car.” Remember that phrase in accident reports? Always the sign of a very macho driver.

We seem a little more sorry, a little more plump, a lot more ladylike around the edges. If you really want to reclaim your macho self, if you really want to be a macho, macho man, stop reading this articl

e.

If you are still reading, you probably need a little more help. Forget Robert Bly or “FIRE IN YOUR PROSTATE.” Don’t go on a Male-Bonding Self-Discovery Weekend, which is just another term for Circle Jerk as far as I’m concerned. Here, instead, is a guide:

BALLS, A.K.A. COJONES: You should have several. Preferably brass or steel. Extra large.

CRYING: Never. Ever. Over anything. Not death in the family, not a bullet in the chest. You may tear up ever so slightly in one eye only when watching a favorite sports legend retire. You may tear up in both eyes only when kicked, accidentally or on purpose, in the COJONES.

KISSING: see “SPORTS”

HUGGING: see “SPORTS”

SPORTS: Once all men within reach are dressed in a team uniform, it is perfectly acceptable to kiss and hug and grab each other’s ass. This is probably because all men are latent homosexuals and prefer male company to female company. But if some guy points out this fact to you, punch him directly in the throat. (Optional retorts: “Prefer this!” or “Fuck You!” or ” Shut the fuck up!”)

HEALTH: Never go to the hospital or visit a doctor. If you have a stroke, keep drinking and act like you prefer to use only one side of your body. If you cut off a limb while using a power tool–so what? That’s why there’s duct tape and staple guns. If someone tries to drive you to the hospital after a heart attack or maiming, punch him in the throat. (Optional retorts: “Drive This!” or “Fuck you!” or “Shut the fuck up!”)

DIET: meat, cigarettes, meat, booze, meat, and coffee. In case of aneurysm or alcohol-induced coma, see “HEALTH.”

FIGHTING: At all times, over anything. Never hit a woman. Or achild. Or a bus. Never hit a priest until he takes off his collar. (If it’s the pope, wait until he removes the large hat.) Clergy will often provoke a punch in the throat with their “violence doesn’t prove anything” pontifications. (Optional retorts: “Prove this!” or “Fuck you Father!” or “Shut the fuck up, Padre!”)

DRINKING: No falling down. No puking–unless to empty the stomach in order to continue drinking. No slurring of words. Tell a few war stories: “See that scar? I was in ‘Nam and I ate a grenade and it blew up in my colon.” If your aim is off due to alcohol, it’s acceptable to punch someone in the head or solar plexus.

SEX: You’re probably too drunk or just plain stupid to have sex but pretend you get a lot, i.e. “You should’ve seen me last night, blah, blah, blah, blah.”
Absorb this info and you should be on your way. If you have any further questions, call 1-800-COJONES. Remember: We’re men. Big, boxy, sweaty, ignorant men. We have penises. Well, we used to have penises. Either way, I think Billy Martin, the late Yankees manager, said it best when he said, “Hey, I can drive.”

Blackberry is pissing me off

So I guess the new exchange update made a little issue with admin accounts. Oh well… hopefully will get it to work tomorrow. Took a break from the laptop and bought a new compact flash card for the Canon. Love it. Much faster and with the new reader, working with pictures may become fun again. Tested the flash card with a pic of century tower.

It's wet… damn wet.

Well this has to be a record… 12 days into the Hurricane season Mr. Alberto is knock-knock-knocking on Gainesville’s door. Generally, hurricanes don’t hit Gainesville with a lot of wind. The problem here, of course, it that Gainesville floods like a mother– and to top it off, we lose power on a strong thunderstorm (city owned electricity).

In a city where trimming a tree is akin to sacrificing virgins, a good storm can throw limbs and trees all over the place. Since a lot of power is still above ground, when we lose a tree, we lose power.

Anyway, got my gallon’s of drinking water, a full tank of gas in the truck (and motorcycle), and got me a new flashlight. Hopefully, it will be all for nothing and just results in a day without school. 🙂

It’s not my jacket…

Doc Shenkman has a saying that he… well, he says it often— It’s not my jacket that makes me look fat. The implication of course is that it’s your fat that makes you look fat.

Well, it’s hard to believe that in 2000 I was much thinner and had a full head of hair. I can’t control the receding hairline, I can’t control that my facial hair is going grey. But I can control the fact that I’m more Fat Bastard than Dr. Evil.


It wasn’t joining the 48 ounce club at Shula’s on Sunday… It wasn’t pizza and ice cream last night… It took an actual dream that’s made me make my need for weight loss more of a priority. When you dream that you’re too fat, you know you’re too fat.

So, the next time you hear me yelling that it’s cannoli time or see me devouring more food than what a man should eat, kindly remind me that it’s not my jacket making me look fat.