Wesley Snipes is in jail.  That’s right, Blade is behind bars.  Passenger 57 is now known as Inmate 224567.

And this friends, is a travesty.

It’s not just a travesty because we’re going to have to wait at least three years for the next poorly conceived direct-to-video action film starring the Shotokan Karate master. It’s a travesty because of the deafening silence surrounding his trial and incarceration.

Where are the legions of race hustlers and political opportunists who can’t wait to make every issue in our society about racism and social justice?  I haven’t heard much from Reverend Al or Jesse Jackson.  And where is the outcry from Snipes’ co-stars and the usual suspects like Danny Glover and Susan Sarandon?  Both of those actors, for instance, have been quite vocal in their support of convicted cop killer Mumia Abu-Jamal.  Yet, when they frog march Simon Phoenix nobody says a word.

It’s not surprising that the automatons in Tinsel Town are mum on the subject.  After all, they usually reserve their impassioned pleas and soap box orations for child rapists and wife beaters.  Wesley Snipes got into this mess not because of a shady accountant or a “rounding error.” He didn’t even use Turbo Tax.  No, Wesley Snipes is actually a tax protestor.  His legal and accounting team challenged not the amount Mr. Snipes owed, but the legitimacy of the Federal Government collecting ANY income tax.  Mr. Snipes is a card carrying member of the “taxes are illegal, and immoral” crowd. (more…)

Somewhere over the last 25 years, the idea of what constitutes a “celebrity” changed from a person with some kind of history of achievement to pretty much anyone with a pulse who manages to get his, her or its mug splashed across a TV screen.  Actually, as the wailing and gnashing of teeth surrounding the death of Michael Jackson demonstrated last year, the pulse is now optional.

Nowhere is this more apparent than the ridiculous, cynical remake of “We are the World,” an exercise that according to news accounts seemed less focused on assisting the people of Haiti than on stroking the egos of the pseudo-stars and future nobodies who did the yodeling.

The tiresome video (directed by the tiresome Paul Haggis) raises an important question – who the hell are these people?  I think one of them – the dude with the expensive clothes and dull stare – was Puff Diddley or P. Daddy or whatever idiotic moniker he’s using this week.  You know, there was a time when grown men used their given names instead of childish nicknames that are just emblems of the eternal adolescence that modern pop culture worships. 

Now, the original “We are the World” was itself nearly unlistenable, but that’s a matter of taste and reasonable people can disagree (I thought the British supergroup Band-Aid’s “Do They Know It’s Christmas?” was a much better song, though it shared “World’s” inexcusable refusal to confront the reason the Ethiopian drought turned into the Ethiopian famine – the cruelty and stupidity of its left wing government ).  However, at least most of the participants were people with track records of success.  You had Bruce Springsteen, Paul Simon, Billy Joel, Diana Ross, Bob Dylan, Dionne Warwick and a bunch of others.  Now, not all of them might have been your cup of tea – I’d rather pass a kidney stone made of broken glass than listen to the Boss – but you had at least heard of them. (more…)

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In a world of Starland Vocal Bands, Lady GaGas, Bon Jovis, Snoop Doggs and 1910 Fruitgum Companies, it takes real talent to write a song so unbelievably horrible that it transcends mere awfulness and crosses the frontier into a whole new realm of sheer crappiness.  An artistic, musical and philosophical failure of staggering proportions, John Lennon’s “Imagine” is the worst song of all time.

Many feel this ballad is a touching hymn that gives voice to man’s yearning for a better world.  They are wrong.  “Imagine” is a cloying, boggy, sonic swamp of numb-skulled sentiments that sound like they were recycled from a bong-fueled, 2 a.m. bull session between a couple of pampered, credulous UC Berkeley lit majors.  It’s the national anthem of the hopey/changey crowd — all at once pretentious, smug, tiresome and intellectually bankrupt.  (more…)