Sister Do You Know My Name?

Call your Uncle Grambo a Luddite if you must, but it wasn't until approximately 8:07pm last night that I realized that Zooey Deschanel:

1. Has a sister (!)

2. Has a hott sister (!!)

3. Has a hott older sister (!!!)

4. Has a hott older sister who has her own TV show (!!!!)

No, those aren't four different sisters. There's just the one. And her name is Emily. And she is, in the words of James Lipton, A DELIGHT. Don't get a blogga wrong, she's no Zooey. But then again, who is?

My discovery of the heretofore unknown Deschanel babe came thanks to a bout of indecisiveness that arose from having too many sports-related television viewing options last night (Tigers, US Open, Shock). Overwhelmed by this variety of fruit flavors, somehow I found myself watching the first 15 minutes or so of "Bones" last night on Fox. And while I won't cop to being either in support of or against the overall quality of the show (didn't see enough to make a judgement either way), your Uncle Grambo will admit to this: I wish we all lived in a universe where The Deschanel Sisters were more ubiquitous than either The Hilton Sisters or The Duff Sisters. I know it's only a dream, but methinks that even Lionel would concur that it's undoubtedly an AWESOME dream.

Switching gears completely, I'm kinda jazzed to catch The VMAs tonight. From the host (you just KNOW that Jables is gonna kill) to the musical performances (I'm especially geeked after hearing Product Shop NYC's report that Lou Reed will make a surprise appearance with The Raconteurs), I'm confident that MTV will make up for the abomination that was the 2005 VMAs. But, on a personal note, I'm particularly excited to see what happens with this evening's presenters. I've kept this one pretty close to the vest, but your Uncle Grambo has been working with the good people over at MTV on celebrity presenter pairings and dialogue pitches for the last six or seven weeks on some items directly relating to tonight's show. I'm still kinda in the dark as to what material (if any) they'll be using when the awards air -- howevs, I can safely that even if ALL my suggestions end up on the proverbial cutting room floor, I'm proud of my work and beyond psyched to have this kind of experience under my belt. So I got that going for me...

So, in summation, even if you don't look a thing like Jesus, be sure to give the VMAs a shot this evening. Unless, of course, you're related to Hal Sparks. Those unfortunate souls are pretty much obligated to watch the disaster that is "Celebrity Duets" on Fox (*shudder*). The rest of you, be sure to tune in, turn on and drop trou at 8pm EST. Mars.

I Wish I Never Saw The Sunshine

Of all the movies that currently occupy the Top 50 slots at the United States Box Office, there is nary a single film that's garnering more raves than "Little Miss Sunshine." In fact, its 93% fresh rating at Rotten Tomatoes makes it the best-reviewed film of the year¹. But after partaking a screening of the film this weekend, your Uncle Grambo left the theater with one nagging question on my mind -- where can a blogga get his hands on the bubonic chronic that the nation's movie critics have been hoarking all summer long?

I shat you nizz, watching a Sunday afternoon matinee of "Little Miss Sunshine" was the single least satisfying theatrical experience that your Uncle Grambo has had since breaking up with my (then) girlfriend DURING a summer `96 screening of "The English Patient." It was so durst it made "Nochnoy Dozor" look like "Boogie Nights"!!! I have nary a clue as to why critics and audiences alike are tripping over themselves to lavish praise on this horrifically hackneyed indie road movie.

Not only did the film lack any of the dynamic visual flair that you might expect coming from the directorial team of Jonathan Dayton and Valerie Faris, but in terms of character development, I can safely say that Kelsey Grammar's performance as a mutant lawyer with blue fur in "X-Men 3" felt more authentic than any of the downtrodden characters did in this snoozefest. And as if that weren't enough of an indictment, the lesson that the film tries to impart upon us (it's not whether you win or lose, it's how you play the game) somehow comes off as more mundane and trite than even the most mainstream of the films that Hollywood turns out. And if you don't believe me, check out John Ridley's spot-on Village Voice review or Owen Gleiberman's righteous takedown in EW; they seem to be the only pair of film critics who haven't been drinking from the fountain of Fox Searchlight's tainted Kool-Aid. And for this, I salute them.

¹ That is, of all the movies reviewed by 20 or more critics.