by John Ore

41. North Shore (1987)
40. Children of the Corn (1984)
39. Broadcast News (1987)
38. Once Bitten (1985)
37. The Dark Crystal (1982)
36. The Gods Must Be Crazy (1981)
35. Night Shift (1982)
34. One Crazy Summer (1986)
33. Youngblood (1986)
32. Near Dark (1987)*
31. Some Kind of Wonderful (1987)
30. Spies Like Us (1985)
29. Pretty in Pink (1986)
28. 1941 (1979)
27. Platoon (1986)
26. A Bridge Too Far (1977)
25. Midway (1976)
24. Midnight Run (1988)
23. Better Off Dead… (1985)
22. Sixteen Candles (1984)
21. Full Metal Jacket (1987)
20. Zulu (1964)
19. Ferris Bueller’s Day Off (1986)
18. The Meaning of Life (1983)
17. ¡Three Amigos! (1986)
16. The Great Escape (1963)
15. Raising Arizona (1987)
14. Meatballs (1979)
13. Weird Science (1985)
12. Blazing Saddles (1974)
11. Stir Crazy (1980)
10. Stand by Me (1986)
9. Stripes (1981)
8. This Is Spinal Tap (1984)
7. Silver Streak (1976)
6. Big Trouble in Little China (1986)
5. Real Genius (1985)*
4. The Jerk (1979)
3. The Breakfast Club (1985)
2. Gremlins (1984)
1. The Goonies (1985)

* Both rumored, horribly, to be in development.

John Ore can’t believe they’re remaking Logan’s Run, and certainly hopes he isn’t giving Hollywood any ideas with this list.

I miss the old days, when you could beat the New York Times pay wall by just stealing your neighbor’s copy from their doorstep.Tue Mar 22 19:51:59 via TweetDeck

Adrian Chen
Adrianchen

The change was supposed to be revolutionary and complete. Everyone would parachute in and, pow, regime change, resulting in a satisfying economic climate. But here we are, skirmishing at the border of the New York Times paywall. Everybody wants to climb over it or tunnel under it! People are like German Shepherds, they just love a challenge. Looks like the Times is going to be happily sniping intruders from their towers. (TOO MUCH?)

“South Dakota Gov. Dennis Daugaard signed a law Tuesday requiring women to wait three days after meeting with a doctor to have an abortion, the longest waiting period in the nation.” Should, however, you be in the market for a handgun, the wait is a more manageable two days.

You know what makes people feel really bad? When news leaks that dozens of AOL-owned websites are being sucked into HuffPo, and some sections at HuffPo shuttered at the same time, but everyone who works there finds out from reading blogs. Not from, say, their bosses. But a memo is going out “soon”! So maybe everyone will find out if they’re fired or not someday!

by Seth Colter Walls

City Opera is putting forward an evening of contemporary, one-act “monodramas.” It opens this Friday and runs through April 8th. The lineup is three works: one each by John Zorn, Arnold Schoenberg and Morton Feldman. Unsurprisingly or possibly crazily for something so rare and cool, dozens of $12 seats remain, as do a handful of $25 spots. Monodrama, you need not have previously known, means just one person singing in each piece.

And Jim Jarmusch has co-signed the event by declaring himself way into both composer Morton Feldman, as well as his librettist — the one and only Samuel Beckett. The Beckett-love doesn’t surprise me, but Jarmusch’s being a fan of Feldman — particularly the six-hour-long String Quartet No. 2 — wasn’t immediately intuitive until I remembered: oh yeah, the director of Down By Law likes himself some deliberate pacing also.

Many of Feldman’s works are far too, uh, long, to come across well in a single YouTube video (or to be ideally experienced by clicking through 5 or 6 YouTubes to get the full performance). But the “Durations” miniatures are nice. Here’s one:

And this page offers more background than does Jarmusch’s video, with regard to the working method employed by two weirdo geniuses who barely knew one other.

Last week, John Zorn told us that his monodramatic one-act is set to feature “70 people on stage, wild costumes, people flying thru the air, pyrotechnics, animations of [Antonin] Artaud drawings, and the AMAZING voice of Finnish soprano, Anu Komsi.” So yeah, I’ll be going to this performance multiple times. Come along!

Seth Colter Walls is The Awl’s chief correspondent for the difficult arts. He has a Tumblr and a dayjob both!

Five months to the day that a biologist attempted to disprove the existence of the chupacabra — the mysterious, cryptid vampire that terrorizes livestock — skeptic Benjamin Radford has put forth a theory as to the monster’s terrifying origins. Turns out some lady from Puerto Rico had gone to the movies in the period leading up to the first-ever chupacabra sighting.

Radford dug through every El Chupacabra mention and traced the physical description of the monster to a single event in the second week of August 1995, when a sketch from an eyewitness named Madelyne Tolentino ran in a Puerto Rican newspaper. Locals immediately tagged the alien-looking animal as El Chupacabra.

The creature, Radford noticed, shared a strong resemblance to the alien/human hybrid in the 1995 sci-fi thriller “Species.” When he spoke to Tolentino, he asked her if the thing that she saw could have been inspired by the film. Indeed, she had seen the movie in the weeks prior to making her description.

“You can make a direct connection between the film hitting theaters, her seeing the creature in the film, seeing it in the street, making the report and entering the public conscious,” Radford said.

Oh, sure, you can make a direct connection, but why would you want to? It says here that the chupacabra is real, and he is coming to suck your goat. Be afraid.

I have literally, I believe, never gone into the kitchen to make something (with the exception of toast, and sometimes even then), that did not use one of these seven things.

Frankies olive oil. Is there another olive oil? I have no idea. I would drink this. I kind of have.

Katz and Co. Vinegar. Today, in things that I would drink that shouldn’t be drank. Start with the apple cider, graduate to the sauvignon blanc. I mean it is basically a delicious beverage.

Maniguette. We call it guinea pepper, but that’s a vague name that applies to lots of non-pepper peppers. Aframomum melegueta! Also called “grains of paradise”! Native to West Africa! In the ginger family! I have hated pepper most of my life. Pepper is too, hmm, I guess I’d say “front-loaded” for me? Too bitey? This is a slow, slightly burn-ey pepper taste. It’s delicious. (Makes tuna salad exciting, as the commercials used to say.)

Cake Flour. Tired of baking the same thing with predictable results? (Yeah me neither. My baking is hideously unpredictable.) But for kicks, just swap in cake flour for your regular flour. 1 out of 5 times it’ll be a horrible disaster. The rest of the time, it’ll be great and soft and delicious. I have a soft spot for King Arthur Unbleached Cake Flour. (Often cake flour is bleached like a, like a, um, yellow tooth, I guess, which can do delightful things to flour, in making it soft and silky, but seems kinda gross.) This flour does great things to my favorite recipe for German pancakes.

India Tree Dark Muscovado. Unrefined brown sugar is something Americans don’t use a lot, but if you use English recipes, they’ll be asking for it all the time. (Seriously, shut up, Nigella!) I even put it in my coffee, which is…

Scarlet City’s Doubleplusgood Blend. I have literally never had a better cup of coffee. No joke.

Pomegranate Molasses. There’s probably some gourmet and organic brand of this now, but I use the old stuff you find in the fun foreigner shops. (While you’re there: get tamarind paste too.) What do you do with it? It goes in everything. Like I put it in pasta sauces. You put it on pork. You add it to barbecue sauces. Wherever anything needs something slightly tangy and slightly sweet, ta da.

There. The more you know. Oh also probably onions and garlic, but you knew that.

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by Dana Albarella James

I don’t own a cell phone. I never have. When people learn this fact they usually react with an exclamation of shocked disbelief, as if I lead some sort of unfathomable existence of unmitigated depravation. As if the human race didn’t manage to somehow get along just fine until about 1995, when suddenly everyone — not just the doctors and drug dealers — seemed to get a cellular. But those of us old enough to remember the Time Before Cell Phones can attest to the fact that the early adopters of this technology were mostly assholes. As a single girl in New York throughout the 1990s I can tell you that, back then, the guy in the bar with the celly was the biggest douche in the room, and he was definitely overcompensating for something. A potential hook-up who flashed a cell phone? Total dealbreaker, a complete non-negotiable. My girlfriends and I laughed at those self-important clowns.

But oh, how times have changed! I’m now a walking anachronism, a throwaway throwback, the keeper of a flame that at first burned with benign eccentricity, but soon gave way, in this new century, to a conflagration that branded me as a technological cuckoo clock, a total crazypants. And to that I say: Hardly.

The truth is, not having a cell phone all these years has afforded me and my close associates many pleasures and benefits denied to the rest of you decibel-challenged screamies. Let’s count the ways, shall we?

Convenience: So, you can call anyone you know at any time, and that’s so convenient for you, right? Well, it isn’t. Do the math. How many numbers do you have stored in your phone? Fifty, a hundred, more? Well, they’re the people for whom your phone is a great convenience — they know that they can call you and wherever you are, even if you don’t pick up, they have asserted their presence as a part of your day. You are one person with one person’s communication needs; they are legion, and they want and expect answers now. Want to know real convenience? Leave a message on my machine, or email me, and I’ll get back to you when I damn well feel like it. And if I desperately need to speak to someone when I’m away from home or office, I’ll either use a payphone (they do still exist, and I can tell you where every one south of 23rd Street is) or borrow someone else’s cell to make the call. Now that’s convenience.

Self-reliance: Did you lose your shiny little metal friend after another drunken tramp through the LES, and now you’re alone and terrified in a wilderness of solitude because you cannot get in touch with anyone you know? And now you need to send out the “I’m a careless sot” email to your entire address book begging for new contact info? I never have to worry about that particular scenario: I store my important phone numbers in an old-fashioned machine I call my brain, and as back-up I keep a rolodex at my office and an address book at my home. Have fun frantically trying to re-create your digital community — which, by the way, will never again include that model from The Box whose number you scored last year who you never called but were totally going to someday.

Punctuality/Attention Span: These two are boons for my friends and loved ones: If we have a date, I’ll almost always be on time, because I can’t call you at the restaurant, after lingering needlessly somewhere, to tell you I’m running late. Also, when we are together, you will have my undivided attention. Really. I will never glance surreptitiously down at the corner of the table to see who is calling/emailing/texting while we’re in the middle of a conversation. Which, by the way, is gross, and if you’re one of the people who does this you don’t deserve the company of other humans.

Reliable Reception: My land lines never cut out, never drop calls, and allow the person on the other end to hear me without requiring me to shriek like some menopausal housewife. Added bonus: During NYC’s occasional blackouts, the old rotary phone I keep around provides me with a link to civilization and emergency services denied to the electrically addicted masses.

Cancer-Free Skull: Don’t kid yourself. Go Google “cell phones” and “brain tumors” and proceed to piss your pants.

Freedom: Last but certainly not least, I am a free being, kids. Seriously. Unbridled and happily disconnected in a way that most cell owners simply can’t imagine. Glorious solitary cab rides, oblivious rambles though Chinatown, lazy summer afternoons at the Carmine Street pool: No device can interrupt my life. Recently, I had to admit to another parent at my daughter’s pre-school that I don’t own a cell. She looked at me as if I was a criminal, and in a way, I guess I am. I’m an irresponsible fugitive from the chains of communication that bind everyone else.

And yet I continue on, cell-less, while my friends and family wonder: When will she break down and just get a mobile already? I don’t know the answer to that question. I realize there are genuine emergency situations in which a cell phone can literally be a lifesaver. And as a parent of two my life is not the only one for which I am responsible. My resolve will crumble at some point, I guess. But it will be a sad, sad day for me, and for luddites everywhere, when I finally succumb.

Dana Albarella James is an editor and publisher. Don’t get her started on emoticons.

Photo by Ed Yourdon, via Flickr.

“If false factual statements are unprotected, then the government can prosecute not only the man who tells tall tales of winning the congressional Medal of Honor, but also the JDater who falsely claims he’s Jewish or the dentist who assures you it won’t hurt a bit. Phrases such as ‘I’m working late tonight, hunny,’ ‘I got stuck in traffic’ and ‘I didn’t inhale’ could all be made into crimes. Without the robust protections of the 1st Amendment, the white lies, exaggerations and deceptions that are an integral part of human intercourse would become targets of censorship.”
 — Chief Judge Alex Kozinski of the U.S. 9th Circuit Court of Appeals explains the why the court overturned the Stolen Valor Act of 2005, which “made it a crime punishable by up to a year in jail to falsely claim to have received high military decorations.” The decision is expected to go to the Supreme Court.

Last week, during the course of my weekly address, I wrote that I thought Dwight Howard should be named the league’s most valuable player. It was as if I’d claimed that Osama bin Lizard would be a fine name for a pet iguana. Usually two or three people take the time to scrawl in and give me problems. This morning, I counted 21 emails from readers telling me I was an idiot (and nearly all of them were related to my column).

Seriously, people went mental and accused me as having an “axe to grind” against everyone from Kobe (nope) and LeBron (perhaps) to Derrick Rose (I don’t, but this guy surely does) and Kevin Durant (utter nonsense). My mother in Florida, the Celtics fan, even tried to make her tired case for Paul Pierce, going to so far as to insinuate that my judgment was clouded by childhood trauma. I accused her of having sunstroke, brought on by alcohol poisoning. We quickly reached a détente.

Truthfully, I was merely making conversation last week. Will Howard actually win the award? Don’t bet on it. I actually consider the MVP award nothing more than a glorified popularity contest. I take issue with the term “valuable” as I’m not sure whether it means to the team or the league. Or both.

Last year, James ran away with the award with 116 out of 123 first place votes, because his Cavaliers won a lot of games. Had they lost one more game than Kevin Durant’s Oklahoma Thunder, Durant probably would’ve been the NBA’s most valuable player. Does that make sense? Was LeBron any less valuable to his team, any less indispensable? Of course not. He was the entire team.

Dirk Nowitzki, won the award in 2006, is probably the league most “indispensable” player now and has been for most of his career. (Be gentle, crazy people.) You remove Derrick Rose from the Bulls and they’re still pretty good, you take Kobe away from the Lakers, and Gasol, Bynum and Odom will still win two-thirds of the games, and same with LeBron’s and even Durant’s talented squads. But if Nowitzki misses a few games, the Mavericks have the same chance of winning as the shrimp in the Aussie bully throwdown.

Still, the NBA intends to hand the award out again this year — after much fanfare and faux suspense — and regardless of what expletives you might hurl, I still think it should be Dwight Howard. He’s near the top of the league in scoring, top two in rebounding and blocks, and his defense is far better than any of the other candidates. He completely shuts down the lane and interior defenders can change the complexion of the game in a way perimeter man-up defenders cannot. Dwight Howard is valuable to the Magic is more ways than the other candidates are to their teams.

In this helpful chart compiled by the NBA, Howard is second only to James in terms of overall effectiveness. And who am I to ever go against the NBA crack team of statisticians? Who indeed.

My only hesitance is that Howard is a woeful free throw shooter, averaging 58% from the stripe — and that’s completely unacceptable, especially for a player who is hoping to win the award for the league’s best. Or… most valuable. Or whatever.

Tony Gervino is a New York City-based editor and writer obsessed with honing his bio to make him sound quirky. He can also be found here.

Photo by Keith Allison.