Vince Vaughn update: The latest "Giant" has a note saying that Vince was dropped by his public relations firm, I/D PR, for "aggressive behaviour". Given the whoredom that public relations is, and the special brand of whoredom practiced by Hollywood public relations firms, as well as Vince's present stratospheric position, this raises one of two possibilities: either I/D PR is a legitimate enterprise with ethics and decency and, therefore, doomed to fail, or else Vince Vaughn has serious aggression issues to deal with. Why is it that the latter option seems more reasonable?

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A few words about Christmas songs - I'm not a fan. I can't say I hate them because that would just be a waste of good hate on something so inconsequential. But they are easily the most offensive part of a season that, frankly, has a lot about it that's offensive. (Although, in fairness, they are passed on an annual basis by temporary offences, like that idiotic piano-playing snowman that Hallmark is presently pushing, which my wife, of course, thought was adorable.) And while most animated Christmas specials are in fact more offensive on a purely aesthetic basis, those at least have the redeeming quality of keeping the kids occupied for 30 minutes or more while you tend to more important things like eating chocolate and getting drunk.

No, the problem with Christmas music is its unbearable repetitiveness. The repertoire is limited, but there are endless individual tracks because almost every musical act that has a moment of success feels compelled to add their warblings to the season's rotation. From a purely business sense, it's very practical; for many of these acts, long after Top 40 radio abandons them, they can count on a post-Christmas royalty cheque thanks to that version of "Little Drummer Boy" that they cut while snorting coke off a groupie's taut bottom. For someone such as myself, unfortunately, theirs will be one of 83 versions of said song that I will hear this season, each not much different from the others. And I never cared for the song in the first place.

My wife, suffice it to say, loves Christmas music, and started playing it this past Wednesday, almost one month before Christmas eve. It's the earliest start ever, meaning I'm almost certain to crack up by the 15th of December or so. By then, I'll be looking for that groupie myself.

Not to say that there aren't some genuinely good Christmas songs. Off the top of my head I can name a few: John Mellencamp's version of "I Saw Mommy Kissing Santa Claus", Elvis' "Blue Christmas", the campily fun "Jingle Bell Rock" from Hall & Oates. Plus, the two greatest holiday songs ever: Bruce Springsteen's "Santa Claus is Coming to Town", and "Christmas in Hollis" from Run DMC. The BareNaked Ladies had a decent tune in that execrable Grinch movie, and the first "A Very Special Christmas" album was mostly tolerable. The crowd thins after that, and anyone who proposes Bowie's slumming with Crosby will be shot on sight.

But there is one genuinely great Christmas album out there: Mariah Carey's "Merry Christmas". I haven't actually listened to it, and don't intend to. I have never liked Mariah Carey's singing (an ex described her in the early stages of her career as a screaming mimi, whatever that is) and don't expect that to change. And although she is obviously a good-looking young lady, I personally never found her attractive, until recently. Mariah always had a great body, but there was/is an unnatural spacing between her breasts suggestive of either faulty DNA or actionable surgery. And then she went from innocent howler to dancing sex kitten, which I never bought into. But then she went crazy. And man, did that get me interested. Let's face it - a beautiful girl is nice, but if she's crazy and beautiful it raises new possibilities. Crazy girls are a lot more fun, even if they tend to leave you broke and alone in a foreign country. With no regrets.

So I have reconsidered Mariah's charms, and decided, on further inspection, that the cover of her "Merry Christmas" album is one of the greatest photographs ever taken. It makes me understand that even Christmas music can have value, if only for the album jacket and nothing else. It also makes it clear why Santa Claus might gladly choose to spend his life on the frozen tundra surrounded by Billy Barty clones. For that, and for crazy Mariah, I am thankful.

READINGS

Observations while flipping through the latest issue of "Blender" (first in a continuing series for days on which I'm too tired, lazy or apathetic to organize any kind of coherent blog entry):

When did Ashlee Simpson get hot? Maybe it's the blond hair, the newly buffed physique, the decision to use underwear as business attire. I really don't care.

My iPod envy kicks in early (also to be the subject of future blogs).

Hey, page 8 and Ashlee's still hot. In red nylons/leggings and high heels. Heels, people!

And again on page 30.

Then, on page 32, Kelly Clarkson, who is certainly not hot. Cute, like your kid sister is cute, which is anti-hot unless you're a hillbilly, or from Meat Cove.

Rock God Keith Richards on page 50: "I didn't do this to get laid, but it's part of the job." The problem is, that place is never hiring.

And some Cancon with Thor.

Page 54. Ink wasted on Nick Carter.

Ashlee again, pages 108 through 117. I think now that it is the hair. Oh, and the breasts hanging out. Never forget the breasts. Even though Jessica is by far the prettier Simpson girl, and has the aesthetically more pleasing figure, she just isn't sexy. She's too plastic and too dumb. Ashlee isn't much better on either count, but she seems like more fun on a date. As in, I don't recall any public proclamations about preserving her virginity until marriage. Like anyone would believe her at this point anyway.

More Ashlee, from page 114: "I don't like to look like a whore, but it's nice to feel sexy." Umm, a little late on that "look like" thing.

Doesn't Kenny Chesney look like a younger, more beat up Bruce Willis? Although I don't remember any aspersions about Bruce's sexual preference. (Aside: Was anything in celebrity news the last year more disgusting than the news that Bruce was spotted snogging with Lindsay Lohan? I love Bruce, and Lindsay is special too, but this was just way too creepy, even for me.)

Stewieeeeeeee!!!!!

Fiona Apple is one of the few artists whose albums I continue to play from beginning to end without skipping a track. There are simply no weak moments on these discs, and even after all these years, some songs still feel like I'm hearing them for the first time, with all the rush of pleasure that brings. That, my friends, is genius.

Page 150 re Neil Diamond: another legend brought back to relevance by Rick Rubin. I can't wait for that new Tony Orlando and Dawn album.

Page 154: Are you guys telling me that after all she did to help you sell a few copies of this magazine to the Maxim/Stuff crowd, you couldn't give Ashlee a better review on her new disc? Have you no shame? And a guy wrote this! Is he blind? Gay? Credible?

And now for the most shocking thing in the magazine so far, at page 162: Bryan Adams is "the greatest rock singer of all time". Read that line again, think about it, and tell me how easy it would be to make a valid argument that he in fact is just that. But no one ever says it. Kudos to Jane Dark.

On the other hand, Adams redoes "When You're Gone" with Pamela Anderson in place of Sporty Spice. Now, Sporty has gone to her proper place as a footnote in music history. But that song was her greatest moment, and it's the one Adams song that I listen to again and again, just for Sporty's - I must admit it - sexy (at least this once) howl. Yes, Pam Anderson is a wonder of nature and vivid proof of better living through chemistry, but a singer? Have we learned nothing from the whole Ashlee Simpson experience?

Does anybody remember the last time you could honestly say that Chris Rock was funnier than Dave Chappelle? On the other hand, Rock was a kick-ass Oscar host.

I didn't mention this previously, but one of the trailers before "Good Night, and Good Luck" was for the Pierce Brosnan-Greg Kinnear starrer "The Matador". A future blog is reserved for Brosnan's mostly mediocre career, and Kinnear stole Rupert Everett's Oscar nomination just because he was straight playing gay while it seems many thought Everett's gay character was nothing special since he actually is gay (setting aside the tiny fact that Everett managed the near impossible - made a Julia Roberts film watchable). Anyway, "The Matador" looks amazing, and Blender agrees. Brosnan looks, well, skanky, and while my personal family-friendly rating for this blog prevents quoting the most shocking line referred to in the article, suffice it to say you will never again be able to watch a James Bond movie in quite the same frame of mind.

I so have to see "Office Space".

Yet again, someone who agrees that Vince Vaughn was the best part of "Mr. and Mrs. Smith". (Sure, I wrote second best, but no one should ever have to be stacked up against Angelina Jolie's looks. That just isn't fair.)

Love the ads at the back of the magazine. It's like those Frederick's of Hollywood and breast enlargement ads in the magazines of my childhood. You stop and look.

Oh, and I must get a Liberator. Although the girl in last month's ad was much nicer.

And even if Ricky Martin isn't gay, I still think he is gay. How's that for courting a lawsuit?

I watch a lot of movies, sometimes four a week between new releases in theatres and slightly older flicks on DVD and The Movie Network. But I've been reading "Who the Devil Made It", a collection of interviews with film directors by Peter Bogdanovich, and Bogdanovich's film habit borders on pathological. Between 1952 and 1970, he saw over 5,300 movies, including 3,661 features, all duly catalogued on index cards. That is just sick amount of time to spend in the dark with your clothes on.

The book is very interesting, but Bogdanovich is a terrible interviewer. A lot of the talks simply follow the director's career, where he says "Such-and-such was an interesting movie" and off the director goes with another story. There isn't much sense of Bogdanovich preparing for the interviews. Contrast that with the late Brian Linehan, whose research was prodigous, as were his evident passion for the subjects he interviewed. Thankfully, the subjects are so fascinating, his weaknesses just slide by.

Unfortunately, I'm guessing that a lot of people might pick this up, read Bogdanovich's introduction, and immediately put it down. That Bogdanovich is the same puffed-chest egoistic blowhard of "Easy Riders, Raging Bulls", and knowing what ultimately became of his career in advance made his fall in that book no less enjoyable. The suggestion that his then-wife Polly Platt may have had as much to do with his early successes as the great director was one of that book's many small pleasures, and this claim certainly finds support in his post-Platt excesses. This introduction is an attempt to clear the air about his public indiscretions, most notably marrying his ex-lover's kid sister, and it has no real connection for the most part with the book that follows. A less self-indulgent author would have known that no one cares about the interviewer's career arc; let's just get on to the interviews. If you're a fan of film, the words of such greats as Hitchcock, Cukor, Hawks and many others will stimulate your enjoyment of their films. Just skip the introduction. If you feel the need to get to know Peter Bogdanovich, rent a few of his films. Just make sure you stop around 1973.

My favourite movie of the last few years (which is distinct from the best movie I've seen) is "Harold and Kumar Go to White Castle". I thought that in honour of this film I would start today's blog (and perhaps a few in the future) with a favourite line from the film. But a curious thing happened - as much as I still laugh at this movie, 10 or so viewings in, taken out of context there just aren't really any lines that on their own stand out. Now, my selections are limited by my refusal to use obscenities in this blog - hey, my ten-year-old wants to read this, and when I'm ready I'll let her - which causes problems with a movie like "Harold and Kumar". But then I think about how we tell our friends about our favourite lines from movies. There's always a lead up to the big line. We talk about who the characters are, what situation they're in, then give the setup and the payoff, often while laughing uncontrollably in anticipation of this punchline. Because few lines are so funny that you will laugh at them no matter what, and even those are improved by context. My favourite bits in "H&K" include Neil Patrick Harris, but even those involve the subversion of his Doogie Howser persona, in much the same way that Bob Saget's appearance on "Entourage" was so enjoyable. If you don't know about Doogie, or Danny Tanner, the lines just aren't as funny.

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Having written an ode to George Clooney yesterday, I thought I'd better restore my status as a guys' guy by writing about a fellow who really does seem like one of us - Vince Vaughn. My favourite comedy this year was "Wedding Crashers", in 2004 it was "Dodgeball" (with "Anchorman" a solid #2) and in 2003 it was "Old School". Vaughn is the common denominator, and I don't think that's a coincidence. (He was also by far the second best thing in the over-the-top "Mr. and Mrs. Smith", the best thing being Ms. Jolie's appearance.) Unlike Clooney, who seems comfortable enough with himself to come off as a regular guy, Vaughn's persona is all about being a regular guy. His characters, at least in recent years, are mostly relaxed and unflappable, but occasionally hysterical, hyperactive lightning rods for trouble, with hilarious results. There is a sense in this moment that a cinematic ride with Vince Vaughn will always be enjoyable.

Which is why I am just a bit distressed by the trailer for "The Break Up". But I don't blame Vaughn, at least not yet. No, this one lies at the feet of Jennifer Aniston. Let's not pretend here, folks - the girl just isn't very funny. Perhaps it's the snotty look that makes you want to smother her with a pillow. Perhaps it's the delivery, which swings between the polar opposites of bored and hysterical, with no stops in between. Maybe it's the fact that she has coasted on "cute" for so long (to great effect in the early years of "Friends", though not so great later on) that she doesn't know how to do anything else any more. No matter what, her appearance sucks the joy out of a comedy, and this movie will only work for me if Vince seriously kicks her butt. The trailer, which has her and her female friends forcing the other men in their bowling group to join together in turfing Vince, does not auger well.

By the way, on the subject of Ms. Aniston's butt, no less an authority than Denise Richards considers it the best of its type that she's ever seen. Now, Ms. Richards was long a personal favourite of mine until she married petri dish Charlie Sheen. Her figure is no slouch either, confirmed by her recent election as the sexiest mom in Hollywood. If Jen has her seal of approval that's enough for me - and based on the recent magazine cover I spotted while dashing to my train, I must concur. That does nothing to change my opinion on her comedic talents.

Oh, and connecting all of this together, how about that Brad Pitt? He goes from Jennifer "best butt" Aniston to Angelina "yes, she's perfect" Jolie. Sure, it's a step up, but it's not like you weren't living high already. Some guys are just too greedy. (It also reminds me of a daytime talk show I saw years ago about a girl who was obsessed with Pitt and convinced she had only to meet him to win his heart. Lady, I hope you've moved on, because you were delusional then and you were no Jennifer Aniston, let alone Angelina Jolie.)

With "Good Night, and Good Luck" it is now safe to say that George Clooney will be with us for a long time to come. And that is certainly good news on all fronts.

Despite his chiselled looks and unfakeable cool, Clooney has always seemed more of a regular guy than one would expect. Unlike his cinematic running mate Brad Pitt, Clooney has the air of a man who would be very content to throw back a few beers with a crowd of guys in a bar. And I like Brad Pitt as an actor and, from appearances, as a personality. But there is something unhealthy about being pals with a guy that good looking. What must it feel like to walk into a room and know that you do not have a chance of ever topping this guy in the battle for a woman's attentions. With Clooney, one senses he would make you feel so comfortable about yourself that you might think for a moment that the leggy brunette at the bar is looking at you and not him.

You would be wrong.

Perhaps it's because he started in television. The small screen brings with it a familiarity that cinema does not. It certainly isn't a coincidence that the respectful distance which Hollywood stars were once granted by the public has vanished as more and more people see their movies on television. Having watched him week after week as Doug Ross on "ER", audiences developed a closeness with Clooney, seeing him grow in the part and beyond it, which makes us root for him, the way we did in the past with such actors as Michael J. Fox and Bruce Willis. The downside of this is that, despite their success, actors who start on TV are often unable to escape it's shadow. No matter how well his movies did, Fox never seemed like a movie star. As for Willis, while the body of work made it impossible to deny that he was indeed a movie star, it so often seemed that David Addison was simply playing with the big kids. "Pulp Fiction", of course, changed that.

As for Clooney, his successes as an actor, along with his emergence as a favorite of critics darlings like Soderburgh and the Coens, made it clear that he wasn't just another pretty face. But beauty fades, and for a guy who had a lot of failure on his way up, Clooney was quite aware of the likely best-before date on his time in the public eye. He started moving into producing and, with "Confessions of a Dangerous Mind", directing. With "Good Night, and Good Luck", George Clooney has arrived.

The story of Edward Murrow and CBS's battle against McCarthyism in the early 1950s, the film is anchored by the period details. Cigarettes are omnipresent, and a TV ad espouses the magnificent of the Kent brand, which associated itself with Murrow, joining their quality with his. Shot in black-and-white, with intermingling of new and archival footage, the result is seamless, almost as if the film itself is an on-the-scene documentary. In the lead, David Strathairn plays Murrow as if the burdens of the world are his alone to carry, and he is ably supported by a solid cast, inckuding Clooney, most notably by Frank Langella as CBS head William Paley and Ray Wise as doomed newscaster Don Hollenbeck.

The film isn't perfect. Despite the air of importance about the proceedings, it never feels personal enough to draw you in, unlike a film such as "The Front", which dealt with the blacklist. Rather, you watch from a distance, impressed by the players but seeing only jobs and reputations at risk, not the life-changing events that McCarthyism actually meant for many citizens. And the pace is at times glacially slow, which is sometimes attributable to the distancing created by that same archival footage that helps create the air of reality.

Regardless, "Good Night, and Good Luck" is a solid film, one that engages the viewer and holds your attention with the strength of its performances. More importantly, it marks the moment when Clooney finally leaves behind any notion that he is just a television star playing at the movies. It's a mature and well-balanced work, subtly written (also by Clooney, with Grant Heslov) and directed with sensitivity and no small amount of visual flare. This was, apparently, a dream project for Clooney, and he has served it well. It makes a fitting entry into the big leagues, even if he'll always seem like a guy you can have a beer with.

Although I have almost no athletic ability (for those who would say I have no atheltic ability at all, I refer you to my play on the 1993 and 1994 Thomson Dodgers baseball team in the Toronto legal circuit, to say nothing of my four-for-six day with a homer in Little League when I was 10 - take that!), I have been a sports fan since I was six years old, lying on the chesterfield with the flu while watching Ken Dryden carry the Montreal Canadiens to an improbable Stanley Cup victory. I was, and am, first and foremost a fan of the Canadiens, a loyalty no doubt cemented in some small way by the fact that my father seemed to hate them (although I later realized it was more about hating the thing you love too much). Later, I developed an unhealthy attachment to the Montreal Expos baseball team, a love destined for heartbreak, in '81, in '94 and especially in '04. As I settled in Toronto I became a fan of the BlueJays, with much more satisfying results. And then, there are the San Francisco 49ers, who shall rise again.

But my main sporting passion of the last few years has been the Toronto Raptors. I won't recount the many small wounds to my psyche from this romance, only to say that the rapturous moments have been far outnumbered by the broken dates, unmade phone calls and slaps to the face that such a love entails. Today finds me in good spirits about this relationship, because, after nine straight losses to start the season, the Raptors finally won yesterday. Although I have great hope for the future of this team, I am far too practical to expect much better in the near future, but it is nice once in awhile for the old girl to put on her nice clothes and some makeup in a bid for respectability.

One of the things that comes with reading the Britannica is being reminded of stuff that you thought you had forgotten and frankly were probably hoping you had. This morning I was reading about Acarina, which is a scientific name for mites and ticks (which are, by the way, closely related to spiders). A few years back I read a fascinating and very unsettling book about the cornucopia of microscopic-sized creatures living in our bodies. Acarina and other incredibly small life forms have built veritable societies within our little human selves. And, like all societies - like us, really - it isn't pretty. They're living, eating, mating, defecating, fighting wars, building churches, starting book clubs - everything distasteful you can imagine. Somewhere in my lower intestine, a tick Tom Cruise is jumping on a mite Oprah Winfrey's chesterfield. And not a single one of these creatures is paying me a dime for the privilege.

I don't think anything can be done about this and, unlike Tom or Oprah, some of these little critters make positive contributions to our ongoing existence. But it is comforting at least to personalize them. I'd be much happier knowing that Oprah is in my lower intestine than on a TV somewhere. And Katie Holmes would be welcome to visit Tom anytime she wants.