Tag Archives: On Assignment

November: According To The Neapolitan Mastiff

Shhyeah!!!                        Nah Bruh!!!

The Mayor’s Tongue                                              Dyscalculiac Cab Drivers

Paz de la Huerta                                                         “Only God Can Judge Me”

Indian Summer                                                           Sparrow Tattoos

Movember                                                                    Meg Whitman (2x recipient)

Jonathan Ames (writer)                                         Jonathan Ames (scatologist)

“Heads Up!”                                                                 Iced Coffee

Sacrificial Bunts                                                          Faux Fur Anything

Crystal Castles feat. Robert Smith                   Having An Epiphany

Playoff Beards                                                            Patriotic Tunes

Tryptophan Induced Naps                                    Weather Delays

-The Neapolitan Mastiff

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Eavesdrop It Like It’s Hot

 

“He buys tofurkey and thinks Tilda Swinton’s a babe. He’s into dudes, bro.” Brew Co., Brentwood

“I don’t mind looking like a Scientologist every once and a while.” Home Restaurant, Los Feliz

“Man, all these blogs are ripping the shit out of the new Belle & Sebastian album!” Book Soup, West Hollywood

“In moderation, cocaine is no worse for you than a salami sandwich.” Brite Spot, Echo Park

“Bitches come back to me like rental cars!” Vice, Hollywood

 

-The Neapolitan Mastiff



 

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The Neapolitan Mastiff Goes To The Cinema: Gaspar Noe’s Enter The Void

If you thought watching Monica Bellucci get sodomized at knifepoint on the floor of a Paris subway for nine minutes in Irreversible was difficult… as Bachman Turner Overdrive once sang “you ain’t seen nothing yet.”

Enter the Void is the least enjoyable film, I’ve ever seen. And yet there was something captivating in the way this, utterly punishing-to-watch, story was told. Sure, at times it was painstakingly boring (if I had to get up to use the W.C., I would’ve never returned), but something kept me glued to my seat for 130-something minutes. I’m not positive what it was, but if I had to hazard a guess, I’d say it wasn’t so much wondering what was going to happen next because it started at the end (same as Irreversible), but how Noe was going to show it. The car crashes made me cringe every time and the Freudian references (practically Oedipal punches to the face) were captivating enough to keep all eleven of the men in the 1:30 p.m. on a Friday showing in our seats until the end.

There were gut-wrenching moments that made me feel violently ill. At times it was unwatchable. The cinema nausea was heavy. Although, my ailing may have been due to the copious amount of Cazadores Reposado and P.B.R. in my system from the night before. We’ll never know because I’m never watching this film again.

The movie was way too long. The acting wasn’t fantastic (read: Nathaniel Brown should probably find an alternative career—something that doesn’t require much effort like a toll booth operator), although Cyril Roy and Paz De La Huerta (Peace from the garden? Really that’s almost as bad as Placido Domingo) were impressive. Especially Roy, although it might just be that his character was the best written.

But I have to reiterate, I was invested in the story. Despite how boring watching Nathaniel Brown on D.M.T. is, I stuck it out. I felt sympathy for some characters and hated others. I cared about De La Huerta’s character enough that by the end, I was rooting for an ending I knew was not coming. Noe tested my patience and my equilibrium, but he also did many things right. For different reasons, I’ll never watch any of his films again, but I’ll probably pay to see his next one.

SPOILER ALERT: During the course of the film Enter the Void, Noe’s camera Enters the Vagina. I’m talking seventh grade sex ed class, enters. Organs are beating in there. I think I saw Paz De La Huerta’s gall bladder. Seriously.

-The Neapolitan Mastiff

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October: According To The Neapolitan Mastiff

Shhyeah!!!                        Nah Bruh!!!

House Parties                                                       Actress/Singer/Model

Haircuts                                                                 Wait For It….

German Tourists                                                  116° F In Hollywood

Crater Lake Vodka                                               Chicks In Lululemon 24/7

Jeff Zucker’s Unemployment                            My Generation Billboards

Mail-Order Brides                                                Gaspar Noe’s Cinema Nausea

Boardwalk Empire                                                Committing Fraud

Ladies Love Placido Domingo                         Cops On Horseback

David Simon: MacArthur Fellow                    Public Displays Of Anxiety

Directed by Ben Affleck                                      Directed by Casey Affleck

-The Neapolitan Mastiff

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Steak and Politics with Nick Clark

Nick D. Clark is an American actor and writer who was been known to, on occasion, partake in a ‘cleanse’. The range of cleanses he dabbles in as a taxing paying citizen are nearly as vast as those he dives into as an established thespian. Clark is well known for abnegating caffeine, booze[1], jalapenos, and animal products. Once while still a university student, he gave up food, drink, and general merriment for a year and eleven months[2] and subsisted solely on a daily cocktail of lemon juice, honey and a bit of cayenne pepper. Needless to say Clark, as both an abstainer and a glutton, is a force to be reckoned with.

With this in mind, I tracked down Clark at his Los Angeles office located on Grand Avenue in downtown’s Civic Center. When I arrived he was cradling his head in his hands and mumbling something about the residual effects of owning oversized martini glasses and the benefits of pickle juice.

The Neapolitan Mastiff: Why am I here today?

Nick Clark: I see you’ve decided to come out swinging.  Fair enough, Hardball.  I’m gonna call you Hardball from now on.

I smiled as a professional is obliged and took the verbal abuse. He lit a cigarette and a teenager wearing a maroon vest put what looked like a vodka and grapefruit into my hand. I didn’t decline. I tasted and it was unquestionably a greyhound. We raise our glasses because it was 11:00 a.m.

TNM: I heard you once quoted as saying that you enjoyed hanger steak. Is that an acquired taste like malt liquor?

NC: I would argue that neither taste is really “aquired.”  I think if you got a bunch of kids—like little, y’know, innocenty-type kids—together and fed them all hanger steak and malt liquor, and then they were all totally honest with you about it, they’d thank you .

TNM: If you were to —

NC: I’ve decided not to call you Hardball, by the way.

TNM: Haha, thanks… If you were to, say, slaughter a cow and you could only procure a single cut and a single serving at that, would you pick one of the eighty or so pounds of hanger steak that the cow’s carcass has available, or would you opt for a less available cut like filet mignon?

NC: Look, just because something is uncommon doesn’t make it delicious.  The least “available” part of a cow is probably, I dunno, the hypothalamus, or—wait the ballsack… use “ballsack,” edit out that hypothalamus stuff.  “Ballsack” is hilarious.

TNM: Having grown—

NC: I think this is going well, don’t you?

TNM: Having grown up in the Bay Area, which hometown–

NC: That ballsack stuff is good, right?

TNM: Let’s just get through this, man…  Having grown up in the Bay Area, which hometown hero had the greatest impact on you growing up: Andre Nickatina, Danny Glover, Jerry Brown or Jim Jones?

NC: Ooh, that’s hard.  I would say Danny Glover, but that’s only because a friend of mine’s sister once dated a guy who looked exactly like Danny Glover, except that he was white and English—that’s not a joke, that’s true.  But that’s not really… that doesn’t count, does it?  I guess Jerry Brown…  Y’know for years I thought Jerry Brown was black?  I got him mixed up with Willie Brown.   It honestly wasn’t until his resurgence against this Whitman dildo that I realized they were different people—and then I was bummed that he wasn’t Willie!  That woulda been sweet, I always liked Willie Brown.  Could you add Willie Brown to your list?  Because then it’d be Willie Brown.  Yes.  Willie Brown had the greatest impact on me.

TNM: What’s your stance on the carpool lane?

NC: Oooh, look who’s back, Hardball…  I like the carpool lane, but I think it should be 3 people, like it is up in the Bay Area—that might have been Willie Brown’s doing, by the way.

TNM: If you could banish one person from the U.S.A. who would it be?

NC: Banish? Where to would be important…  I would maybe banish Sarah Palin, but only to a place that still had cell service—I derive too much amusement from her Tweets.  If we’re talking banishment to, say, a cage full of bears, it’d have to be Glenn Beck.  I feel like those are really obvious and tellingly liberal answers, but those two are doing an awful lot of damage.

TNM: Did I see you on The Office?

NC: Not if you blinked.

TNM: Did you mean what you said about hanger steak? What about a nice rib eye?

NC: OF COURSE I DIDN’T MEAN THAT!  RIB EYE IS BETTER!  FILET MIGNON IS BETTER!!!  I CAN AFFORD NEITHER! GHAA!!!

TNM: Okay, settle down… What’s the name of that web series that everyone en el mundo should watch until they’ve committed it to memory?

NC: Vicariously.  It can be—sorry about that outburst, man, someone will get you a new greyhound… JARVIS!  I SPILLED HARDBALL’S GREYHOUND, GET HIM ANOTHER!—anyway, the show is called Vicariously, and it can be located on the internet at www.vicariously.tv

TNM: Meg Whitman, Serena Williams and Catherine Heigl: You’ve got to date one, gag one and pick one to replace Rahm Emanuel as Chief of Staff. Who will do what and why?

NC: Serena Williams is absolutely Chief of Staff.  She’ll throw out more F-bombs than Emanuel did, can you imagine?  I’d gag Heigl–not that anyone is listening anyway—and I’d date Meg Whitman so that I could shit inside of her heart.

Nick Clark is the co-creator and star of the series Vicariously. You can catch him every week slanging cuvee and talking cattle at the L.A. Music Center, but we’d prefer if you just watched him here.

The Neapolitan Mastiff


[1] This claim has not been confirmed.

[2] The exact amount of time he remained true to the cleanse is debatable.

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Eavesdrop It Like It’s Hot

“I’m making my child birthing playlist, and it’s really good so far.” YAS Fitness Center, Venice

“I shaved my moustache off for that girl, man! Now that she left me, I’ve got a clean lip and a hole in my heart.” Short Stop, Echo Park

“I can’t do anything before I read my horoscope. I won’t leave my condo.” APA Reception Desk, West Hollywood

“Anyone know what stop to get off for the county jail?” Pershing Square Metro Stop, Downtown L.A.

“One of my girlfriends had her baby shower on 9/11, just to put some positive energy out there on that day. I love, love, love that!” Lido Dry Cleaners, Hollywood

The Neapolitan Mastiff

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Cowboy Boots, Dresses and the Female Biological Clock: The Neapolitan Mastiff Weighs In

Nothing says I’m looking to copulate like a pair of cowboy boots and a summer dress. Try an A.S.U. red light/green light party sporting green, wear a dress the size of a face cloth in Hollywood on a Friday night, stumble naked through Isla Vista on Halloween and you still won’t elicit half as many suitors. It’s a look that transcends races[1] and regions while remaining very North American[2].

During the summer in Santa Monica, there’s a 28ish blonde shopping in cowboy boots and a dress in every aisle of Whole Foods. On a sunny Sunday afternoon at Echo Park Lake, right next to the carne asada, you’ll find pallid women struggling to look like pin-ups, showing more tattoo than skin in their own version of the boot and dress combo. Droves of them fill up the continent. Many women, who wouldn’t be caught dead in the look, find themselves subconsciously purchasing it. While some might claim its on trend[3], others stumble upon it. It seems to be inextricably tied to a woman’s biological clock. Something happens between the age of 27 and 35, where for whatever reason, women don this salacious armor and hit beaches, parks, barbeques and farmer’s markets, all in hopes of a little protected or unprotected procreation.

The odd thing is, it doesn’t look good. In fact, it’s an awful look.  Logistically, the boots cover up the slenderest part of the leg and the dress exposes from around the mid-thigh down. What’s essentially left is the largest part of the calf and a couple bulbous knees. You might have legs like Coco Rocha, but they look like Rosie O’Donnell’s when you’re strutting your stuff in that attire.

And yet those cowboy boots and summer dresses demand the interest of all those who are biologically predisposed to women. It’s comparable to flint and steel. Bang them together and you get a hot spark. When a woman puts on a dress and then cowboy boots, pheromones literally spew out of her. No straight man or lesbian[4] is immune. The androgynous hipster, who is in a band with his MacBook Pro, looks up from his mid-afternoon coffee. The junior agent, who is sweating through his off-the-rack suit, quits eating his Cliff Bar breakfast as she breezes by on Avenue Of The Stars. It’s like a peacock fawning its feathers. It’s nature at work. An E.D. riddled man reading yesterday’s paper on a park bench perks up. A six-year-old boy holding his mother’s hand as they walk the promenade lets go when a woman 25 years his senior swaggers by. It’s an inexplicable, unannounced, seismic, sexual awakening.

Just so there isn’t any confusion, this ensemble has nothing to do with the ranchera/vaquera, Mexicana cowgirl thing. It also has nothing to do with those large boned, ‘I grew up on a farm and did 4H in high school’ girls. Those people wear cowboy boots every day and dresses on occasion. This is more an assessment of what drives a woman who doesn’t usually wear cowboy boots to buy a pair and wear it with a dress. The succinct answer: her biological clock. Katy Perry is probably the poster child of this fountain of libido movement. Although dealing strictly with the facts, I can’t say I have ever witnessed her wearing the aforementioned combination. But lets get real for a second, what do you think she’s stomping around Russell Brand’s honey wagon in right now?

I’ll leave you with a bit of advice: If your significant other tries to leave the house wearing the abovementioned, STOP HER… on two counts.

  1. It looks heinous. Strangely seductive, but heinous.
  2. Mark my words sir, if she leaves in that outfit you will be cuckolded[5].

[1] It may or may not transcend race. This article is based largely off of encounters with white girls. Not that Vera Wang, Vida Guerra and Serena Williams don’t dabble, I just haven’t seen it.

[2] Based off a study in 2009, Calgary had more women per capita in summer dresses and cowboy boots than anywhere else on the planet.

[3] It’s not.

[4] This fact hasn’t been confirmed by an actually lesbian, but the Exchanging Pleasantries Office (a gentlemen’s club of sorts, gentlemen in the traditional sense, not in the Spearmint Rhino sense) is still pretty sure it qualifies as a fact.

[5] If your significant other is simply in drag, you’re on your own. We didn’t research that.

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