In this month’s issue of Black Book the person we no longer recognize as Rose McGowan talks about her suspiciously kooky (on the verge of corny) upbringing, interests, philosophies, peeves, diet, and whatever else. You can read the article in its entirety HERE, but trust us, you’ll just want those fifteen minutes back and that horrible taste out of your brain.

There was a time, not long- well, we guess it was a long time ago, that we really cared for Rose McGowan. She was a modern dame, an acidic pin-up. She would have made a great Mrs. Mia Wallace.

Harvey says he’s “disappointed” by the weekend grosses. We saw Grindhouse, and we’re not! We’re fucking elated. We hope Tarantino gets the message, which is: WE DON’T GIVE A FUCK. MAKE GOOD MOVIES INSTEAD. How delusional are they to wonder why the masses failed to show up to a unabridged, crappy, cliffnotes version of an entire shit genre? Think about it. Who the fuck cares, or can afford to care, or has the time to care about grindhouse movies except Quentin Tarantino?

Robert Rodriguez is the Rachel Ray of directors. Nothing he does is new or interesting. But it tastes okay when you’re hungover, stoned, or have nothing else to eat. So the world needs Robert Rodriguezes and the world needs sewers. Planet Terror was the success of the two films, however, only because Rodriguez is a natural grindhouse director. Which is to say he sucks, bad, naturally. And in an ironic twister, Quentin Tarantino, the actor, ended up ruining Death Proof for us. Well, that, and his boring lot of broken-faced, shit actress nobodies* imitating Quentin Tarantino…

(You know how every Woody Allen movie has that Woody Allen character in it, even if Woody Allen isn’t playing him? Well that’s the way every single character is in Death Proof. They’re ALL playing Quentin Tarantino, including Quentin Tarantino! and, frankly, Quentin Tarantino talks too much.)

…And the script. If you can call it that. It’s more like Tarantino writing his own future spank material. Every time he appears on screen it’s like when they turn the house lights on after a Phish concert. All of a sudden everybody is way too real, and way too creepy, and you just want to get the fuck out of there. In essence, Quentin Tarantino kills the boner we have for Quentin Tarantino movies. He’s his own worst enemy.

At one point during one of the very long and dull conversations (that Quentin Tarantino -a DUDE- wrote(!!!) for girls!!! OH, JERK OFF!!!), between BLANK and BLANK, we lost concentration on the movie so completely that we considered walking out and asking for our money back. We resisted, for unknown reasons, but moments later, there was the overwhelming urge to throw our mostly full, extra-large, small Coca-Cola at the movie screen. The syrupy, sugar water splattered all over his movie. The drip. The stain. The sticky floor. The three other people fast asleep in the theater. How fucking 70’s “grindhouse” would that have been?

Vote Sanjaya.

• Actaully, Rosario Dawson was pretty good, for once.