Absolutely unbelievable.

This is simultaneously absurd and terrifying, and I can't for the life of me imagine the circumstances behind it. It makes me think about how I drive, to be sure, but you can damned well bet it makes me worried for the people of Nashville, both in terms of its bad drivers and its aggressive evangelicals.

At the movies: Transporter 3.

The Short Version: Could've used one less dialogue scene and one more car chase.

The Longer Version: Yes, thank Gawd, he takes his shirt off. Thrice. Once, it's even against his own druthers. Now I support consent in all naughty activities, but Jason Statham should just about always be shirtless, unless it's really cold out.

To snag some terminology from the great Joe Bob Briggs (one of the two biggest influences on my own critical self), there's far too much plot getting in the way of the story. And the higher-ups seem to have gotten freaked out by Louis Leterrier's whole deal about Frank Martin being the first big gay action hero, because he gives up the groceries to a pixie-ish red-headed Ukranian chick who looks eerily reminiscent of Fifth Element-era Milla Jovovich (which, considering this was co-written, produced, and released (through his EuropaCorp films) by Luc Besson, makes sense) because she says he's boring and takes ecstasy in his car.

But there's a great scene with a German associate of Frank's, and some excellent fleshy kung fu (including one fight where Statham has to shed his clothing and use it as weapons). Action films are the new dominant genre for Europudding productions (it's a delight seeing Paul Verhoeven alum Jeroen Krabbe as aforementioned Ukranian chick's minister father), and it's nice to blend cultures and languages for a while.

So Transporter 3 is enjoyable enough for a Thanksgiving matinee and for connoisseurs of flesh. The law of diminishing returns applies here, though.

12. AVT.

Nothing says ballin' like a snifter.

During my most recent sojourn up in the northeast, I found myself and some friends driven by the rain into the little bar in the Cloisters, up in the north ass-end of Manhattan Island. Feeling cavalier and with more cash than I should have been carrying or spending, I decided to start trying new drinks.

The winner of the evening was something called the Hudson Royale. I love it in a way I can't completely articulate, but I feel that the very least I can do is to share it with you, beloved reader. What follows is the recipe, as best I can depict it.

First up, you need a sugar cube. Not a brown sugar cube, and not a sugar cube that's been coated with any illicit substances (because that is not the kind of game you want to play if you're going to be drinking like this).

Congratulations. You've completed step one.

Next, you need to pick a glass. Technically, you should use a champagne flute, but the drink police have other shit to worry about. Personally, I go for the snifter nine times out of ten, because nothing says ballin' like a snifter.

Once you have your chosen glass, put the sugar cube in it.

A word of warning: be careful with the Angostura Bitters, because this stuff does not play; it is the real-real.

Very carefully, drop two (or, if you have a particularly wild hair up your ass to get all crazy) or three drops of the bitters into the glass and on to the sugar cube. This is important, so make sure you have the dexterity for such a project.

Next comes the colorful part. Get your pomegranate liqueur (it doesn't have to be Pama, that's just what I have for visual reference) and get ready for some madness, y'all.

So you pour your pomegranate liqueur of choice into the glass, letting it reach a level where it covers the sugar cube completely, then adding just a little bit more to make sure that we have completely enveloped the cube.

And then, of course, you need the finisher, the thing what holds the drink together.

It doesn't have to be Veuve-Cliquot (if only we lived in such a world); any champagne, chilled, will do. Just fill the glass the rest of the way up, then let it fizz for a minute or so, then drink and enjoy.

So, to reiterate: you need a sugar cube, a drinking vessel, some pomegranate liqueur, angostura bitters, and some chilled champagne. Congratulations, you've mastered the Hudson Royale.

Putting a ring on history.

So everyone and their brother is making videos of their performance of the choreography to Beyonce's "Single Ladies (Put a Ring on it)." It's a catchy song and a good performance, but when someone busts out the Bob Fosse moves and the word doesn't spread, then I feel the need to step in.

This is the original footage of Gwen Verdon's dance to "Mexican Breakfast," synched to the Beyonce track. Dig on it.



Because of Beyonce's success with this routine, I find myself having a dream that Bob Fosse choreography will make a big comeback in unexpected places. Let's dream, then, shall we?

11. Blue mood.

At the movies: Australia.

Lady Sarah Ashley (Nicole Kidman) must leave England to tend to her family's Australian cattle ranch. There, she encounters the half-caste mystical child Nullah, culture clash on several levels, and Hugh Jackman, done up right as The Drover- an independent businessman who handles business all over the Northern Australian frontier.

Sweeping plains, arid desert, cute animals, collective racial guilt, financial shenanigans, and the timeless power of "Over The Rainbow." Nobody blends disparate cultural touchstones together quite like Baz (Romeo + Juliet, Moulin Rouge) Luhrmann, and Australia is a glorious mess of an acheivement.

Hugh Jackman gets to be Clint Eastwood (eye-lit man of mystery in bar fight), John Wayne (driving cattle across the plains), Cary Grant (when cleaned up for a society ball), and Mad Max Beyond Thunderdome (rescuing children) all in the same movie. Nicole Kidman gets to be all prim and stuffy, then beat a bad guy with a riding crop, herd cattle in the most dangerous part of the Aussie desert, preside over a fancy dance (where she gets to rock a cheongsam like Maggie Cheung in In the Mood for Love), breathe life into desolate nothingness, sing a little, and give up the goods in a rainstorm.

In the seven years since Moulin Rouge, director/cowriter Baz Luhrmann has remained an enthusiast of mash-up culture and timeless romanticism, and this film could have easily been released in the fifties, such is its sense of Cinemascope epic-ness. For anyone, then, who says they don't make them like they used to. You could almost call it South Pacific with kangaroos.

I spent the first ten minutes thinking I was in hell, then gradually warmed to its blend of frontier adventure, aboriginal magic, and romantic skirmishes. And by its final half hour, I was bawling my face off like a puppy had died right in front of me. If Australia, the film, is about thirty-five minutes too long for its own good, it still delivers everything one could want from an old-fashioned romantic epic. If Pearl Harbor hadn't been made by a sociopath, it might have had some of the emotional impact that this film wrings from its collision with WWII. As it stands, there's nothing else quite like this out there.