I have a pain in my guts that I can’t even begin to describe. I think it comes from eating all the pepperocinis at my work. I’m old. I mean, that’s what it is, right? Because I never got this kind of rotten stomach action before. Jesus. Nowdays it’s all sleep and mild foods and no more than a few cocktails or it’s some kind of dazed craptacular the next day. It’s a real dick punch, man.
Last night I watched the Big Lebowski again and I realized something pretty hilarious. I have no real idea what that movie is about. I mean, sure, I dig that there’s two guys named Lebowski, some mistaken identity and a slutty trophy bride who gets kidnapped and theres a ransom plot and a guy who makes the porn is somehow involved and what’s her name, who’s super hot even though she’s real old…uh, you know her…Julianne Moore! She’s the one with all the money and she wants Jeff Bridges’ child (explained with paper thin reasoning, I’d say) but really…there’s so much of that movie that just breezes by and I don’t have any fucking idea what’s going on, or what it has to do with the plot, or anything. Then, at the end, I’m not really sure what the results even are. It’s definitely not got traditional story arc where something either works out, or doesn’t or someone grows or they don’t or stasis is returned or things are heartbreaking or happy, that much, at least, I got.
Now, before this goes on too far, I’d like to point out that I’m not asking for anyone’s interpretation of the movie. I understand it as well as I’d care to (though I bet [watch for it in the sock drawer] I get at least one dumb asshole explaining the whole thing [poorly, mind you] to me anyway, but hey! That’s why god built the internet. So idiots could explain stupid things poorly to everyone else, whether they wanted an explanation or not).
My point is, I’ve seen this movie somewhere in the neighborhood of fifteen times, and the fact that the story is so nebulous that I STILL don’t really know who the nihilists work for (I think they work for themselves but are friends with bunny from porn, right?) really says something about art and making shit for brain consumption, and that’s what I’d like to talk about today.
People forget that art is entertaining. It’s supposed to entertain. That’s what it does. Now, that doesn’t mean that people have to enjoy it. People can hate it. Hating something can be very entertaining. That’s why people love pro wrestling, throwing tomatoes at the bards in the theater in the round and going on internet message boards. People can be scared, people can be revolted, turned on, whatever. The objective to art is a visceral reaction, be it music, painting, film or uh…’performance art’ which, let’s be honest, is dumb. Heh.
-Now, let me pause for a moment here to talk about this last sentence, because it’s not entirely my opinion. The idea of performance art can be amazing. Especially when you take it to the philosophical, situationist or even Nietzsche-ian kind of level and you’re living your life as some sort of piece of art. That’s a pretty interesting way to go, art wise, even if it’s probably (like most art) not done well very often. However, usually, ‘performance art’ is a term for people who don’t quite dance, but do something that’s kind of not too far off from acting/dancing and/or stand in parks painted up like the tin man waiting for people to drop dollars in their dunkin donuts coffee cup. And that shit is just pussified half stepping (in the first case) or just a way to make crack money (in most cases). I mean, if someone tells me they’re a performance artist, my first instinct is to kind of laugh at them. It’s like calling yourself cutting edge. If you were REALLY cutting edge, the idea of defining yourself that way would be fundamentally at odds with what you’re doing, you know? Sure you do. So, anyway, to end this digression, performance art is dumb, unless you’re a genius or you’re real hot and you leave your tits out while you do it, then it’s fascinating.
Where were we? Oh, right. Visceral reactions. My point (and I’m running out of time, so I’ll be brief) is that people who get into the habit or business of making art tend to get to a point where they’re searching for perfection in what they do. The Perfect Manifestation of Brendan Kelly the Songwriter, for example. And that tends to lead into a process that I’d refer to as ‘softening the edges’ and ultimately ‘getting into a box.’ After a while, there’s such a catalog of things you’ve done, things that may have at one time been huge risks for you (or for the medium in general) that have worked out well, that it becomes very VERY hard to get away from those tropes, or tricks or techniques. This can be everything from doubling vocals to the way you paint noses to the gear you use, to the meticulous detail that goes into making everything just-so. The problem, though, is that though these things started out as risks, or interesting ways of interpreting some outside source, now they’re things you’ve done, and you’re being inspired by yourself, and it’s only gonna be diminishing returns at that point. To use the analogy from yesterday, it’s like eating your own shit for nutrients.
THE OTHER THING, and this is the big one, is that suddenly, you’re creating based on a set of expectations about you, and that’s the stupidest reason to create something in the world (except maybe for ‘to save the marriage’). The reason you should be creating is because you have an idea about something that looks/sounds/feels/ cool and you want to do it. That’s it. And ‘cool’ is subjective, sure. Your “cool” can be my “totally fucking repugnant” but you get the idea. People get to a point where they feel like they have to weave a message into things in order to give them value, but the opposite is true. If you’re making art that’s really based on the notion of doing something that just kicks ass, there will BE a message in it, because art, when it’s good, is ALWAYS rooted in something deeper than just being a painting or a song or a dance. But you don’t PUT IT IN THERE!!!! IT ENDS UP IN THERE WHEN YOU CREATE FREELY! When you put it in there, 100% of the time, you wind up with didactic crap. Period.
And, to bring it full circle, if you really just have fun with what you’re creating, it doesn’t even really matter if it all makes sense, or comes together. If it’s fun enough to view or listen to over and over again, people will love it, even if they don’t understand it. Even if it doesn’t wind up really tying the whole room together, man.
That’s the lesson for today people. Get out there and live. Have a good weekend.
Friday, January 29, 2010
Thursday, January 28, 2010
I got a zit the size of a bait shop on my back...
Based on a new morning schedule, I’m typing this as my kid sits next to me, intermittently screaming at the dogs (who are licking his pacifier, which he threw on the ground) and manhandling a plateful of scrambled eggs with a hasslehoffian grace. It’s distracting. Also worth mentioning is that I’ve recently begun working on a dancy, islandy number that’s all about making people cry after they give you blowjobs and you throw them out of your house, and well, I can’t quite get it out of my head (HA! That’s a pun, assholes!)
What else is going on today? I have to work. The Menzingers finished up their record which sounds fucking AWESOME! I particularly like the songs I sang guest vocals on. Those seem like they’ve really got that special something extra. I watched the president last night, but it all just seemed like the extremely boring precursor to what’s sadly become the ‘real event’ in this country(which is, ironically the very thing that the Pres said the American people were sick of), namely, pundits synthesizing the speech, whittling it down to easy talking points and explaining how people should feel about it. Last night, millions of people patiently waited through the rhetoric and clapping and standing and sitting and longwindedness and oratorical zeal and all that crap and just sat there waiting for Brian Williams, Rachel Maddow, Sean Hannity, Keith Olbermann, Bill O’reily, or John Stewart to tell them how well Barack did. Nice one.
Here’s the funny thing. If you, in fact, didn’t watch the speech, which I’m guessing most of you didn’t, could you wager what these people above thought of it? I didn’t watch any punditry, but I’m guessing (and I’m predicting 98% accuracy on this guess) that it went, in order, cautiously saying it was pretty strong at times but had serious flaws, loved it, hated it, loved it, hated it, makes a dick joke tonight.
These pundits are so beholden to their party lines, and for good reason. They’re up against pundits that are so beholden to their party lines that if they’re not equally zealous, they look like simpering pussies in comparison, and that, my friends is the political equivalent of lacking confidence when you’re going in for the “blow me while I drive around the block” move. No, Lou Dobbs can’t afford to seem moderate, or give an inch, because he’s surrounded by hawks on both sides, and he and his ilk (on both sides) earn all their money pretending to be your old crotchety grandfathers who just hate the way the fags and the abortionists are turning the notion of the american fifties around and around in its grave, OR your (quasi) radical gay uncle who just hates the crotchety grandfather and swings wide to embrace everything he hates even when it’s kind of ridiculous.
Remember when you were a kid and you’d ask your mom “why do I have to make my bed? I’m just gonna sleep in it again.”? Remember that? Well, that’s what we’re doing here with this punditry. We’re skipping the part that takes energy, because fuck it, we’re just gonna lie in whatever ideological trench our favorite pundits (or rockstars or entertainers or lady on the view) have set up for us to pledge allegiance to. And that’s pretty pathetic, America. Even for you.
When you know, you KNOW someone’s gonna fuck you, you don’t want to skip right to the part where you sneak out of their house without waking them up at four thirty in the morning and leave your socks behind, right? When you buy a beer, you don’t just crumple the can up and wait for the headache, right? Right. Know why? Because the shit in between these moments, the meat of the activities, are active pastimes (is that some kind of oxymoron?) that are enjoyable. I’d like to suggest that paying attention to something and making your own mind up about it is as enjoyable as drinking a beer, or getting sloppy head from some fat skank while her roommate snores on the couch (eh, maybe not, but you get the idea). The thing is, most of us aren’t very smart. Our opinions aren’t that sophisticated and we don’t have the benefit of knowing what’s really being talked about all the time. When we watch the State of the Union and make our own decisions and formulate our own opinions, we risk exposing the gaps in our own knowledge of the system, the problems we face as a nation, our obliviousness to the news when we present that opinion. However, it’s Sean Hannity’s JOB to know the significance of every single shred of that speech, and it’s much easier to listen to him, synthesize his (asinine, by the way) viewpoint, and sort of learn by way of the punditry. It’s a little bit like eating someone else’s shit for nutrients though. Yeah, it’ll probably work for a while, but you aren’t building much of a healthy foundation AND you’re gonna wind up full of shit.
SO with that being said, I’d like to go. I’m going to take my kid to school and then step into line in our increasingly service based economy. God bless America. Sheeesh.
Oh, quick thing: Have you seen that ad for the Larry the cable guy special? It takes place at an outdoor arena in Nebraska or something and it’s packed to the gills with mongaloids who don’t care that Larry is really from Connecticut and fakes that accent. He says something like, “wow, fifty thousand of y’all! If you need to go to wal mart, now’s a good time to go.” And boooooy-howdy! The hicks practically shoot their guns at the sky they start hootin and a’ hollerin so loud!
How’s that for fucking great? Celebrate that you shop at a store that undercuts so mercilessly that it’s put American institutions like Rubbermaid out of business and shipped jobs and profits to China, all in the name of the bottom line, celebrating all the while at the altar of a New England sophisticate “faggoty entertainer” who’s mercenarily aping the very culture he appeals to. Everyone clap. Tomorrow it’s back to the photo counter at Walmart. It’s back to the tire rotating dock at walmart. It’s back to the couch on the porch. Sheesh, again, people. Sheesh. The state of the union is uh…well, I guess I don’t like the self righteous liberal douchebags that “see things so much more clearly” than their hillbilly brethren either, so uh, that’s it for me too, I guess.
We’re fucked.
Man, Barack could have saved us all some time and just said that, right? Would have been refreshing.
“Hello. I’m Barack Obama. We’re fucked. Good night. God Bless you and God bless the United States of America. Smoke if you got ‘em.”
What else is going on today? I have to work. The Menzingers finished up their record which sounds fucking AWESOME! I particularly like the songs I sang guest vocals on. Those seem like they’ve really got that special something extra. I watched the president last night, but it all just seemed like the extremely boring precursor to what’s sadly become the ‘real event’ in this country(which is, ironically the very thing that the Pres said the American people were sick of), namely, pundits synthesizing the speech, whittling it down to easy talking points and explaining how people should feel about it. Last night, millions of people patiently waited through the rhetoric and clapping and standing and sitting and longwindedness and oratorical zeal and all that crap and just sat there waiting for Brian Williams, Rachel Maddow, Sean Hannity, Keith Olbermann, Bill O’reily, or John Stewart to tell them how well Barack did. Nice one.
Here’s the funny thing. If you, in fact, didn’t watch the speech, which I’m guessing most of you didn’t, could you wager what these people above thought of it? I didn’t watch any punditry, but I’m guessing (and I’m predicting 98% accuracy on this guess) that it went, in order, cautiously saying it was pretty strong at times but had serious flaws, loved it, hated it, loved it, hated it, makes a dick joke tonight.
These pundits are so beholden to their party lines, and for good reason. They’re up against pundits that are so beholden to their party lines that if they’re not equally zealous, they look like simpering pussies in comparison, and that, my friends is the political equivalent of lacking confidence when you’re going in for the “blow me while I drive around the block” move. No, Lou Dobbs can’t afford to seem moderate, or give an inch, because he’s surrounded by hawks on both sides, and he and his ilk (on both sides) earn all their money pretending to be your old crotchety grandfathers who just hate the way the fags and the abortionists are turning the notion of the american fifties around and around in its grave, OR your (quasi) radical gay uncle who just hates the crotchety grandfather and swings wide to embrace everything he hates even when it’s kind of ridiculous.
Remember when you were a kid and you’d ask your mom “why do I have to make my bed? I’m just gonna sleep in it again.”? Remember that? Well, that’s what we’re doing here with this punditry. We’re skipping the part that takes energy, because fuck it, we’re just gonna lie in whatever ideological trench our favorite pundits (or rockstars or entertainers or lady on the view) have set up for us to pledge allegiance to. And that’s pretty pathetic, America. Even for you.
When you know, you KNOW someone’s gonna fuck you, you don’t want to skip right to the part where you sneak out of their house without waking them up at four thirty in the morning and leave your socks behind, right? When you buy a beer, you don’t just crumple the can up and wait for the headache, right? Right. Know why? Because the shit in between these moments, the meat of the activities, are active pastimes (is that some kind of oxymoron?) that are enjoyable. I’d like to suggest that paying attention to something and making your own mind up about it is as enjoyable as drinking a beer, or getting sloppy head from some fat skank while her roommate snores on the couch (eh, maybe not, but you get the idea). The thing is, most of us aren’t very smart. Our opinions aren’t that sophisticated and we don’t have the benefit of knowing what’s really being talked about all the time. When we watch the State of the Union and make our own decisions and formulate our own opinions, we risk exposing the gaps in our own knowledge of the system, the problems we face as a nation, our obliviousness to the news when we present that opinion. However, it’s Sean Hannity’s JOB to know the significance of every single shred of that speech, and it’s much easier to listen to him, synthesize his (asinine, by the way) viewpoint, and sort of learn by way of the punditry. It’s a little bit like eating someone else’s shit for nutrients though. Yeah, it’ll probably work for a while, but you aren’t building much of a healthy foundation AND you’re gonna wind up full of shit.
SO with that being said, I’d like to go. I’m going to take my kid to school and then step into line in our increasingly service based economy. God bless America. Sheeesh.
Oh, quick thing: Have you seen that ad for the Larry the cable guy special? It takes place at an outdoor arena in Nebraska or something and it’s packed to the gills with mongaloids who don’t care that Larry is really from Connecticut and fakes that accent. He says something like, “wow, fifty thousand of y’all! If you need to go to wal mart, now’s a good time to go.” And boooooy-howdy! The hicks practically shoot their guns at the sky they start hootin and a’ hollerin so loud!
How’s that for fucking great? Celebrate that you shop at a store that undercuts so mercilessly that it’s put American institutions like Rubbermaid out of business and shipped jobs and profits to China, all in the name of the bottom line, celebrating all the while at the altar of a New England sophisticate “faggoty entertainer” who’s mercenarily aping the very culture he appeals to. Everyone clap. Tomorrow it’s back to the photo counter at Walmart. It’s back to the tire rotating dock at walmart. It’s back to the couch on the porch. Sheesh, again, people. Sheesh. The state of the union is uh…well, I guess I don’t like the self righteous liberal douchebags that “see things so much more clearly” than their hillbilly brethren either, so uh, that’s it for me too, I guess.
We’re fucked.
Man, Barack could have saved us all some time and just said that, right? Would have been refreshing.
“Hello. I’m Barack Obama. We’re fucked. Good night. God Bless you and God bless the United States of America. Smoke if you got ‘em.”
Wednesday, January 27, 2010
paid advertisement
I have a friend named Joe. Joe’s a good dude. We’ve known each other for a while and we’ve traveled the world, I’ve hung out and gotten along with his wife, and he’s gotten along with my wife. We don’t swing or anything, just good old fashioned neighborliness. Funny thing, I don’t think our wives have ever met. Not important. Moving on.
Joe and I have consumed multiple bottles of champagne early in the morning and hung out at ridiculous rockstar parties in penthouses in Vegas that neither of us really should have been at for thousands of reasons. I’ve stayed on his floor. He’s stayed on my floor. When I broke my kneecap, he was the first person I went out and got a beer with after the initial recovery period ended. That’s really more coincidence though. Again, not important. Jeez.
SO, you get the idea. He’s a good dude. Anyway, not long ago, Joe called me up and told me that he’d been doing solo tours and he’d made some recordings of himself doing acoustic renditions of some songs he plays with his band. He asked if I’d be into doing a handful of Lawrence arms songs acoustic and putting out a split with him. I told him that I’d think about it, but that was code for “sounds kinda lame, dude” and I kind of put the idea on ice. After all, I got a lot going on, folks. The last thing I need is to step into line behind every other dipshit raspy punk rocker turned balladeer that seems to be the style of the times. I mean, honestly, I’m literally already in ONE line behind Tom and Chuck and everyone. I don’t need to climb into another. That’s DMV style queuing, bro. No thanks.
BUUUUUUUUT, then I thought about it some more, and I thought, ‘you know what? Fuck it. If I can do something interesting, I’m gonna give it a go.” SO, I got my buddy Yates to set up a mic, and I got a new acoustic guitar (thanks to everyone here on the sock drawer who helped me to decide what to get! [sarcasm/old inside joke for real nerds]) and I decided that I’d just kind of go in, somewhat unprepared and do everything one take, live style. I figured that if I’m just doing old Arms songs, I’ve already contributed my vision of them as studio pieces, as perfect as we can get them, and so if I was gonna do it, I wanted more of a raw visceral and intimate quality in the recordings. I ended up doing a couple of overdubs, a riff here and there, but other than that, the recording is seven essentially live tracks, and they’re mostly TLA songs, though one cover slips in there too.
SO, long story continuing on, I finished that shit, and I thought it sounded pretty good and Joe has some songs and we’re gonna put it out as a split. Joe knows a dude named Neil who runs a label called Anchorless and he was apparently the impetus behind this whole project after hearing Joe’s songs. I talked to Neil, he seemed like a good dude, so I said, ‘yeah, fuck it. We’ll do it with this guy.’ Then I weaseled my buddy toby onto the project because I’m the fucking picture of nepotism, and we were set to go. A split release. Me, Joe Anchorless and Redscare, splitting shit like egalitarian dogs alone in a filthy dog park.
I don’t think it’s out of line for me to tell you guys that the shit is called Wasted Potential, which was originally gonna be the title of this blog, but at the last minute I changed it to Bad Sandwich Chronicles. Why? Cuz I’m a marketing savant.
Anyway, listen up. I can’t speak for Joe, cuz well, he lives in Richmond and who knows what kind of hillbilly notions he’s got in his head, but for me, this does not mark a turn for me down the road of being some sort of folk or alt country guy or anything like that. This is simply me doing acoustic versions of songs you’ve already heard and getting a little hang time in with some old friends in the process. Oh, believe me, it’s a selfless endeavor. Need proof?
Fine dipshit, we’re playing a show, Joe and I, Friday, feb 5th at the Mutiny in Chicago. That’s significant because the Mutiny is this shithole famous for four things:
1) a giant urinal
2) individual pabst pitchers
3) free shows
4) the bands don’t get paid.
That’s right bitches and bastards. We’re celebrating this thing with a free show and we’re not getting paid. True! Haki ya mungu! So suck on that, you jaded fucks.
Oh, it’s not the release show or anything, so there will be no merch or anything like that. I don’t even think we get free beer, so bring your wallets you cheap fucks.
That’s everything. Enjoy your freezing ass day.
Oh, Joe is from that band Smoke or Fire.
Yup.
Joe and I have consumed multiple bottles of champagne early in the morning and hung out at ridiculous rockstar parties in penthouses in Vegas that neither of us really should have been at for thousands of reasons. I’ve stayed on his floor. He’s stayed on my floor. When I broke my kneecap, he was the first person I went out and got a beer with after the initial recovery period ended. That’s really more coincidence though. Again, not important. Jeez.
SO, you get the idea. He’s a good dude. Anyway, not long ago, Joe called me up and told me that he’d been doing solo tours and he’d made some recordings of himself doing acoustic renditions of some songs he plays with his band. He asked if I’d be into doing a handful of Lawrence arms songs acoustic and putting out a split with him. I told him that I’d think about it, but that was code for “sounds kinda lame, dude” and I kind of put the idea on ice. After all, I got a lot going on, folks. The last thing I need is to step into line behind every other dipshit raspy punk rocker turned balladeer that seems to be the style of the times. I mean, honestly, I’m literally already in ONE line behind Tom and Chuck and everyone. I don’t need to climb into another. That’s DMV style queuing, bro. No thanks.
BUUUUUUUUT, then I thought about it some more, and I thought, ‘you know what? Fuck it. If I can do something interesting, I’m gonna give it a go.” SO, I got my buddy Yates to set up a mic, and I got a new acoustic guitar (thanks to everyone here on the sock drawer who helped me to decide what to get! [sarcasm/old inside joke for real nerds]) and I decided that I’d just kind of go in, somewhat unprepared and do everything one take, live style. I figured that if I’m just doing old Arms songs, I’ve already contributed my vision of them as studio pieces, as perfect as we can get them, and so if I was gonna do it, I wanted more of a raw visceral and intimate quality in the recordings. I ended up doing a couple of overdubs, a riff here and there, but other than that, the recording is seven essentially live tracks, and they’re mostly TLA songs, though one cover slips in there too.
SO, long story continuing on, I finished that shit, and I thought it sounded pretty good and Joe has some songs and we’re gonna put it out as a split. Joe knows a dude named Neil who runs a label called Anchorless and he was apparently the impetus behind this whole project after hearing Joe’s songs. I talked to Neil, he seemed like a good dude, so I said, ‘yeah, fuck it. We’ll do it with this guy.’ Then I weaseled my buddy toby onto the project because I’m the fucking picture of nepotism, and we were set to go. A split release. Me, Joe Anchorless and Redscare, splitting shit like egalitarian dogs alone in a filthy dog park.
I don’t think it’s out of line for me to tell you guys that the shit is called Wasted Potential, which was originally gonna be the title of this blog, but at the last minute I changed it to Bad Sandwich Chronicles. Why? Cuz I’m a marketing savant.
Anyway, listen up. I can’t speak for Joe, cuz well, he lives in Richmond and who knows what kind of hillbilly notions he’s got in his head, but for me, this does not mark a turn for me down the road of being some sort of folk or alt country guy or anything like that. This is simply me doing acoustic versions of songs you’ve already heard and getting a little hang time in with some old friends in the process. Oh, believe me, it’s a selfless endeavor. Need proof?
Fine dipshit, we’re playing a show, Joe and I, Friday, feb 5th at the Mutiny in Chicago. That’s significant because the Mutiny is this shithole famous for four things:
1) a giant urinal
2) individual pabst pitchers
3) free shows
4) the bands don’t get paid.
That’s right bitches and bastards. We’re celebrating this thing with a free show and we’re not getting paid. True! Haki ya mungu! So suck on that, you jaded fucks.
Oh, it’s not the release show or anything, so there will be no merch or anything like that. I don’t even think we get free beer, so bring your wallets you cheap fucks.
That’s everything. Enjoy your freezing ass day.
Oh, Joe is from that band Smoke or Fire.
Yup.
Tuesday, January 26, 2010
i shouda stood in bed
Man, first thing that happened when I woke up this morning was that, on the way to the coffee maker, I stepped in dogshit. It was early morning, and I was still in my underwear and barefoot. The results were that the dual logs of shit were ground into not only the creases of my foot, but also the rug right in front of the kitchen sink.
At the coffee maker, yesterday’s grounds decided to ricochet off the garbage can and spill all over the floor. An offhand comment by my wife about my stinky ass and a shower and a quick breakfast later, I’m off to my take my kid to his second day of his new school and as I pass my other car, I notice that the rear tire is flat.
I drop my kid off only to realize that the one teacher that I saw him bond with yesterday isn’t there, which sends him into a bit of a ‘don’t leave me here with these fucking strangers, man!’ kind of panic that I (despite my sympathy) just kind of have to shrug off and smile and ignore in order to not wind up raising a total pussy.
Back at my car, the lug nuts were frozen on. The jack was under the seat where the carseat is. I had to struggle for about forty minutes to get the nuts loose (that would be funny if I wasn’t so pissed right now) and then remove the car seat to flip up the regular seat to get the jack and then put it all back, and man, installing and removing a car seat sucks in the best of circumstances and today, it’s fucking twenty degrees outside, windy and snowy, just by the way.
THEN, as I’m on the nasty ground, jacking up the car, I come to realize that the reason my tire is flat is because some dildo knifed it. There’s an inch gash in the sidewall. Where the fuck do I live? In a back alley full of satin-jacketed street toughs behind a broadway theater? Who slashes tires anymore?
Anyway, once I get the car jacked up, the real dickpunch sets in. At this point I’ve been in the cold for almost two hours and I’m pissed, and a little concerned that my kid’s gonna have a rough day at school and I’m dirty and did I mention pissed? Because yeah, I was pissed. And the fucking flat is frozen to the wheel mount.
I got a mallet and a lighter and banged and lit and cursed and kicked and now I’m waiting for triple A like some sort of old lady or otherwise dignity-free pussy who can’t even change a fucking tire.
Now, I’m no mechanic. Hell, I once poured oil into the power steering reservoir in my stepdad’s car. But one thing I can do is change a tire, and this, my friends, has been a terrible day so far, and it’s just gonna get stupider. I’m missing all my meetings. I’m not getting to the gym. I’m fuming like a dumb fake-tanned slightly beer-gutted cunt wearing the same dress as the super fat chick at the club, and thereby drawing unflattering comparisons. I’m fucking bummed, bros and hoes. Bummed.
This morning, between the dogshit and the stinky ass comment, we had vh1 on and were watching videos to see what the kids are listening to these days. That band Train was on, and we saw the video for their song “hey soul sister” which, uh…I don’t even know where exactly to begin enumerating all the things that are fucking terribly wrong about the entire thing going on there.
Firstly, and most glaringly, I suppose, is the name of the song. Um, who are you? Oprah? Because she’s the type of person that shouts woefully out of touch salutations along the lines of ‘hey soul sister!’ I mean, shit. That’s some shit that an old wise black woman would have shouted to Punky Brewster during a very special MLK day episode.
Then, there’s the dude singing. This guy is like, I dunno, fiftyish, and he’s dressed like a twenty year old girl. He’s got all sorts of medallions that hang to his navel and they’re on hemp type burlapy rope, and his shirt is just…no, he, HE is just gross. He’s so old and he’s desperately trying to be young and he looks like the California Raisins version of John Stamos dressed as Mischa Barton and he’s singing this adult contemporary, islandy little song with lyrics that were seemingly written by an 80 year old trying to click with the zeitgeist of the new millennium (sample lyric: “you can cut a rug” [which meant ‘you can dance’ back in the fifties] and the aforementioned ‘hey soul sister!’) and he dances like my kid. Just all flailing and elbows and pointing and he obviously has no business dancing and it’s gross. It’s all just so gross.
Imagine your dad won some contest and the top stylists at the fashion mall in Council Bluffs Iowa made him over like a rockstar and then someone shot a video for that one song that your mom wrote for him. That’s this.
This day sucks so far. Send me pictures of your clams pls. Thanks.
At the coffee maker, yesterday’s grounds decided to ricochet off the garbage can and spill all over the floor. An offhand comment by my wife about my stinky ass and a shower and a quick breakfast later, I’m off to my take my kid to his second day of his new school and as I pass my other car, I notice that the rear tire is flat.
I drop my kid off only to realize that the one teacher that I saw him bond with yesterday isn’t there, which sends him into a bit of a ‘don’t leave me here with these fucking strangers, man!’ kind of panic that I (despite my sympathy) just kind of have to shrug off and smile and ignore in order to not wind up raising a total pussy.
Back at my car, the lug nuts were frozen on. The jack was under the seat where the carseat is. I had to struggle for about forty minutes to get the nuts loose (that would be funny if I wasn’t so pissed right now) and then remove the car seat to flip up the regular seat to get the jack and then put it all back, and man, installing and removing a car seat sucks in the best of circumstances and today, it’s fucking twenty degrees outside, windy and snowy, just by the way.
THEN, as I’m on the nasty ground, jacking up the car, I come to realize that the reason my tire is flat is because some dildo knifed it. There’s an inch gash in the sidewall. Where the fuck do I live? In a back alley full of satin-jacketed street toughs behind a broadway theater? Who slashes tires anymore?
Anyway, once I get the car jacked up, the real dickpunch sets in. At this point I’ve been in the cold for almost two hours and I’m pissed, and a little concerned that my kid’s gonna have a rough day at school and I’m dirty and did I mention pissed? Because yeah, I was pissed. And the fucking flat is frozen to the wheel mount.
I got a mallet and a lighter and banged and lit and cursed and kicked and now I’m waiting for triple A like some sort of old lady or otherwise dignity-free pussy who can’t even change a fucking tire.
Now, I’m no mechanic. Hell, I once poured oil into the power steering reservoir in my stepdad’s car. But one thing I can do is change a tire, and this, my friends, has been a terrible day so far, and it’s just gonna get stupider. I’m missing all my meetings. I’m not getting to the gym. I’m fuming like a dumb fake-tanned slightly beer-gutted cunt wearing the same dress as the super fat chick at the club, and thereby drawing unflattering comparisons. I’m fucking bummed, bros and hoes. Bummed.
This morning, between the dogshit and the stinky ass comment, we had vh1 on and were watching videos to see what the kids are listening to these days. That band Train was on, and we saw the video for their song “hey soul sister” which, uh…I don’t even know where exactly to begin enumerating all the things that are fucking terribly wrong about the entire thing going on there.
Firstly, and most glaringly, I suppose, is the name of the song. Um, who are you? Oprah? Because she’s the type of person that shouts woefully out of touch salutations along the lines of ‘hey soul sister!’ I mean, shit. That’s some shit that an old wise black woman would have shouted to Punky Brewster during a very special MLK day episode.
Then, there’s the dude singing. This guy is like, I dunno, fiftyish, and he’s dressed like a twenty year old girl. He’s got all sorts of medallions that hang to his navel and they’re on hemp type burlapy rope, and his shirt is just…no, he, HE is just gross. He’s so old and he’s desperately trying to be young and he looks like the California Raisins version of John Stamos dressed as Mischa Barton and he’s singing this adult contemporary, islandy little song with lyrics that were seemingly written by an 80 year old trying to click with the zeitgeist of the new millennium (sample lyric: “you can cut a rug” [which meant ‘you can dance’ back in the fifties] and the aforementioned ‘hey soul sister!’) and he dances like my kid. Just all flailing and elbows and pointing and he obviously has no business dancing and it’s gross. It’s all just so gross.
Imagine your dad won some contest and the top stylists at the fashion mall in Council Bluffs Iowa made him over like a rockstar and then someone shot a video for that one song that your mom wrote for him. That’s this.
This day sucks so far. Send me pictures of your clams pls. Thanks.
Monday, January 25, 2010
of mice and brens
Good morrow, turdlets. Welcome to another week of mindless drudgery. It’s days like this when we should all take the time to reflect on…no. I’m sorry. I can’t do this. I’ve got a heavy heart. You’ll have to forgive me. I mean, you all know why, right? You know what I’m referring to, don’t you? I mean, it was devastating…well, to all of us frankly. What do you mean you don’t have any idea what I’m talking about? Okay, fine. Fine.
Ahem.
Last week was a pretty rough week for Brendans everywhere. Now, there are a lot of us, mostly in Ireland, sure, but there are sprinkles and pockets of Brendans everywhere, and granted, we don’t have a lot of celebrity Brendans out there, but there’s a few. I mean, there’s Brendan Canty, drummer of Fugazi, there’s me, and I mean, I’m not really famous, (but I’m more famous than that prick kid Brendan Houser who punched me in the stomach and stole my toy semi truck when I was five), and of course there’s the actor Brendan Kelly, who, presumably knows who I am, as we share a wikipedia signpost.
So, well, you get the idea. There’s a few mildly notorious Brendans. Not a lot. Not like Seans or Charlies or Brads. Nah. There’s just a few of us and we don’t really clock in very high on the celeb meter. For that matter, I can only think of a couple of other Brendans I’ve ever met. I have an in-law cousin once removed named Brendan (what’s up, lil B!). He’s probably the best Brendan I know, and he’s followed by Brendan Kelly the guy who’s an actor but not me, and also not the actor Brendan Kelly that we were just talking about. He’s just a guy from Chicago who acted in my movie and made all the email threads confusing as shit.
There’s Brendan Houser, who I knew as a kid, and who, as I mentioned before, stole my truck, and there’s a guy named (I’m not shitting you here) Brendan Dickout (that’s how it’s pronounced, at least. DICK-out) who played guitar in some crappy band that we toured with once. That’s pretty much it, Brendan wise. I mean, once I got called to the gate at the Milan airport only to realize that it was the flight to Dublin calling another Brendan Kelly. That was pretty funny, but you get the point. There’s not a lot of us.
When someone yells “Chris!” around my friends named chris, half the time they don’t even turn around. If someone yells “Brendan!” it’s about ninety percent that they’re talking to me (though lately there’s a lot of moms yelling at about 8 yr old Brendans all around me and my kid when we’re at the zoo and shit like that, but anyway, that’s neither here nor there.)
Okay, so, in this tiny little club, the Brendans, we have one big, grand puba of a leader, and I’m sure you all know who he is. That’s right, the Encino Man himself, B Fray, the biggest Brendan out there, Brendan Fraiser. Generally, I’d say he’s led us with dignity and aplomb by keeping our shared name classy as the marquee star of such kick ass cinema as Airheads, School Ties, Monkeybone, Bedazzled, George of the Jungle, In the Army Now, the Mummy franchise and of course Blast from the Past.
His blank, oafish affability helped me define my own idea of Brendandom when I was a mere pubeless, personality challenged weakling out there on the soccer field trying in vain to not look like a sissy as people hurled variously shaped balls in my direction. Yes, the Fray really piloted his ship of Brendans calmly through the nineties and aughts, and we all went to see all his wonderful movies in exchange. But then, last week something terrible happened.
I mean, what was he even DOING at the fucking Golden Globes? Was he nominated for his role in GI JOE:The Rise of Cobra? Because, well, he was great in it, sure, but we brendans are kind of used to the Hollywood foreign press turning up their noses at BeeF’s work at this point. Anyway, I digress. Point being, right there, on camera, when Deniro and Scorsese were having a moment, as Marty (as I like to call him) was being presented with the Cecil B Demille award by Bobby (as he’s colloquially known) suddenly, the camera shot to BeeF as he’s pulling this retard clap and slap, mongo guffaw combo that seemed so classless and gauche coming from the thespian that had absolutely vanished into the role of Dudley Do Right and melted us when he reprised his famous “Link” character from Encino Man in Pauly Shore’s Son In Law.
Gone was that gravitas. All that was left was a tubby shell of a once great actor who had obviously snuck into the Golden Globes, clapping, chuckling and vibrating like an inbred Georgia orphan watching a dog fuck a goose down by the crick out back.
It was rough.
THEN, Joel Mchale picked up the footage and played it over and over and over and over again on the Soup. It seems like it’s going to become some sort of recurring joke. Our dignity is gone. Thanks B Fray. Thanks for the humiliation, but you know what else? Thanks for everything. Really. You’ve been a great most famous guy with my same first name. BUT, times are changing, and you’ve gotten soft, and, well, it seems like we need a new “most famous Brendan in the world” now. I better leak that sex tape.
Sigh.
Ahem.
Last week was a pretty rough week for Brendans everywhere. Now, there are a lot of us, mostly in Ireland, sure, but there are sprinkles and pockets of Brendans everywhere, and granted, we don’t have a lot of celebrity Brendans out there, but there’s a few. I mean, there’s Brendan Canty, drummer of Fugazi, there’s me, and I mean, I’m not really famous, (but I’m more famous than that prick kid Brendan Houser who punched me in the stomach and stole my toy semi truck when I was five), and of course there’s the actor Brendan Kelly, who, presumably knows who I am, as we share a wikipedia signpost.
So, well, you get the idea. There’s a few mildly notorious Brendans. Not a lot. Not like Seans or Charlies or Brads. Nah. There’s just a few of us and we don’t really clock in very high on the celeb meter. For that matter, I can only think of a couple of other Brendans I’ve ever met. I have an in-law cousin once removed named Brendan (what’s up, lil B!). He’s probably the best Brendan I know, and he’s followed by Brendan Kelly the guy who’s an actor but not me, and also not the actor Brendan Kelly that we were just talking about. He’s just a guy from Chicago who acted in my movie and made all the email threads confusing as shit.
There’s Brendan Houser, who I knew as a kid, and who, as I mentioned before, stole my truck, and there’s a guy named (I’m not shitting you here) Brendan Dickout (that’s how it’s pronounced, at least. DICK-out) who played guitar in some crappy band that we toured with once. That’s pretty much it, Brendan wise. I mean, once I got called to the gate at the Milan airport only to realize that it was the flight to Dublin calling another Brendan Kelly. That was pretty funny, but you get the point. There’s not a lot of us.
When someone yells “Chris!” around my friends named chris, half the time they don’t even turn around. If someone yells “Brendan!” it’s about ninety percent that they’re talking to me (though lately there’s a lot of moms yelling at about 8 yr old Brendans all around me and my kid when we’re at the zoo and shit like that, but anyway, that’s neither here nor there.)
Okay, so, in this tiny little club, the Brendans, we have one big, grand puba of a leader, and I’m sure you all know who he is. That’s right, the Encino Man himself, B Fray, the biggest Brendan out there, Brendan Fraiser. Generally, I’d say he’s led us with dignity and aplomb by keeping our shared name classy as the marquee star of such kick ass cinema as Airheads, School Ties, Monkeybone, Bedazzled, George of the Jungle, In the Army Now, the Mummy franchise and of course Blast from the Past.
His blank, oafish affability helped me define my own idea of Brendandom when I was a mere pubeless, personality challenged weakling out there on the soccer field trying in vain to not look like a sissy as people hurled variously shaped balls in my direction. Yes, the Fray really piloted his ship of Brendans calmly through the nineties and aughts, and we all went to see all his wonderful movies in exchange. But then, last week something terrible happened.
I mean, what was he even DOING at the fucking Golden Globes? Was he nominated for his role in GI JOE:The Rise of Cobra? Because, well, he was great in it, sure, but we brendans are kind of used to the Hollywood foreign press turning up their noses at BeeF’s work at this point. Anyway, I digress. Point being, right there, on camera, when Deniro and Scorsese were having a moment, as Marty (as I like to call him) was being presented with the Cecil B Demille award by Bobby (as he’s colloquially known) suddenly, the camera shot to BeeF as he’s pulling this retard clap and slap, mongo guffaw combo that seemed so classless and gauche coming from the thespian that had absolutely vanished into the role of Dudley Do Right and melted us when he reprised his famous “Link” character from Encino Man in Pauly Shore’s Son In Law.
Gone was that gravitas. All that was left was a tubby shell of a once great actor who had obviously snuck into the Golden Globes, clapping, chuckling and vibrating like an inbred Georgia orphan watching a dog fuck a goose down by the crick out back.
It was rough.
THEN, Joel Mchale picked up the footage and played it over and over and over and over again on the Soup. It seems like it’s going to become some sort of recurring joke. Our dignity is gone. Thanks B Fray. Thanks for the humiliation, but you know what else? Thanks for everything. Really. You’ve been a great most famous guy with my same first name. BUT, times are changing, and you’ve gotten soft, and, well, it seems like we need a new “most famous Brendan in the world” now. I better leak that sex tape.
Sigh.
Friday, January 22, 2010
It opened up my eyes!
Okay you fucking smart ass. Look at this for a second.
shock1 [shok]
–noun
1.
a sudden and violent blow or impact; collision.
2.
a sudden or violent disturbance or commotion: the shock of battle.
3.
a sudden or violent disturbance of the mind, emotions, or sensibilities: The burglary was a shock to her sense of security. The book provided a shock, nothing more.
4.
the cause of such a disturbance: The rebuke came as a shock.
5.
Pathology. a collapse of circulatory function, caused by severe injury, blood loss, or disease, and characterized by pallor, sweating, weak pulse, and very low blood pressure. Compare anaphylactic shock, cardiogenic shock, hypovolemic shock.
6.
the physiological effect produced by the passage of an electric current through the body.
7.
shocks, Informal. shock absorbers, esp. in the suspension of an automobile.
–verb (used with object)
8.
to strike or jar with intense surprise, horror, disgust, etc.: He enjoyed shocking people.
9.
to strike against violently.
10.
to give an electric shock to.
–verb (used without object)
11.
to undergo a shock.
Origin:
1555–65; < MF choc armed encounter, n. deriv. of choquer to clash (in battle) < Gmc; cf. D schokken to shake, jolt, jerk
Know why I bring this up? Anyone? Well, yesterday one of my lovely socks suggested that my hyperbolic Avatar review (which, I’d like to add, was neither hyperbolic nor was it a review) contained the selfsame perversions of language that my very brother had railed against in the previous days comments section (check day before yesterday’s sock drawer and yesterday’s post and subsequent sock drawer if you need to be brought up to speed).
Well, firstly, dildo, I’d like to point out that in your haste to suggest that I may be igniting a family feud with my ignorance, you neglected to actually take into account that this definition of shock: “a sudden or violent disturbance of the mind, emotions, or sensibilities” AND this one: “to strike or jar with intense surprise, horror, disgust, etc” LITERALLY represent the emotions I was presented with, involuntarily, mind you, upon realizing that the most expensive and most successful movie of all time was laden with expository dialog so wooden and clumsy that it would be laughed out of a night school screen writing class. SO, therefore, you get the point, right? Right. Okay, no need to fight here. Just want to clarify. I don’t cotton to accusations of stupidity, espesh when I’m in the midst of a dialog about stupidity with my brother in the room. You’re trying to dog me out in front of my family, bro. Not cool. Now, they’re all presumably smart enough to recognize this dog and pony show mock trial that you’ve set up for me in the sock drawer for the banana republic monkey tribunal that it is, but, well, you understand, right? Good.
Okay. Moving on.
Today is my kids last day of school at the bite zone. He’s going to a real, nice scholastically oriented place where the vibe is less chaotic and maybe, hopefully, less conducive to biting other kids all day long. It’s a nicer place. It’s in a free standing school building instead of a store front in a strip mall, for one thing, and, well, I’m pretty stoked. Enough about kids. Let’s talk about what you really want to hear about, namely, my opinion of teen hearts.
Yesterday, in the sock drawer, beneath the suggestion that I don’t know how to properly exemplify my disgust in prose, was a suggestion that I discuss the Teen Hearts, who are, for those of you who don’t know, this fruity band of skinny androgynoids who play some sort of Strawberry shortcake by way of matt and kim synth dance music that’s undeniably catchy and would be completely dismissable as a bunch of dorks doing a less offensive brokencyde except for one thing: they’re a little too old to be doing it.
Okay, so brokencyde has the tubby dude with the combover in their band, so does teen hearts. Teen hearts also features a girl and a singer with an alkaline trio tattoo. Teen hearts ALSO (brace yourselves) seems like a joke to me. I don’t believe for a moment that it’s real. Those dudes are too old, it’s too manufactured and clean to just come out of the gates like that. There’s none of the trademark sloppy youthful exuberance that indicates genuine passion and excitement for finally getting out there and trying to get heard. It’s cold and calculated. I mean, that singer guy is close to my age. They cover ace of base. That means he REMEMBERS ace of base and knows how fucking goofy the situation around him is. It’s an elaborate ruse. That’s my opinion of the teen hearts. AND, if I’m right…well, they’re about the coolest group of people out there, honestly. Wait…Is that too hyperbolic? Maybe. Maybe so. Let’s tone it down. If I’m right…well, that’s pretty funny. How’s that? Better? Good.
There was a band called Hard Skin that was an oi band from England. We played with them on our first tour of the UK. They were all skinheads and so were their fans, EXCEPT, the dudes in the band weren’t really skin heads at all. They were regular guys who wrote all the music as a joke and were as surprised as anyone when it caught on. Their mongo fans, however, didn’t get the joke, which made for one of the most hilarious bits of live theater/rock and roll I’ve ever had the pleasure of witnessing as these dudes openly mocked a room of cheering, bloody skinheads who couldn’t stop loving them and had no idea that they were being made fun of. It was great, AND it truly was one of the best things I’ve ever seen, live show wise. No exaggeration.
So, if the teen hearts are like the fruity hard skin, well that’s rad.
I gotta go to work. Be cool out there.
Bye.
shock1 [shok]
–noun
1.
a sudden and violent blow or impact; collision.
2.
a sudden or violent disturbance or commotion: the shock of battle.
3.
a sudden or violent disturbance of the mind, emotions, or sensibilities: The burglary was a shock to her sense of security. The book provided a shock, nothing more.
4.
the cause of such a disturbance: The rebuke came as a shock.
5.
Pathology. a collapse of circulatory function, caused by severe injury, blood loss, or disease, and characterized by pallor, sweating, weak pulse, and very low blood pressure. Compare anaphylactic shock, cardiogenic shock, hypovolemic shock.
6.
the physiological effect produced by the passage of an electric current through the body.
7.
shocks, Informal. shock absorbers, esp. in the suspension of an automobile.
–verb (used with object)
8.
to strike or jar with intense surprise, horror, disgust, etc.: He enjoyed shocking people.
9.
to strike against violently.
10.
to give an electric shock to.
–verb (used without object)
11.
to undergo a shock.
Origin:
1555–65; < MF choc armed encounter, n. deriv. of choquer to clash (in battle) < Gmc; cf. D schokken to shake, jolt, jerk
Know why I bring this up? Anyone? Well, yesterday one of my lovely socks suggested that my hyperbolic Avatar review (which, I’d like to add, was neither hyperbolic nor was it a review) contained the selfsame perversions of language that my very brother had railed against in the previous days comments section (check day before yesterday’s sock drawer and yesterday’s post and subsequent sock drawer if you need to be brought up to speed).
Well, firstly, dildo, I’d like to point out that in your haste to suggest that I may be igniting a family feud with my ignorance, you neglected to actually take into account that this definition of shock: “a sudden or violent disturbance of the mind, emotions, or sensibilities” AND this one: “to strike or jar with intense surprise, horror, disgust, etc” LITERALLY represent the emotions I was presented with, involuntarily, mind you, upon realizing that the most expensive and most successful movie of all time was laden with expository dialog so wooden and clumsy that it would be laughed out of a night school screen writing class. SO, therefore, you get the point, right? Right. Okay, no need to fight here. Just want to clarify. I don’t cotton to accusations of stupidity, espesh when I’m in the midst of a dialog about stupidity with my brother in the room. You’re trying to dog me out in front of my family, bro. Not cool. Now, they’re all presumably smart enough to recognize this dog and pony show mock trial that you’ve set up for me in the sock drawer for the banana republic monkey tribunal that it is, but, well, you understand, right? Good.
Okay. Moving on.
Today is my kids last day of school at the bite zone. He’s going to a real, nice scholastically oriented place where the vibe is less chaotic and maybe, hopefully, less conducive to biting other kids all day long. It’s a nicer place. It’s in a free standing school building instead of a store front in a strip mall, for one thing, and, well, I’m pretty stoked. Enough about kids. Let’s talk about what you really want to hear about, namely, my opinion of teen hearts.
Yesterday, in the sock drawer, beneath the suggestion that I don’t know how to properly exemplify my disgust in prose, was a suggestion that I discuss the Teen Hearts, who are, for those of you who don’t know, this fruity band of skinny androgynoids who play some sort of Strawberry shortcake by way of matt and kim synth dance music that’s undeniably catchy and would be completely dismissable as a bunch of dorks doing a less offensive brokencyde except for one thing: they’re a little too old to be doing it.
Okay, so brokencyde has the tubby dude with the combover in their band, so does teen hearts. Teen hearts also features a girl and a singer with an alkaline trio tattoo. Teen hearts ALSO (brace yourselves) seems like a joke to me. I don’t believe for a moment that it’s real. Those dudes are too old, it’s too manufactured and clean to just come out of the gates like that. There’s none of the trademark sloppy youthful exuberance that indicates genuine passion and excitement for finally getting out there and trying to get heard. It’s cold and calculated. I mean, that singer guy is close to my age. They cover ace of base. That means he REMEMBERS ace of base and knows how fucking goofy the situation around him is. It’s an elaborate ruse. That’s my opinion of the teen hearts. AND, if I’m right…well, they’re about the coolest group of people out there, honestly. Wait…Is that too hyperbolic? Maybe. Maybe so. Let’s tone it down. If I’m right…well, that’s pretty funny. How’s that? Better? Good.
There was a band called Hard Skin that was an oi band from England. We played with them on our first tour of the UK. They were all skinheads and so were their fans, EXCEPT, the dudes in the band weren’t really skin heads at all. They were regular guys who wrote all the music as a joke and were as surprised as anyone when it caught on. Their mongo fans, however, didn’t get the joke, which made for one of the most hilarious bits of live theater/rock and roll I’ve ever had the pleasure of witnessing as these dudes openly mocked a room of cheering, bloody skinheads who couldn’t stop loving them and had no idea that they were being made fun of. It was great, AND it truly was one of the best things I’ve ever seen, live show wise. No exaggeration.
So, if the teen hearts are like the fruity hard skin, well that’s rad.
I gotta go to work. Be cool out there.
Bye.
Thursday, January 21, 2010
whatever happened to twisted sister?
Okay, first of all, I’d like to pull back the curtain on my most articulate of commenters. Yesterday, you all may have noticed an extremely erudite and verbose comment in my sock drawer that dealt extensively with the retardation and active retarding of the evolution of modern thought vis a vis contemporary English. You remember what I’m talking about, right? It was long and pretty funny. The poster’s name was rjk and then some numbers, so like rjk23345, or something like that. Not that his name’s terribly important, just trying to paint a picture.
Well, I went back to check that little essay out again in the harsh sober dawn, and it turns out the author erased it. Seems he’s too good to have his wordy little rants immortalized here on the sock drawer. What happened rjk32245? Your essay was being met with critical acclaim by all the biggest names and brightest stains in the drawer. Did you get nervous? Caught in the spotlight? Icarus complex? Felt the pressure to top that post with another one that’s even better? Look, I’m no stranger to the dangers and fears that accompany massive adulation. Believe me. I’m quite popular. But erasing your footprint is never the answer, rjk23423. That only serves to undermine your most basic of instincts to preserve remnants of yourself long after you’ve gone. Now, I’m no fancy big city lawyer, (that’s my favorite way to start a sentence by the way, and this is a surprise twist way to end it>) but rjk234523 is. I know this because he’s my little brother. No shit. That K at the end of RJK stands for Kelly. Believe that, assholes.
Anyhoo, right now, he’s got his panty hose socks and snakeskin shoes up on his mahogany desk and he’s sipping brandy from a snifter (like a mad homo, yo!) and he’s thinking to himself “damn you, handsome yet unsuccessful bohemian brother, for calling out my hubris and subsequent attack of humility! I should have you written out of the old man’s will!” And he could, too. He’s a powerful bigshot. Hey, how do you think I’ve avoided jail all these years, eh? That’s right assholes. I’ve got people on the inside. Anyway, I’d just like to point out that he’s obviously the smarter of the two of us (told you, asshole!) and he’s the one who erased his comment, not me. Last night he told me that he gets told that he looks like a less attractive howie mandel, which I don’t see, but I wonder if he’s ever really had someone say that to his face. World may never know. Okay, moving on.
Have you dipshits seen this show “locked up abroad”? It’s the single greatest re-enactment series of all time. Here’s why: every single show is about drugs. It starts off with some dumb young Brit/American/Canadian/white person just partying somewhere and they take the time to make the people actually look like younger, more attractive versions of the people who are retelling the story, AND they take the time to make the partying look legitimately fun. SO, here’s this woman, narrating her tale of snorting coke in the bars on the beach in Goa and getting fucked six ways from Sunday by a bunch of filthy dreadlocked backpackers, and they’ve got this girl who looks like the woman, but hotter and younger (cuz, you know, it’s before her prison term), reenacting all of this. Then she gets into smuggling. THEN she gets busted. THEN she goes to jail in India and THEN!!!!!!! She stays there for years and then they show the footage of them actually getting reunited with their families. It’s awesome. It’s everything I love: hot slutty young people making bad decisions, peeks into foreign jails, hilarious hindsight and subsequent self immolation (sound familiar rjk235?) and finally, great tips on what sets off the people who bust smugglers. SO, if you want to internationally traffic cocaine or hashish, I’d say there’s no better place to start than tivoing locked up abroad. It’s really a great show.
Okay, what else? Avatar, right? I saw that shit the other day. Man, oh man. It sucks. It’s the most manipulative, shitty, emotionally bankrupt piece of garbage I’ve maybe ever seen in my life. I mean (spoiler alert!) what a dumb fucking movie. Have you seen the matrix? Have you seen dances with wolves? Have you ever wondered what would happen if the two of them were seamlessly combined in the best looking video game of all time? Well, wonder no more, because Avatar is here to answer the question that no one wanted to waste time asking.
Now, don’t get me wrong. It’s absolutely fucking stunning to watch. I completely dig why people are flipping out over it, but man, really? They’re literally invoking 9-11 imagery, they’ve got bad guys getting hearts of gold, a cripple with a chance to walk again, a guy that dies and is reanimated by the love of a woman, pets dying, the spurned ex lover finally realizing that his romantic rival may be a bigger, better man than he credited him with initially, all sorts of bullshit white man/native dynamics, expository dialog that is so shameless that I was literally SHOCKED (example: “I don’t want you on this mission. I want your dead twin brother, the PHD who studied this project for three years. You’re just a dumb marine.”) and enough beautifully unrealizable cgi bodies to give even the most confident person cause to consider barfing up lunch a few times a week.
In short, you gotta see it. I’m in no way done talking Avatar with you people, but I have to go to work right now, so I’ll pick this up tomorrow.
xoxo
Well, I went back to check that little essay out again in the harsh sober dawn, and it turns out the author erased it. Seems he’s too good to have his wordy little rants immortalized here on the sock drawer. What happened rjk32245? Your essay was being met with critical acclaim by all the biggest names and brightest stains in the drawer. Did you get nervous? Caught in the spotlight? Icarus complex? Felt the pressure to top that post with another one that’s even better? Look, I’m no stranger to the dangers and fears that accompany massive adulation. Believe me. I’m quite popular. But erasing your footprint is never the answer, rjk23423. That only serves to undermine your most basic of instincts to preserve remnants of yourself long after you’ve gone. Now, I’m no fancy big city lawyer, (that’s my favorite way to start a sentence by the way, and this is a surprise twist way to end it>) but rjk234523 is. I know this because he’s my little brother. No shit. That K at the end of RJK stands for Kelly. Believe that, assholes.
Anyhoo, right now, he’s got his panty hose socks and snakeskin shoes up on his mahogany desk and he’s sipping brandy from a snifter (like a mad homo, yo!) and he’s thinking to himself “damn you, handsome yet unsuccessful bohemian brother, for calling out my hubris and subsequent attack of humility! I should have you written out of the old man’s will!” And he could, too. He’s a powerful bigshot. Hey, how do you think I’ve avoided jail all these years, eh? That’s right assholes. I’ve got people on the inside. Anyway, I’d just like to point out that he’s obviously the smarter of the two of us (told you, asshole!) and he’s the one who erased his comment, not me. Last night he told me that he gets told that he looks like a less attractive howie mandel, which I don’t see, but I wonder if he’s ever really had someone say that to his face. World may never know. Okay, moving on.
Have you dipshits seen this show “locked up abroad”? It’s the single greatest re-enactment series of all time. Here’s why: every single show is about drugs. It starts off with some dumb young Brit/American/Canadian/white person just partying somewhere and they take the time to make the people actually look like younger, more attractive versions of the people who are retelling the story, AND they take the time to make the partying look legitimately fun. SO, here’s this woman, narrating her tale of snorting coke in the bars on the beach in Goa and getting fucked six ways from Sunday by a bunch of filthy dreadlocked backpackers, and they’ve got this girl who looks like the woman, but hotter and younger (cuz, you know, it’s before her prison term), reenacting all of this. Then she gets into smuggling. THEN she gets busted. THEN she goes to jail in India and THEN!!!!!!! She stays there for years and then they show the footage of them actually getting reunited with their families. It’s awesome. It’s everything I love: hot slutty young people making bad decisions, peeks into foreign jails, hilarious hindsight and subsequent self immolation (sound familiar rjk235?) and finally, great tips on what sets off the people who bust smugglers. SO, if you want to internationally traffic cocaine or hashish, I’d say there’s no better place to start than tivoing locked up abroad. It’s really a great show.
Okay, what else? Avatar, right? I saw that shit the other day. Man, oh man. It sucks. It’s the most manipulative, shitty, emotionally bankrupt piece of garbage I’ve maybe ever seen in my life. I mean (spoiler alert!) what a dumb fucking movie. Have you seen the matrix? Have you seen dances with wolves? Have you ever wondered what would happen if the two of them were seamlessly combined in the best looking video game of all time? Well, wonder no more, because Avatar is here to answer the question that no one wanted to waste time asking.
Now, don’t get me wrong. It’s absolutely fucking stunning to watch. I completely dig why people are flipping out over it, but man, really? They’re literally invoking 9-11 imagery, they’ve got bad guys getting hearts of gold, a cripple with a chance to walk again, a guy that dies and is reanimated by the love of a woman, pets dying, the spurned ex lover finally realizing that his romantic rival may be a bigger, better man than he credited him with initially, all sorts of bullshit white man/native dynamics, expository dialog that is so shameless that I was literally SHOCKED (example: “I don’t want you on this mission. I want your dead twin brother, the PHD who studied this project for three years. You’re just a dumb marine.”) and enough beautifully unrealizable cgi bodies to give even the most confident person cause to consider barfing up lunch a few times a week.
In short, you gotta see it. I’m in no way done talking Avatar with you people, but I have to go to work right now, so I’ll pick this up tomorrow.
xoxo
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