1) "Time To Use My Sinus Rinse!" 2) "She Was Pregnant When I Met Her" 3) "Maybe If I Hit Reload, I'll Have a New Facebook Notification" 4) "Oh Well, No New Notifications" 5) "This Uncontrollable Sobbing Will Stop If I Drink Vodka at 3PM".
Plus: "Man! If I only had a guitar, 15 years of practice, a driving passion and a unique talent, Id be a big time rock star."
The phrase "don't cry over spilled milk" doesn't really take into account "crying while spilled milk murders and rapes your neighbors within earshot".
Is love still blind for a blind person? Or is it "love is sighted" for them?
Jews aren't money hungry, they're "getting the coat at cost" hungry.
I'm easily distractible which is a word I just had to add to my web browser dictionary. What kind of web browser doesn't have "distractible" in its dictionary? I guess it's time to stop using Mosaic. I wonder if my Geocities personal page is getting any hits from aol users looking at alt.binaries.Geocities.arcane.references.
If Axl Rose was a 10 year old fat Mexican kid who looks nothing like Axl Rose would he look like this? Fat Baby is Strong Baby!
I am not getting older, everyone around me is just getting a lot younger and speak a strange internet acronym based language.
I'm not gaining weight, the world is just contracting at an imperceptibly fast rate.
In 1993, I took neither side the "whoomp! there it is" or "whoot! there it is" war. I preferred the less well known "whoopie goldberg! there it is". That's probably why I was so unpopular in middle school.
"Nobody walks in LA" except when you're filling up your gas tank and an insane drunk hobo walks up to you to ask for money/to read his "manifesto".
The word manifesto sounds like a type of basil leaf-derived sauce created by stereotype Italian mobsters. "Aaay, taste this fuckin' manifesto, you goombatz!".
14 year olds who make fun of 18 year olds because they wear late-80s Run DMC style hip hop clothing should be gently reminded that in 4 years they'll be dressing like The Spice Girls and wearing $80 vintage "Silverchair" tee shirts. Fashion is macabre cyclic charade.
My heart raced, my head pounded and a slight numbness rang through my fingers. I thought it might be the end, or at least what the end might feel like.
I woke up at 9am on a Tuesday, blinked, and it was 4pm next Wednesday. I had a dream about being older; and when I woke up, the dream came true.
I thought about my job and realized that it was just something that distracted me from life. I thought about my life and realized it was just something distracting me from my job.
I went to the doctor, who made me wait for 45 minutes because people who had appointments after me arrived before me.
When I came through the door he smiled.
"How are we feeling today?" "I feel too old to be young, but too young to be old". "Wow! That sounds like a trite insight into the intrinsic truth of human nature." He got me there. "Touche!" "What it sounds like to me," He said, "is that you've got a case of the 'being aware of the transience of time'. The only cure is to stop paying attention." "How do I do that?" "Well, there's TV. Pop culture blogs, alcohol, skat porn. Anything that will take your mind off your mind." "Gossip girl?" "Now you're talking!"
I hopped in my car and bought some McDonalds. I thought this was an appropriate first step; I ate just enough to give me the runs and constipation at the same time.
I got home, turned on MTV just in time for a "The Hills" marathon. It felt a little weird and I vomited for the first hour; but after the initial shock to the system, things seemed to fall in place.
Time set itself right. Well, maybe time didn't set itself right, but I didn't notice the gaps. In fact, I didn't notice much.
I was OK with sitting around the house staring idly at the ceiling. It didn't bother me at all that I wasted a night looking at Perez Hilton, because my concept of value was greatly diminished. Soon, I paid no mind to museum visits, British Sitcoms and Italian cinema from the 1960s. All the pop culture noise and bland sameness allowed me to forget what I might be missing out on.
Time became an abstract concept instead of a stark reality. It no longer came and went with each passing breath; it just happened, like water running through your fingers in a shower.
When you fill your time with vapid, superficially unimportant things, time loses all its value. You're no longer missing out on things; things just happen around you.
I finally knew what it was like to be an American. Each day passed, but I didn't notice each day passing because I was too busy not noticing each day passing. I voted for the most handsome candidate and became outraged at things other people were outraged about because being outraged is better than being enraged.
I bought a flat screen TV and when that didn't fill the void, I bought a super fucking huge cinema display for my computer. These things became exponentially more important as I became exponentially less important.
And when I died, it all made sense. Because there's no questions when you aren't paying attention.
I would rather be savaged clumsily by a spork than sit in uncomfortable silence.
There's a grating, unnerving feeling when people sit in silence. I can't really explain it. Not talking to someone is essentially the same as screaming "I HAVE NOTHING TO SAY TO YOU, YOU FETID SACK OF COW TURD!!" at them.
So, that's why I ramble on and on and on. It's how I keep myself sane.
It's also how I get in a lot of trouble.
You see, the more one talks, then more one is likely to say something highly insulting or embarrassing to the other person. At least, that's the way it works for me.
Take, for example, a poker game that I had a week or so ago.
End of the night, everyone sort-of making their way out the door, the remaining few just idly sipping whiskey...
Barack Obama came up. (preface, I'm a huge Barack supporter and went around PA passing out fliers, making phone calls, etc for him)
I was attempting to express my pride and amazement that someone like Barack could win the election. How did it come out? An expression that more closely resembled a KKK recruiting pamphlet.
"When I was a kid, my dad told me that the US would elect a black man as president before they'd elect a Jew. I was like 'no way...how could that ever happen'! 'How could the US elect a black guy before they elected a Jew?'"
So the silence crept in and I felt like I needed to back up or keep chugging; basically cause some sort of car wreck...
"I didn't mean it like that; I just didn't think that anyone would actually votefor a black person to be president"
Of course, what I meant was that I didn't have the faith that a black person would ever be elected president because of our country's chequered past. Judging by the dropped jaws and piercing stares, it must have come across as "who could ever believe that an inferior race would be elected!".
A few days later, I found myself at the house of a good friend of mine, discussing internet culture with his girlfriend.
She spoke of her distrust of Twitter, and I picked up on it.
"Yeah, I mean, there are all types of vain, narcissistic weirdos taking pictures of their meals and tweeting 'this is what I'm eating'. What's up with that?"
I then realized that her boyfriend tweets all day and 90% of them are pictures of his meal with a "this is what I'm eating" tag on it.
I quickly tried to correct myself...
"uh, except your boyfriend, he's always taking pictures of interesting food. I completely understand why he does it. It's not vanity or narcissism when he does it. More of an art..."
So she's not responding and I think maybe I've taken it a little to far with the "more of an art" comment...too much silence, right?
"Well, as much of an art as Twittering can be, I mean, obviously an idiot could Twitter, not that your boyfriend is an idiot"
She was watching "The Hills" as we spoke and later on in the conversation (during a lull) a very sexy condom commercial came on.
I felt the need to butt in.
"Not to be too puritanical, but isn't this show for 15 year old girls?"
Note, we had just had a conversation about how this was one of her favorite shows. Of course, I was referring to the too-sexy commercial on, not the fact that a 28 year old girl was watching the show, but she didn't pick up on it.
"Uh, I guess, but you know, it's funny, that's why I watch it"
"Yeah, but I mean, how can they show that crap to little kids?"
She looks offended and stays quiet. I realize that she has no idea I'm talking about the condom commercial, and that I'm probably insulting her.
"Oh, I was talking about the condom commercial, I don't think this show is for 15 year olds, I just meant that was part of the demographic. The show can be enjoyed on different levels, you know? Like, if you're 15 you can enjoy it as an MTV reality show, and if you're older, you can enjoy it as..."
I lose track and try to quickly come up with something.
I can't.
"Anyway, I certainly didn't mean to imply this show is just for 15 year old girls!"
15 minutes later she went to bed and I didn't see her again for the next two days that I stayed at her house.
So, you get what it's like spending an uncomfortable night with me. I'm bound to insult you, your significant other, or your race. Perhaps all three.
I am slowly recovering from a particularly annoying case of the flu. Bedridden for 4-plus days, I spent the long, solitary hours in a bright white room covered in Kleenex and TheraFlu packets.
I'm fairly certain that nothing brings back vivid childhood memories than sick days at home. Sure, there's a difference; at the age of 8, 4 sick days doing nothing is a heavenly blessing from Jeebus; at the age of 28, it's a macabre exercise in the realization of how quickly life is passing you by.
Still, there's nothing like a good old sick day.
It brings me straight back to ear aches and sniffles at my childhood home at 88th street and Riverside Drive, watching bootleg World War II-era Superman and Bugs Bunny cartoons that my dad picked up from a street vendor at 96th and Broadway.
Occasionally, it might be something else; Star Trek II, Doctor Who, any one of a dozen Marx Brothers movies...even when I was sick, they made me feel better. Something about good watchin'...makes for a wonderfully constant healer.
Lacking ability to do much besides lay half-unconscious with my laptop on my stomach, I went to southparkstudios.com and watched probably close to 80 South Park episodes. Of course, I slept through about 50 of them, but I gotta say; even though the slightest laugh might have caused a painful coughing fit, it was worth it. South Park got me through the sickness; distracted me enough, kept me company enough, made me smile enough. Thank goodness for good programming.
My grandmother, who passed away last year at 98, was basically bedridden for the last 25 years of her life. "Bedridden" in this case is defined as "Anti-socialism" as opposed to "Too Sick To Move", but in any case, the gal kept herself going by watching TV day and night. Certainly nothing I would condone (I canceled my cable long ago), but something I can understand. Being kept company doesn't always mean there's anyone else with you.
Anyway, the first attempt I made to go outside was to drive over to Rocket Video to rent some British sitcoms. While there, I encountered 2 20-ish year olds arguing which Marx Brothers movie they should rent for an upcoming Acid Trip. I guess good entertainment can also keep your Id and Superego company.
Cult artists tend to elicit a "love it or hate it" reaction; I used to think that I was generally in the "unpopular middle" on most of them, until I realized that it absolutely depends on your mood. I fucking love these musicians at certain times. Most other times I'm at sort of a "crunchy whatever"...an "eh", if you will.
Here are some great artists and some great times to listen to them. On A Quiet, Rainy Day:
SYD BARRETT:
Ahh, the sound of someone mentally breaking down. That's either his two solo albums or the gentle sobbing that comes from my bathroom each night around 1am.
Originally the leader of the first (and in my approximation, best) incarnation of Pink Floyd, Syd had a bit of a breakdown; staring blankly ahead during a lip sync performance on American Bandstand, strumming his detuned guitar at random intervals during live shows, and writing a song called "Have You Got It Yet", which he introduced to his band mates by never playing any chords in sequence, asking the rest of the Floyd to follow along, and shouting "have you got it yet?" every few seconds.
In any case, they stopped picking him up for gigs at some point in 1968; his managers, thinking he was the star of Floyd, got some solo albums together.
The two records, "The Madcap Laughs" and "Barrett" consist of strange, almost rambling songs. Some are melodically captivating, some emotionally evocative, all pretty fucking weird.
His voice has an odd ethereal quality; he's almost not there. I would liken it to someone who is really, really exhausted; it's the last karaoke song of the night and all the wine is putting him to sleep. Yet, it's somehow special.
He strums his acoustic guitar wildly, changing time signatures willy-nilly, occasionally playing chords that he probably shouldn't be playing. His backup band seem to be playing catch up, confused as to where he might be going next (they haven't got it yet).
The more rambling songs are something to behold; they really feel like he just sat down, started playing his guitar and sang whatever strange things that came into his head. Take the lyrics of the track "Rats" off his 1970 album "Barrett":
Blam, splattered, tactile, engine heaving, quacky, squeaky, dormy, roofy, wham I`ll have them mind blown broken jardy, cardy, smoocho, poocho, paki, puffi splosh eat moxy, very smelly, cable, gable, splinter, shaddle top the seam he`s taken off
Half poetic, half "Huh"?...all pretty interesting. If you're going to give him a shot, be prepared to be full of sadly fun whimsy.
No Good Trying off 1969's "The Madcap Laughs" Great song, odd lyrics, listen to his backing band (the superb Soft Machine) attempting to play "catch up"...
Gigolo Aunt off 1970's "Barrett": One of his most "pop oriented" songs, which tells you something:
Barrett moved back in with his mom after some unproductive sessions in 1974 (financed by David Bowie). He died in 2006.
Taking a Nap On a Beach:
SCOTT WALKER: If I was to say "An industrial Josh Grobian singing over barren, yet complex musical landscapes" would you want to listen? Probably not. So I won't say it.
Scott Walker was a huge pop star in the 1960s, reemerged in the mid-1970s with an album that continues to "inspire" David Bowie (IE, he continues to "rip it off") and now releases a record every 10 or so years.
He is so unclassifiable as an artist, that I am simply unable to come up with words to describe his music.
My favorite album of his is 1995's universally praisedTilt, something that will lull you into a sense of false security with a minute or two of ambient rattling, then blow your mind with abrupt dissonant percussion, orchestral bursts and operatic wailing. Oh, and lyrics about everything from the trial of Adolf Eichmann to the endangerment of the buffalo.
Bowie, again, used that album as the blueprint for everything from his 1995 album "Outside" to his 2002 album "Heathen".
If Tilt sounds like too much of a drag to you, a good starting point might be his four tracks on The Walker Brothers' 1978 album "Nite Flights"; Can meets Genesis meets Roxy Music hybrid which is worth the price of several admissions. Hey, Bowie even covered the title track. Enough Bowie for you? Only one more reference, I promise...
If you're interested in pushing your musical horizons into bleak, dark, insanely intellectual territory, than this is the man for you. If "ten piece orchestra, wailing guitars, loud organ, lyrics about Europe in the summertime" turn you off, don't bother.
Oh, and there's apparently an amazing documentary on him which actually was just in theaters (produced by none other than David Bowie!). I missed it, but it'll be in my Netflix queue...if I had a Netflix queue...
Tilt off 1995's Tilt The poppiest song off the album...it's about leather, Buffalo mothers and the enviroment. That makes it sound waaaay worse than it is...
Night Flights off 1978's Night Flights It's poppy, but also a little mysterious...gotta love it...and the processed violins...
I really appreciate (almost) everything this guy's done. From his early bluesy cuts to his last album, 1982's Ice Cream For Crow. His music is cosmic, jagged, fucking strange and wonderful.
Famed BBC DJ John Peel did a pretty good job of defining him. In discussing his 1968 masterwerk, Trout Mask Replica, he wrote:
If there has been anything in the history of popular music which could be described as a work of art in a way that people who are involved in other areas of art would understand, then Trout Mask Replica is probably that work.
Beefheart's beat-poetry-meets-proto-punk-riffs-sung-in-a-blues-howl always appealed to me in a way that most music doesn't; artistically. His music sounds like a Pollock painting, without the vomit stains. It's music that belongs in the MOMA; the wine and cheese set say they like it, but it's just because they don't understand it; the rest of us enjoy it on a visceral level; it's poetry we can bob our heads to.
Not everything has to make sense. Things can be beautiful without being beautiful.
He's inspired everyone; from Sonic Youth to Bloc Party. He even inspired ME. I think this was the first song I wrote the music AND lyrics for at 23...why not post it here? I was listening to a lot of Beefheart at the time. Don't judge...
Anyway, pick up Trout Mask Replica, which lands on everyone's top albums of all time (Rolling Stone said #58...I would say about #25).
Sweet Bulbs off 1968's Trout Mask Replica: A great track about...what I'm assuming is the vagina...but I'm not sure. Not sexual, it's evocative, dense, and jagged with poetic lyrics that will have you grabbing your "pocket guide to explaining poetry"
Zig-Zag Wanderer off 1967's Safe As Milk I hear this blaring often in Hipster Bars' Jukeboxes. It's easily digestible, but full of enough cache to fit into a hobbledehoy's 2009 "songs I tell people I like" playlist.
Anyways, if you don't like any of these people it's probably because you don't like any of these people. Profound, I know.
Give 'em a listen, maybe it will open up your musical horizons.
A weird, unsettling creepiness comes over me when I realize that it was a solid 10 years ago that I graduated from high school.
10 years: Enough time for a child to be born and develop a highly distasteful interest in Miley Cyrus. Enough time for a group of nomadic midgets to reach the summit of the Matterhorn, using only gerbils for warmth and company over the long, endless nights.
At some point, staring at 17 year old girls went from "checking them out" to "a cause to call child protection services"
And what about those fancy pants dreams? Sure, all those amazing things you knew you were going to accomplish by 25 seemed plausible in 1998, but now they are a far-off reverie; a post-modern fairy tale, as it were.
Something remotely close to a spec of a tangent of something you want to do seems good enough.
Those friends that haven't at least compromised? Daddy's getting pretty sick of writing the rent check every month.
So the truth? You're always going to be playing catch up with time; it's always going to be a few steps ahead of you. As you age, time moves at an exponentially faster rate, so you're going to fall exponentially further behind.
Is there anyway to catch up? Probably not. You've got shit that will help you pass the time, like primetime TV or a sex worker who's dead inside, but no way to slow it down.
I do have a theory on something that might help. Have you noticed that if you're having fun (going out to dinner, having a good conversation), time fucking flies past, but when you're not (going to the gym, waiting on line at the DMV) it moves super slowly...
If you do that, I guarantee you life will seem endless.
Until you age to the point where death is looking at you while tapping his watch.
Although I guess that's where booze comes in.
This week I was in a retiree community known as "Florida" visiting my father. I haven't seen so many people drunk off their ass since I went to my Irish ex-girlfriend's family reunion/whiskey drinking contest.
I thought getting uncontrollably drunk becomes socially unacceptable at some point in your late-20s, but this appears to not be the case...I guess it's totally cool to get drunk all the time until you die.
At least it makes life a little more bearable. Hell, if I was 77 and living it up in Florida, I might take up a heroin habit.
I guess my main point is; live in the moment, don't live in the moment, time is precious, time doesn't matter. Whatever, it makes no difference, you should just be happy you're however old you are at this very moment, because it only gets worse from here.
Speaking of high school...is it just me or does the poster for the latest "hilarious body swap comedy" 17 Again (cunningly not 18 Again):
Look suspiciously like the cover of David Bowie's 2003 album Reality?
Pandora is a revolutionary 21st-century-type radio station that finally I tried using tonight after having several people (including my 67 year old pop) rave about it for a while.
Basically you tell it what songs you like, and it creates a playlist around those songs. Sounds simple, right?
Not entirely. The playlist is created based around certain aspects of your chosen songs (the beat, the harmonies, the rhythm), but not other, perhaps more important aspects (decade of song, genre of song, if the other songs are good at all). So, when I create a playlist around the layered, ethereal "The Model" by Kraftwerk, the 80s pop-crapfest "She Bop" by Cyndi Lauper is the first song that comes up.
A Pavement b-side. Now, I'm as pensive, stop/start dynamic, indie-rock as the next guy, but if I want to listen to fey wobblers singing about tranny sex blanketed in intricately melodic guitar lines, then "Cut Your Hair" isn't my first choice.
Plus, I get the feeling like Pandora is judging me. They have little explanations of why they choose certain songs for you. "Based on what you told us, we're playing this track because it features complex melodies and subtle harmonies"...or whatnot.
Well, I consider myself a connoisseur of fine music; a lone cowboy riding his ear-shaped horse from genre to genre in search of complex, yet satisfying musical deliciousness.
Pandora, on the other hand recommends songs for me because they contain "simple, repeated melodies", "basic rock song structures" and "a dynamic male vocalist". So, Pandora thinks I'm a gay simpleton.
Stop judging me Pandora! Oh, and when are you going to start carrying "Christ Truck"? Get on that...
Bess was hotter than the burnt embers that stoked the fire in my vacant heart.
Not only did she have "a body that wouldn't quit", she had a body that had recently been promoted to Regional Manager of Sales.
She was pretty fucking hot.
How an Italian mercenary like me ever ended up marrying her is beyond me.
OK, I'm lying. I'm not Italian. I'm Jewish. And I'm not a mercenary, I'm a manager of Accounts Payable at Fenstein, Phlegmberg and Clamcheese, INC.
And we weren't married...yet. It was more of a stalker/stalkee relationship; I pathologically followed her every move, and she lived her life, occasionally enjoying discount Indian food.
But, this beaut beyond beauty will be mine. Soon they will call me "Moshe: The Sexiest Jew Who Fondles All Sorts Of Attractive Lady Types".
I'll just have to change my name to Moshe first. I'm actually Shlomo, which is about as bad a name as my parents could have chosen, except for maybe Gaylord. My last name is Suckscock, so, I mean, I'm fucked either way.
In any case, I wanted to be the Porgy to this delicious slice of Bess. But how?
I gathered up all my courage and decided to talk to her.
"Bess!" "I'm sorry, do I know you?" "Yes, I'm that creepy guy who was masturbating outside your window last night." "Oh, my stalker!" "I prefer sexy lady connoisseur" "Either way, you watched me poo" "I bet your poo smells like chocolate roses"
That visual did nothing for me, so I decided to open up the conversational floodgates.
"Well, I've gathered up all my courage, Bess. I want to talk to you. Tell me a little about yourself." "OK, I was the cheerleader type in high school, but then I'm like "fuck that, I'm not daddy's little whore any more. Little Lolita's a woman, daddy". I've spent the last five years addicted to crystal meth and managing a Hopewell, New Jersey Quiznos. I don't know if it was the crank, but those sandwiches are fucking nasty". "They are pretty disgusting" "So what about you? What are you looking for?" "Well I'm looking for someone intellectually curious, you know, someone who'll genuinely be interested in listening to NPR. Also, someone who knows how to write a good email. No letter "U" for "you", no TTYLs, no Twitter speak". "Good luck, it's the 21st century; no one can spell anymore, books are a thing of the past, anal play is a rich sexual tapestry. Get with the times."
Knowing that she'd never be my "it" girl, I decided to drug her and take her back to my place. Sure, it was somewhat illegal, but so is drunk driving, and that didn't stop Linsday Lohan. Yes, I'm a modern day Lindsay Lohan...without the vicious drug and alcohol problem and rampant lesbianism.
She came back to my place; we spoke of God, Groucho Marx and discount hummus. It was an enlightening conversation, because I realized one true fact:
Just because someone is attractive, doesn't mean they have anything remotely interesting to say whatsoever...
I can't believe I'm just finding that shit out now.
I mean, sure. You see someone attractive and you automatically give them an intellectual pass. Idiotic things they say are "cute", vacuous things "sweet", racist things "humorous"...
You're blinded by their good looks.
Bored after speaking for 4 minutes, Bess spoke up.
"Do you have anything to do here? I mean if you're going to kidnap me and NOT rape me, you've got to provide at least some sort of entertainment..." "I'm afraid the only socially acceptable form of home entertainment I have is this travel Scrabble." "What about not socially acceptable?" "Oh, then there's "sitting in deafening silence while idly checking my email"...that's my favorite past time". "Well, it's your lucky day, Shlomo, because I love uncomfortable silences."
That's when I realized that even though she was stupid, vacuous and had virtually nothing interesting to say whatsoever...she actually enjoyed NOT talking to me.
Imagine being in a relationship with someone you don't have to interact with. It would be a dream come true.
So I married her. We never had kids, talked to each other or had any physical interaction of any sort. We only met at funerals and when we both needed to go to the bathroom: It was the perfect relationship.
Scientists have discovered (based on taking a close look at Google Earth) that cows align themselves along a North/South axis, which appear to indicate that they have some sort of "sixth sense" of magnetism.
Well, further studies (based on taking a reallyclose look at Google Earth) seem to reinforce this; showing that cows align themselves in all sorts of fun, different directions when they are standing next to power lines. Those lines emit a low level magnetic field, thereby "crossing their magnetic wires".
So are we about to enter an age of fashionable cow-compasses? Will geneticists create "pocket bovines" and market them to grizzled old mariners looking for a good larf while sailing about the globe? Probably not.
What this says to me, in a pretentiously simplistic way, is that there is some sort of incomprehensible symmetry to everything. It's not necessarily some divine deity, but something necessarily divine about these bovines' magnetism.
As science learns more (and takes a super intense look at Google Earth), we're going to discover all sorts of seemingly inconsequential little pieces; tiny fragments of an unknowably large whole.
Personally, I can't wait. Well, I'll probably be dead before we even being to partially understand the tiniest amount of knowable information...but my great-great-great-great grandson might find it interesting. Well, somewhat interesting...ooooor not actually interesting at all.
My guess? One day, everyone standing in a southern direction will fall off the face of the earth, leaving the hyper-intelligent cows ready for the "Great Cow Uprising" of 2046. Our only defense? Worcestershire SauceBot: a half human, half peppery condiment killing machine created by the human resistance (let by H.J. Heinz).
At some point during college, I had another "web log", which I wouldn't classify as a blog because is was so morbidly under-updated; but I certainly wrote as much uninteresting crap there as I write here.
Feeling completely uninspired tonight, I'll cut-and-paste bits and pieces of my 2001 AOL HOMETOWN web blog here, for your unenjoyment. This was right after I discovered The Onion, which has since become a national phenomenon, or at least something that's good for a quick, short larf amongst college-age stoners.
THIS JUST IN: Amazon.com User Writes Devastating Review Of Guns N Roses Album
PENNINGTON, NJ- On or about January 22, Pennington area native "BonJovi 1986" wrote a devastating review of the Guns N Roses album "Appetite for Destruction" on Amazon.com, the online store with "The Earth's Biggest Selection". Typing in all capital letters to underscore the urgency and anger of his review, Mr. 1986 writes, "IDOITS WHO LISTAN TO THIS GLAM GARBAGE ARE JUST STUPID. AXL SOUNDS LIKE SREECHING TIGER WHO SUCKS". He continued on saying, "IF YOU WANT TO HERE REAL MUSIC LISTEN TO 'SLIPPERY WHEN WET". BON JOVI RULES/!!.1!" When contacted at his second floor studio apartment over the local Hooters, the reviewer clarified his position, "Hopefully, one day I shall climb the Amazon.com hierarchy, and rise up to become one of the top 1000 reviewers. Once that happens I can gain the respect and admiration that I deserve and people will finally understand that GNR sucks ass, and Bon Jovi totally rules". Guns N Roses management could not be reached at press time.
Your Parents Hate You, Wish You Were Never Born
DATELINE USA-A new study has just been released revealing that your parents hate you and wish you were never born. The study, conducted by the University of Miami, was written after extensive interviews with your parents. It concludes that 100% of your parents think you are "a total disappointment...that wasn't worth the price of the condom that broke during intercourse". While there was agreement amongst your parents confirming your status as "a total loser", opinions differ as to why. Your Mother says, "The child never gives and always takes; like a vacuum. A fucking annoying vacuum." Your Father, on the other hand, takes a wildly different stance, "God. I can't afford shit anymore after paying that loser's way through college. And for what? I wish that fuck would just die so I could collect the insurance money". Dr. Richard Dickson, who helped conduct the study says the results weren't totally unexpected, "After preliminary interviews with relatives and friends, it was a forgone conclusion that you are a piece of crap. The only thing left needed was the generous government funding". You could not be reached for comment because you were crying in a corner, you fucking pussy.
Top Story: Baby Born Addicted to Crack, Unprotected Sex
QUEENS, NY- In a story that's becoming all-too common nowadays, Jessica Sharpe was born last week addicted to both crack and unprotected sex. Her mother, 17 year old crack whore Melissa Sharpe was "shocked" at the revelation. "That's total fuckin' bullshit", Sharpe said, "my baby ain't addicted to fucking nothing". When pointed to the physical evidence and her apparent double negative, Sharpe responded, "Well, she probably got it from her fucking father, whoever that is". She continued, "Now, where's my fucking thong? I gotta get back on the street before Vinnie finds out". When asked to clarify her statement, Sharpe replied, "Do you have any? I'll give you a BJ. I suck a good cock. C'mon man, I just need a taste". The only known cure for these addictions is a regiment of hard baby fucking and IV crack. "It'll be a long, arduous process" Dr Henry Stein of Queens Medical says, "but it'll eventually cure the baby of her addictions, at least until the age of 14".
Manic Depressive Sadomasochist Masturbates, Cries, Then Masturbates While Crying
Depressed Philosophy Major Ponders Existence Of Self, Acne
HAHAHAHAHAH
or actually,
BOOOOOO, that sucks...
Yeah, that one.
Well, what do you expect, I was 20. I would also sit around my dorm room writing poetry about despair or Bergman movies or something....
Finding out that you're the worst person in the world isn't as bad as it seems.
Sure, you're a vicious fiend, hell bent on making life awful for all those around you, but at least you're the best at something. Who else can say that about themselves? Tiger Woods? Those two fat guys on motorcycles (best at being fat on a motorcycles?) Well, the day I found out I was the worst person in the world was the BEST day for me. I had accomplished something.
Take that, doubting public! Matty has conquered something aside from that bottle of cheap whiskey!
Sure, I haven't conquered my career goals, maintaining basic hygiene, or my fear of Belgians; but there's always a first step. A first, depressingly morbid step.
You see, it's hard being a terrible person; it takes a ton of work. Take yesterday for example:
I used the phrase "dumb Mexican", while negatively referring to an old stereotype. Did my Mexican housekeeper hear the part about it being a "stupid old stereotype"? No. Did she hear "just another dumb Mexican"? Yes.
Worst person am I!
Last month, I was on a shoot with a gay PA (production assistant). I used the phrase "gay" to refer to something "lame". Immediately struck by neurotic guilt, I apologized to the PA in front of the 15 person crew.
"So sorry Bill! I'm not trying to insult gays...hope I didn't insult you!"
How was I supposed to know he's in the closet?
WORST EVER!!!
Or, let's take a magical journey back to 2002 when I was working as a barback in my brother's bar. Carrying some ice to the bar in a big tray, an African-American gentleman reached in, and tried to grab some ice.
"You can't do that, it's unhygienic" Said I. He got indignant: "You don't want my black germs? You afraid I might turn your white women black?" "No, it's just that customers aren't allowed to grab ice from the trays". "You touch it." "Yeah, I work here." "So it's OK for a white boy to touch it, but black people can't work here?" "Huh?" "RACIST!!!"
I'm not sure I understand that one, but I'm also pretty sure it ties in to me being awful.
SO, these little things that you say, which are completely unrepresentative of who you are, define you. They are little, meaningless snippets that people use to assume big, meaningful things about you.
Why?
Because it's much easier making a snap judgment than a nuanced, informed opinion; just ask the American voter circa 2004.
IF:
a) GOD IS DEAD b) GOD WAS NEVER ALIVE TO BE DEAD c) GOD EXISTS AND IS ALL POWERFUL
THEN:
a) YOU'RE FUCKED b) YOU'RE FUCKED c) YOU'RE FUCKED
So let people think you're awful, say stupid things, be super awkward; the only judge that matters is yourself.
Walking in a bowling alley parking lot I came across a massive truck with the words "Jesus Christ Is Lord Not a Swear Word".
The truck was so ungainly large that my friends and I weren't able to take a picture that captured the entire blasted driving contraption.
What was it? A portable mega-church? Something that houses a Utopian community of militant Evangelical Christians preparing for "The End Of Days"? Your guess is as good as mine.
Anyways, as soon as I saw it, this song basically wrote itself in my head. When I got home, I recorded it. I can't tell if it's unabashed idodicy or just borderline nincompoopery.
Hello my vacuous ninny you're a lily-livered face painted moron, more on with a good sense of diction- airy light brains
Scribbled on a wall, she wondered if this poem was about her. Sure, it was signed "for a good time, call Alice Sacks" but maybe it was another Alice Sacks. Sure, under Alice Sacks was her phone number...but maybe someone named Alice Sacks used to have her phone number.
Yeah, probably not.
Why did everyone think she was stupid? Was it that she occasionally spelled words with a 7? Spoke with a British accent even though she wasn't British? Limped for effect?
Or maybe it was just because she was really fucking stupid.
Either way, she had to prove to people that she was as smart as a wh7ip.
So she sat down to write a masterwork; a great novel that transcended genre and classification. When she was done, her 569 page piece of Doctor Who fan fiction, "The Attack Of The Zygons" was greeted lukewarmly amongst even the most diehard Whovians.
She moved on to Music. By creating her very own "Sgt. Pepper", she would show everyone what a unique, Thom Yorkian talent she was.
So she sat down and started to compose. After three months, working 22 hours a day, this is what she came up with; "Sing Songs":
After playing it for her friends and family, they realized that she wasn't stupid, just mildly retarded. That's when they had her committed.
Unfortunately, the disparaging graffiti continued.
Alice unlike wonderland wonder when you'll realize you're as vapid as you are ugly and you're really fu7cking ugly.
Turns out, in a Fight Club-esque twist of events, it was Alice writing the graffiti all along. She thought insulting herself was good motivation to write books and music.
She was last heard from after marrying a 35 year old Labrador named Harold in a mixed-faith ceremony. She, a Catholic, he a Dogmatist.
After he signed the Devil's contract Jack had a slight twinge run down his spine. Perhaps he shouldn't have done that. "Soul For All Eternity"? That sounds like a long time.
"Fuck it", he thought to himself. "I want to be a successful-type Hollywood guy; this is the only way it's going to happen, even if the Devil fucks me over with one of his patented 'Evil Twists'".
He closed his eyes and took a deep breath. When he opened them, he was sitting in the office of Shlomo Steinberg, the #1 agent at CAA. Chomping hard on a big stogey, Shlomo looked at Jack with awe.
"This is seriously the worst fucking script I've ever read. You've removed every semblance of heart, personality and intellect".
Jack sighed. Maybe this is the Devil's evil twist. He knew it must be coming.
Shlomo continued "...welcome to Hollywood, my boy. This is almost as impressively bad as Paul Blart: Mall Cop. You're a fucking genius. We'll fast track this sucker for a summer release".
"Shweet!" Jack exclaimed.
"Shweet!" Jack exclaimed later that day when the blond spray-tanned plastic person yanked softly upon his dangly nether regions.
As he climaxed, the plastic person pulled down her pants and showed off an impressively erect wang. "I fuck screenwriters", she said. "I also have a penis".
Jack sighed. This must be the Devil's evil twist...it was bound to happen.
That's when he got a great big look at the Tranny's wang. "Wow!", he thought to himself. "I guess I'm gay, because I'm in penile-love!". That's when Jack realized he was unbelievably gay.
"This isn't so bad, except for the rectal stretch marks".
"This isn't so bad, except for the rectal stretch marks". Jack's actor said the line perfectly. It's a new-millennium catch phrase; irritating, vacuous and offensive. The film, "Irritating, Vacuous and Offensive" was a fart-riot-a-thon which debuted at #1. Jack had finally made it.
Or did he?
In the back of his mind, he knew it wasn't that easy. The Devil twists and turns like a twisty turny thing, and there was sure to be some sort of backfire. But what?
"Maybe I'm just being paranoid. After all, I did just start a raging coke habit to keep up with my friends in the business. 'Friends'? Fuck that, competitors. If they get a job, I don't; so even though we might talk politely at parties; discussing vaginas, oral herpes and ways of acquiring cocaine; they aren't my friends, but my friemies". He took a toot and tore up a torn tee.
Naked, he made love to his tranny high on cocaine while thinking about what he was going to write next. "A Group of Teens Have 2 Days to Lose Their Virginity, Or Terrorists Will Blow Up The White House; I'll Call It Sexxorist".
He realized that that was the worst idea in the history of ideas; even worse than The Turd Twister, which allows you to make shapes out of your poop. He also realized that the film would be made, probably starring J.K. Simmons as the stodgy, but lovable high school principal.
He thought hard to himself; "do I have any good ideas? OK...think...A Blind Policeman has to team up with a Deaf Musician to...FUCK!!! I have no good ideas. Maybe I'll call a friend and talk about this. Oh, wait, I don't have any friends, just frienemies. FUCK!!!!".
Looking in the mirror, he realized that the Devil's Twist was that he had no creative talent whatsoever and treated all his friends like they're your enemies. That was the only way to make it. Blast!
Later that night, Jack killed himself because spending the rest of eternity in Hell was way better then spending 15 minutes at a Hollywood party.
According to academic study that I read last year, humans find things attractive because they are easier for our brain to process. So, the simpler something is to look at, the more sex-licious it is for us. If something is out of the norm (and our brain is saying, "really? I have to actually pay attention to this?"), then we don't find it attractive. A wart, squinty eyes, a bigger-than-usual body part, etc...
I mean, I'm fucking hotter than a supermodel spitting Jay-Z lyrics on Venus, but for those that aren't; a few existential questions must come up: Why don't people find me attractive and what can I do to make people find me attractive?
Well, if you have money you can do this: Yeah!!!! Get those lips a-pumped! I've heard of penis envy, but lip envy?
Do people find big, thick lips sexy? Apparently. Every woman that I've ever met has a hang-up about the size of their lips. That's why so many MySpace/Facebook pictures have girls giving their best "trout pout" or as I like to call it, "Mick Jagger impersonation": Are women more attractive with 'em floppy lips? Let us go experimental and take two of Hollywood's sexiest sexpots and see what happens when we rid them of their pair of pouties.
Scarlett I. Johansson: Now which do you find more attractive? Seriously? Be honest with yourself. She's very attractive, but I do believe that a lot of her appeal is her wondrously luscious labia oris.
Sure, she's still a beaut in the second picture, but "guest spot on Bones" beaut, not "Scar-Jo" beaut.
Angelina Jolie: Now, I really only remember her as "the sexy chick from Hackers" but she's apparently made a career for herself and her 15 African children. Her lips are so famous that insanely unstable octo-mommies feel the need to collagen-cop them.
So, what does our celebrity look like without the lips?
Kind of becomes a bootleg J-Lo, no?
I wonder what our obsession with pout is? Maybe it's easier to look at. Certainly, my lips are so delish that they could be sold at Greenblatt's on Sunset with a side of Cole Slaw and a pickle...
Well, I'm unrelentingly sexy, right? Let's photoshop those big lips out and see what I look like...
Bored and sick, I thought I might just have a little fun on Craigslist. Now, granted, "a little fun on Craigslist" for most people usually involves buying teal-colored teacups or cruising the "causual encounters" section for some pretend action, but I thought I might try a little social experiment.
"What if I post a repulsively surreal ad, but use an attractive picture of a woman; who would respond?"
Well, sadly, the CL community is quick to flag posts, so my various attempts at posting surreal, entirely offensive personals were largely unsuccessful. ("read me the bible while I call you Uncle Steve" just didn't fly)
This was the best ad that I could come up with that was able to remain up for more than 15 minutes (it was up for about an hour):
What did I find in the responses? Well, first off, most people online either can't spell or aren't interested in spelling correctly (who knew so many words were spelled with numbers?). Second off, it appeared that most people were typing with one hand/while orgasming.
Not a shock there either.
Out of about 70 or so, here are my favorite responses:
1) THE CHEF: Look out for his Joycean prose, especially in the line "soooooo good like a cornicopia of wonderful herbiliciousness".
2) MR. PUT U TORKEY IN THAN OVER LIKE 2 HURS: Mmmm...just say it out loud with me: "put u torkey in than oven like 2 hurs"...if that smooth talking doesn't get you sizzling hot, I don't know what does...
3) THE GAMBLER: There's B, who wants to meet me at Granny's Doughnuts so we can take the bus to a casino together. Mmmm...doughnuts, a bus ride and an inveterate gambler...what could be hotter?
4) THE SWIFTIAN WIT: Why this man isn't writing for The New Yorker is beyond me...
What else did I find?
1) More wangs than you can shake a stick at, if that's your idea of a good time. 2) A lot of "military servicemen" are trolling CL for hot action. They all have six packs and a tongue like an electric eel. 3) A lot of earnestly horny people who will look past the fact that this odd, obviously fake woman wants deli meats rubbed all over her body for sexual pleasure.
As a statement of our life and times, this ranks slightly below "TMZ".
Here are three more great sitcoms that you probably haven't seen, unless you're me, in which case you should definitely get out more. Oh, and get that weird thing checked out. You know what I'm talking about.
4) PEEP SHOW (2003-present): "Peep Show" is probably the most innovative sitcom to come about since "Seinfeld"...at least up there with "Arrested Development" in terms of sheer originality.
Sure, it's got all the trademark awkward ingredients of a 2000-era sitcom; uncomfortable sexual situations, characters doing extremely embarrassing things, et al...but unlike other single camera "awkwardfests", this show does something unique: it's shot entirely from the point of view of the characters. This, combined with a good deal of "uncomfortable internal monologue" voice over, makes for a suitably original show that really allows you to understand, identify and empathize with the main characters.
Also, the dialogue is pretty fucking sparkling. I'm glad it's lasted as long as it has. US stations have tried a few pilots, but it was never picked up. Surprise! Can you imagine a major network taking a risk on something like this?
Again, like "Black Books" embedding was disabled on all youtube videos...so this was all I could find...
The premise: one of the characters wants to trip on acid with a bunch of his friends, while his roommate is sick and needs the living room to watch training videos to prepare for a big conference. Solution: he drugs his roommate and contemplates raping him.
5) ARRESTED DEVELOPMENT (2003-2006): OK, you've probably seen this, thought..."hey, this is funny", then turned it off and forgotten about it. Seriously, this might be one of the top three or four sitcoms to have come around in the last 20 years.
What's so amazing about it? Well, first, the cast. Each and every single actor is hilarious. Even the kids; sure, everyone thinks Michael Cera is guffaw-inducing now, after "Superbad", but he was even funnier as the awkward George Michael. Jason Bateman? Who knew that one of the "Hogan Family" would end up being so naturally jocose.
Second, the scripts: as tight and plotted as a late-season "Seinfeld", but with enough room to allow the actors to improv and squeeze every last bit of funny from each quip. The jokes felt natural without that sickening "babbling improv" crap that most single camera comedies have now.
Third, the style; yeah, almost every sitcom on TV is single camera now...but that wasn't the case in 2003. Why are shows single camera now? Because...it's what's popular. Why was "Arrested Development"? Because, narratively, it was a mockumentary. The verite style MADE SENSE with a single camera. Why is "Kath and Kim" a single camera? Because 3 camera shows don't sell anymore.
Much like Jesus, "Arrested Development" had to die in order for lesser single camera shows to live. Watch this clip...but better yet, catch up with this show on Hulu. I believe every episode is available.
6) SPORTSNIGHT (1998-2000): Aaron Sorkin's version of a network sitcom. To my knowledge the absolute first single camera "situation comedy", although it felt much more like a dramedy than anything else.
Kind of like a funnier version of "The West Wing" the show never really felt long enough, but on the plus side, it made you always want more. Intellectual, emotional, and occasionally overwrought; this was a show about 10 years ahead of its' time.
Put it on now, and it's a thinking man's "30 Rock". 10 years ago, it was just super confusing (is it a comedy, is it a drama? why aren't there 3 cameras?). So confusing, in fact, that ABC thought it needed a laugh track ("see, this is supposed to be funny!"). Can you imagine a single camera show having a laugh track now? Thankfully, it was removed after a few episodes or so.
In any case, totally worth Netflixing, if just to get a lesson in intelligent, witty dialogue. Thank God Sorkin was still on the crank when he was writing this!
What I truly love about Sorkin's writing is that he's able to squeeze mini tangents into his dialogue. As a writer, you're tempted to put something off-topic, but interesting and amusing into your conversations, even if it's not germane to the scene. Invariably, you take it out because...it's not germane to the scene.
Sorkin, somehow, manages to keep them in AND make them germane to the scene, at least emotionally. Take the "what's not an insect?" line in this scene. What does that have to do with the conversation? Nothing. Is it a cherry on the delicious conversation cake? Definitely.
I promise to never, ever refer to anything as a "delicious conversation cake" again...
Well, I hope if you've read this far, I've managed to pique your interest in at least one of these tasty shows. If not, EPIC FAIL...as the kids these days say.
A lot of the dreck that passes for comedy theses days makes me vomit uncontrollably inside my mouth, which in turn makes me cry, which in turn makes me vomit some more.
There's a lot of stuff most Americans have never seen which is pretty friggin funny (and smart) and would blow certain unnamed, wretchedly unhilarious shows out of the comedy waters. Here are a few to get you started.
1) THE YOUNG ONES (1982, 1984): Without hyperbole, this is the greatest show of all time. OK, that was plenty of hyperbole and it's probably not the greatest show of all time. It is, however, the most wickedly insane situation comedy of all time. The show is basically indescribable, but the essential premise is that four college students live in disgustingly wretched student housing together. There are 4 archetypes; The Hippie, The Punk, The Cool Guy and The Poet Socialist.
The brilliant people behind "The Young Ones" discovered that variety shows got bigger budgets. So what did they do? They turned their sitcom into a variety show. A regular 1/2 hour will contain a wildly odd sitcom plot...and also a musical performance (from some great 80's bands), stand-up comedy, puppet asides and general madness. This, combined with the unrelentingly surrealistic situations (including a lion tamer moving in, a vampire sent in the mail, the house being transported back to the middle ages, etc) make for a wonderfully entertaining, yet compellingly unique, viewing experience.
2) BLACK BOOKS (2000-2004): If you think alcoholism, surrealism, narcissism, and people being really fucking awful to each other is funny, than this is the show for you. A situation comedy set in a tiny independent bookstore run by an alcoholic, chain-smoking Irishman named Bernard Black, it's kind of a 21st century "Fawlty Towers".
I'm always a big fan of big, broad surrealist comedies with an intellectual bent and plenty of self-loathing from the characters. Bernard Black is the ultimate alcoholic/comedic anti-hero. He just wants to read, drink, smoke and be left alone. Don't we all?
Why this isn't on TV more, I'll never know. From the same group of comedians that brought you "Shawn Of The Dead" and "Hot Fuzz".
Here's a clip (unfortunately, some evil soul went on to youtube and blocked any clips from this show from being embedded. Here's a whole episode...skip to about 5 minutes or so if you want to get a feeling of the humor):
3) NEWSRADIO (1995-1999): There was a palpable alternative comedy movement going on in the states in the 1990s represented by shows like "Mr. Show" and "The Ben Stiller Show": Newsradio is the culmination, and only mainstream example of this type of alternative comedy. How it lasted as long as it did on network TV is beyond me.
Basically creator Paul Simms hand-picked some of the best and brightest comedians of the 1990s (SNL's Phil Hartman, "Kids In The Hall"'s Dave Foley) and put them together in an office sitcom. Sure, most of the standard archetypes are there, but the characters and humor were original, unique and often absurd.
Take one plot from the final season; office dullard Matthew is given a drink that was invented by the office handyman to make him smarter. It does make him smarter, however the drink is just a placebo...he's just so stupid that he only becomes smarter because he thinks the placebo is the real thing. Paradoxical logic like that is always comedy gold.
That sort of humor combined with the fact that Dave Foley is one of the greatest straight-men of all time and Phil Hartman was one of the greatest funny-men of all time mean that there were a lot of memorable moments.
This is definitely a show worth revisiting, and now, thanks to Hulu, most of the episodes are available online for free.
Here's a quick clip; the premise of the episode is another one of those delectable, illogical situations: the boss wrote a book, had it translated into Japanese, then had it translated back into English...then had a public book reading.
Also, Ron Jeremy is in the audience as the book is being read. Delicious.
Fat Baby is Strong Baby!
there's a darkness rising in the streets
Ahh, the sound of someone mentally breaking down. That's either his two solo albums or the gentle sobbing that comes from my bathroom each night around 1am.
If I was to say "An industrial Josh Grobian singing over barren, yet complex musical landscapes" would you want to listen? Probably not. So I won't say it.
Yeah, it's totally cliché to use the words "cult", "captain", and "beefheart" in the same blog post, but what the hell.
Well, the day I found out I was the worst person in the world was the BEST day for me. I had accomplished something.
Yeah!!!! Get those lips a-pumped! I've heard of penis envy, but lip envy?
Are women more attractive with 'em floppy lips? Let us go experimental and take two of Hollywood's sexiest sexpots and see what happens when we rid them of their pair of pouties.
Now which do you find more attractive? Seriously? Be honest with yourself. She's very attractive, but I do believe that a lot of her appeal is her wondrously luscious labia oris.
Kind of becomes a bootleg J-Lo, no?
Well, I'm unrelentingly sexy, right? Let's photoshop those big lips out and see what I look like...
No wonder my nickname is "tiger lady"...
What did I find in the responses? Well, first off, most people online either can't spell or aren't interested in spelling correctly (who knew so many words were spelled with numbers?). Second off, it appeared that most people were typing with one hand/while orgasming.
2) MR. PUT U TORKEY IN THAN OVER LIKE 2 HURS: Mmmm...just say it out loud with me: "put u torkey in than oven like 2 hurs"...if that smooth talking doesn't get you sizzling hot, I don't know what does...
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