tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-67418584333348880542024-02-02T17:50:49.091-05:00Said PantiesAnonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10996771273232767374noreply@blogger.comBlogger43125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6741858433334888054.post-31199779071296939402010-09-08T01:16:00.018-04:002010-09-08T03:14:35.587-04:00Bibbity-Bobbity-BLAM!*<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiAGbsUhYryqFcJjTbbGgo3vAcvW0Q0u80FoMiop0aii7UzaIXnfPrsedjHK21Z21vHH6Oe3FL67LZei58bHdXLRPAl39XPW9jAy5q3ErNcWEQIYCCCF8o9aj9O1NiiRPQ1zTCAe_3YIAc/s1600/sad_disney_mickey_mouse.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 250px; height: 250px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiAGbsUhYryqFcJjTbbGgo3vAcvW0Q0u80FoMiop0aii7UzaIXnfPrsedjHK21Z21vHH6Oe3FL67LZei58bHdXLRPAl39XPW9jAy5q3ErNcWEQIYCCCF8o9aj9O1NiiRPQ1zTCAe_3YIAc/s400/sad_disney_mickey_mouse.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5514435126104463794" /></a><br /><span style="font-style:italic;">Hannah Montana. The Suite Life of Zack & Cody. Camp Rock 2: The Final Jam. </span><br /><br />As if the Disney Channel needed another method to send sentient adults running for the remote, there is now <span style="font-style:italic;">Disney Blam!</span> You should know just from that title whether or not this is the program for you.<br /><br />Imagine someone screaming the word <span style="font-weight:bold;">"BLAM!"</span> directly in your face. Now imagine that this person has one of the most grating, unpleasant, obnoxious voices you've ever heard. Now repeat that word over and over for one minute and thirty seconds. <span style="font-weight:bold;">"Blam! blam! blam! blam! blam! blam! blam!" </span> Do you feel like you're being shot in the face with a machine gun? I do! I tried to think of a word more abrasive than <span style="font-weight:bold;">"BLAM!"</span> and was unsuccessful, so kudos, Disney, on an appropriately irksome title.<br /><br />Think I'm exaggerating? Watch the following clip at your own - <span style="font-weight:bold;">BLAM!</span> - peril:<br /><br /><object width="480" height="385"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/O_pn4x8OpLk?fs=1&hl=en_US"></param><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"></param><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"></param><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/O_pn4x8OpLk?fs=1&hl=en_US" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowscriptaccess="always" allowfullscreen="true" width="480" height="385"></embed></object><br /><br />Believe it or not, that clip is only a minute and a half long, even though I feel I could've caught an entire season of <span style="font-style:italic;">Mad Men</span> in that agonizing span. I now know what Hell is like - it feels like being tortured for an eternity! <br /><br />Is this really what it takes to hook the ADD generation? Back in my day - not so terribly long ago - Disney was still a sacred, untouchable entity, producing such classics as <span style="font-style:italic;">Beauty & the Beast</span>, <span style="font-style:italic;">Aladdin</span>, and <span style="font-style:italic;">The Lion King</span>. I imagine there were some purists who balked at Timon and Pumbaa's flatulence humor, moaning, "How has Disney sunk down to this level?" To these purists, I have just one thing to say:<br /><span style="font-weight:bold;"><br />BLAM!</span><br /><br /><span style="font-style:italic;">The Lion King</span> is looking pretty old-fashioned now, isn't it?<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjSoCHSzWA7qzDOzMFhgA5J0KSeh5SSa0jBIam0OzMactxMBdbjcQnSu6_CfwyFVNG-sfpNhn_NGwJTWQ2oQ6ZIBR-7H-8svX_7k0fS8OJa1WkXWmDqSDBAzFkxu2G3JrtYvx5YGXStLy0/s1600/PumbaaScreams.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 238px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjSoCHSzWA7qzDOzMFhgA5J0KSeh5SSa0jBIam0OzMactxMBdbjcQnSu6_CfwyFVNG-sfpNhn_NGwJTWQ2oQ6ZIBR-7H-8svX_7k0fS8OJa1WkXWmDqSDBAzFkxu2G3JrtYvx5YGXStLy0/s400/PumbaaScreams.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5514433535212997506" /></a>Once upon a time, Disney was about simple cartoons featuring silly characters getting themselves in absurd predicaments. And that's about it. I'm pretty sure some of them involved a mouse, but who can remember such details anymore? Then there were full-length animated features, then there was a theme park. Then there was merchandise. I suppose it was all downhill from there. Soon celebrities like Robin Williams were doing their shtick in Disney films, and wiseass postmodern comic relief like Timon and Pumbaa were inserted to appease the kiddies. At least those movies still retained the winning Disney formula with strong themes, imaginative stories, and memorable characters. <br /><br />But what could kids possibly be getting out of <span style="font-style:italic;">Disney Blam!</span>? Aside from an excuse to refill their Ritalin prescription?<br /><br />Once upon a time, Disney's characters were a staple of growing up. Mufasa might as well have been Jesus Christ for how well he was known and worshiped. Do kids even know who these characters are anymore? It's no coincidence the Anonymous Blammer refers to Goofy and Donald each as "that guy." I bet he's never heard of them, either. I can only imagine some tyke running up to Mickey Mouse at Disneyland and saying, "Look Mom! Look Dad! It's that guy from Blam!" And then giving "that guy" a swift kick to the groin with a snicker, a stale pun, and - what else? - a<span style="font-style:italic;"> <span style="font-weight:bold;">"Blam!" </span> </span><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgi8OXfnnU1fBxdwvP96DV_a4TTRXhKqcv6Ro536la9SoZRP_CfZlj0qSfxObL_xb-1FBOK2xsPfF9D1BjNOgsY7tHM2yXazIgUyJD7ytRlnHq-b70eQcr5HAG_u1ETLh7YL4v1gnh9HSY/s1600/1983-mickey-greed-scrooge.jpg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgi8OXfnnU1fBxdwvP96DV_a4TTRXhKqcv6Ro536la9SoZRP_CfZlj0qSfxObL_xb-1FBOK2xsPfF9D1BjNOgsY7tHM2yXazIgUyJD7ytRlnHq-b70eQcr5HAG_u1ETLh7YL4v1gnh9HSY/s400/1983-mickey-greed-scrooge.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5514432181080938386" /></a>Not that I'm surprised. The Disney Channel has been violently offensive to adult sensibilities for quite some time now - I dare you to visit the Disney Channel website. It is borderline terrifying. Those trademark mouse ears can still be located, but beyond that, there's nary a familiar face from my childhood. Certainly no Goofy, Minnie, or Donald Duck. Not even an Ariel, Simba, or Genie. You would think Disney would use this outlet to, say, air Disney films and cartoons featuring cherished Disney characters. Alas, no. Primarily the Disney channel features shows about teenagers doing assorted trickery (sometimes magical, and sometimes just fooling people into thinking they are/aren't a famous country diva) and pretending they're not sexually active. Quite a lot of this involves singing - Disney would rather have their tween viewers believe that your average American adolescent is more likely to burst spontaneously into song than get to third base with his girlfriend, and in this respect, I suppose things haven't changed that much. Family values are still in tact, they're just a lot harder to buy these days when the focus is on high school students rather than far-off princesses. <br /><br />Where are the mice in suspenders? The irate, pantsless ducks? The miserly uncle with three boisterous rhyming nephews? I suppose <span style="font-style:italic;">Disney Blam! </span>was some genius executive's way of keeping these characters alive in the minds of today's youth. I suppose they think this is a way of honoring dear old Uncle Walt and his beloved early creations. <br /><br />In reality, this is the Disney Channel desecrating the name of Walt Disney and everything he once stood for, spitting on all that is holy in the world, and poisoning the futures and well-beings of our nation's children. <span style="font-weight:bold;"><span style="font-style:italic;">Blam! Blam blam blam! </span></span> Now let's hit rewind on the Blam Cam and watch it again, shall we?<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhUAIwRqX-NycMIrilMzBCO5n0ILSp9b_dJrwQ92KsXTBWP85R09DkvtTYlOwSCagGImwyJgN9YL0ow64cPTgH8dsHWSpxNMz9M3Tyt2LHhmLok_CS2ppioOYpFHshYYx21UiQM_l8rvJQ/s1600/cinderella324.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 267px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhUAIwRqX-NycMIrilMzBCO5n0ILSp9b_dJrwQ92KsXTBWP85R09DkvtTYlOwSCagGImwyJgN9YL0ow64cPTgH8dsHWSpxNMz9M3Tyt2LHhmLok_CS2ppioOYpFHshYYx21UiQM_l8rvJQ/s400/cinderella324.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5514434597617297170" /></a>I just don't see the point. As I recall, Disney cartoons were already brief and rather violent. Sure, the violence was more harmless even than, say, <span style="font-style:italic;">Looney Tunes</span> or <span style="font-style:italic;">Tom & Jerry</span>, but cartoon creatures were constantly hit with objects that would mostly likely kill a normal human being. This was done for our amusement. When I was a kid, I still found these cartoons reasonably entertaining without any added <span style="font-style:italic;"><span style="font-weight:bold;">"blam!"</span></span> They did not need pesky voiceover spouting ESPN-esque quips to "explain" what was going on. I don't recall ever watching a Disney cartoon and thinking, "Man, I just don't get what's going on here! Can't someone spell it out for me?" Not even as a very young child. I certainly never thought the cartoons needed more sound effects. When the image of an animated dog getting a pie in the face is accompanied by a "smoosh" sound effect, that generally works. Why a spoken <span style="font-style:italic;"><span style="font-weight:bold;">"blam!"</span></span>? Why, why, why? How the hell did <span style="font-style:italic;">Steamboat Willy</span> become <span style="font-style:italic;">Jackass</span> for 4 year-olds?<br /><br />Is this just the first step in Disney's forceful world takeover, dumbing down all that is sacred until it can be dumbed down no more? You know that graphic with Tinkerbell flitting about, waving her wind, and then illuminating the Disney castle? It wouldn't surprise me if that flick of her wrist was soon accompanied by a <span style="font-weight:bold;"><span style="font-style:italic;">"BLAM!"</span></span> Lady and the Tramp's spaghetti kiss might also be punctuated with a <span style="font-weight:bold;"><span style="font-style:italic;">"BLAM!"</span></span> and then rewound for an "Instant Replay." They could probably cut Cinderella out of <span style="font-style:italic;">Cinderella</span> altogether for a story about mice and birds making a dress, <span style="font-weight:bold;"><span style="font-style:italic;">"BLAM!"</span></span>-ing with every stitch. And hey, on second thought - why can't it be a spoonful of <span style="font-weight:bold;"><span style="font-style:italic;">"BLAM!"</span></span> that helps the medicine go down?<br /><br />The following is ostensibly a parody, but almost indiscernible from the jaw-dropping horror of the real thing:<br /><br /><object width="480" height="385"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/z1rVF8Np4xw?fs=1&hl=en_US"></param><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"></param><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"></param><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/z1rVF8Np4xw?fs=1&hl=en_US" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowscriptaccess="always" allowfullscreen="true" width="480" height="385"></embed></object><br /><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;"><span style="font-style:italic;">"BLAM!"</span></span><br /><br />Did you hear that?<br /><br />I'm pretty sure that was Walt Disney shooting himself in the face.<br /><br />Wham! Blam! No thanks, man,<br /><br />X.X.http://www.blogger.com/profile/14845533891411766527noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6741858433334888054.post-72238392612324733122010-09-07T13:12:00.002-04:002010-09-07T13:30:14.718-04:00Everything Blows, Anything Gospel<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiXqJX7bXNWbo0gnTWWpCTDMjr2O30pklhZUlAOS584fPmDaDgyZBe1h0qJYFi0tbu_GLeJ9Waezs3WEAbGdBwbjjaRlvkoveGqDFE2iHhDlkNBMVkSvH3_psYq7i_NtfWI9WqM1_9qHhBC/s1600/AnythingGoes.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiXqJX7bXNWbo0gnTWWpCTDMjr2O30pklhZUlAOS584fPmDaDgyZBe1h0qJYFi0tbu_GLeJ9Waezs3WEAbGdBwbjjaRlvkoveGqDFE2iHhDlkNBMVkSvH3_psYq7i_NtfWI9WqM1_9qHhBC/s320/AnythingGoes.jpg" /></a></div>This past weekend, the boyfriend, our best friend (his first, mine as of recently), and myself took an exhausting road trip from Long Island to Ocean City, NJ to see yet ANOTHER friend in a production of Anything Goes. He was great. His cast was spectacular. The direction and orchestra were phenomenal. And yet, despite all this, I wanted to dive off of the Music Pier and into the roaring sea below.<br />
<br />
Why? Because Anything Goes, I quickly remembered, is a fine and one-of-a-kind example of a shitty show that is unfortunately tied tightly to some of the best music in the musical theater. It's sort of like meeting a really hot and sweet guy at a bar, but finding out when you go home with him that he was hiding a Siamese twin who belches a lot and never shuts up.<br />
<br />
What's funny is that you probably know a ton of music from this show... you just don't know where it came from. And that's probably a good idea. Anything Goes, the show part at least, is abysmal. It tries to be funny, though often is not. It tries to stay on track, but derails into oblivion and absurdity rather regularly. And it's so patently ridiculous that your eyes roll backwards in your head 360 degrees, resulting in the pain of your eyes rolling back, and the further torment of still having to see the show.<br />
<br />
But then there's the MUSIC. And, my God, these are some of Cole Porter's very best tunes including:<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<center><object height="385" width="480"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/keixiITpUPU?fs=1&hl=en_US"></param><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"></param><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"></param><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/keixiITpUPU?fs=1&hl=en_US" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowscriptaccess="always" allowfullscreen="true" width="480" height="385"></embed></object> </center><center>Blow, Gabriel, Blow</center><br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<center><object height="385" width="480"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/8YINKPLasko?fs=1&hl=en_US"></param><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"></param><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"></param><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/8YINKPLasko?fs=1&hl=en_US" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowscriptaccess="always" allowfullscreen="true" width="480" height="385"></embed></object> </center><center>You're The Top</center><br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<center><object height="385" width="480"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/l1la1I375gY?fs=1&hl=en_US"></param><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"></param><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"></param><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/l1la1I375gY?fs=1&hl=en_US" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowscriptaccess="always" allowfullscreen="true" width="480" height="385"></embed></object> </center><center>Friendship</center><br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<center><object height="385" width="480"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/iVsD0rltRr8?fs=1&hl=en_US"></param><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"></param><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"></param><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/iVsD0rltRr8?fs=1&hl=en_US" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowscriptaccess="always" allowfullscreen="true" width="480" height="385"></embed></object><br />
And, of course, the show's namesake, Anything Goes</center><center> </center> <br />
All my life I heard these songs, not knowing their origins, and loved them a ton. It's probably better that way. The actual show, Anything Goes, makes no sense, and sort of just fills the air with spoken words in order to kill time between songs. I noticed this time around while watching the show that the songs, themselves, don't even advance the plot much. This is often a criticism heaped on composers like Frank Wildhorn: that the show comes to a screeching halt when characters start singing, which is not supposed to be the point. Songs in musicals, they claim, should continue advancing development and action, just in heightened ways.<br />
<br />
But what happens, like in Anything Goes, when the show was never really going anywhere to begin with? Well, you basically find yourself trying to occupy yourself while unimportant characters yammer about nothing of importance, waiting with baited breath for the next amazing song and dance number.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhvWoYQGfEt1Mm12SefHUINvCVLYzjXLqmq8x7CzmJrGoDBDogb8wBHdko_g5IOuhNiz3JTl2ei8miznlIkjstSWvSOb3K4zKGyhd8cRSemr41-ISAaV3JcADiieqpz5jnH2BL0ngC5z5yS/s1600/AnythingGoes-1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhvWoYQGfEt1Mm12SefHUINvCVLYzjXLqmq8x7CzmJrGoDBDogb8wBHdko_g5IOuhNiz3JTl2ei8miznlIkjstSWvSOb3K4zKGyhd8cRSemr41-ISAaV3JcADiieqpz5jnH2BL0ngC5z5yS/s320/AnythingGoes-1.jpg" /></a></div><br />
Our friend Erin had mentioned something intriguing about the show, however, which makes a lot of sense. Apparently, Cole Porter had been paid to write songs after the show was made, and he just went into a bag full of music and came out with the score. If this is indeed the case, that would make Anything Goes nothing more than the first Jukebox Musical in history!<br />
<br />
Of course, I Googled the show after hearing Erin's info, and found out a lot about it. First off, the show was originally called "Crazy Week" (because it's fuckin CRAZY!) followed by "Hard to Get" (I'd recommend too easy to not get, but anyway...) and then FINALLY "Anything Goes". Even funnier, apparently the show was to end with the boat sinking and all of the unnecessary people dying very necessary deaths. But that was changed when the SS Morro Castle, a passenger ship, caught fire and resulted in the death of 137 passengers and crew. So they basically threw together the ending of the show in a few days. And it shows.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjuMvdxqXBGBx3df0nSiv716d7XrSkrGMNkk0WUl2_rzsRHFZZ3UG3ZEouQMApeJT4uhDoMWmvcXwoqDunaUHdo-mNp3JUF_xbH7599s-LGBBiJBj7qDB3r33V_hrxuZaBWJEH4FxUZNlC5/s1600/85-86+anything+goes.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjuMvdxqXBGBx3df0nSiv716d7XrSkrGMNkk0WUl2_rzsRHFZZ3UG3ZEouQMApeJT4uhDoMWmvcXwoqDunaUHdo-mNp3JUF_xbH7599s-LGBBiJBj7qDB3r33V_hrxuZaBWJEH4FxUZNlC5/s320/85-86+anything+goes.jpg" /></a></div><br />
Also interesting is a chart of side-by-side comparisons of the 3 productions of Anything Goes. What's interesting is that this show is basically rebuilt every time it is revived. Which is probably not that hard. Cole Porter's wonderful songs have so little to do with anything in the plot you can basically remove them from where they stand and place them anywhere else with the show hardly being affected. <br />
<br />
<a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Anything_Goes#Musical_numbers">See how songs are moved like puzzle pieces right here.</a><br />
<br />
I don't like Anything Goes. Its plot, characters, Asian racism, and directionless ambling makes me want to go head-first off of a cliff. But its music? Oh man, some of the best Broadway that ever came from Broadway. And so I will continue listening to my cast recordings when I have the time, and, next chance I have to see the show, I will bring along the recording so that I can listen to it between the live musical numbers. All of the good parts of Goes, without the crap. Thank you very much.<br />
<br />
To close this post out, allow me to share with you an exciting video: it's one of my favorite Broadway folks, Raul Esparza, performing a song written by one of my favorite composers, Alan Menken, from an upcoming Broadway show based on a movie I never cared to see, Leap of Faith. This is another example of the separation of mumbling and music in theater. I will see Leap of Faith. I don't care how good or bad the show shell around it is. The combination of Raul and Alan promises to give me everything that I want, regardless of how it is framed and driven.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<center><object height="385" width="640"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/jnvh5FL4dAc?fs=1&hl=en_US"></param><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"></param><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"></param><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/jnvh5FL4dAc?fs=1&hl=en_US" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowscriptaccess="always" allowfullscreen="true" width="640" height="385"></embed></object></center><br />
What does this video teach us about Leap of Faith? Not much! It's just Raul leading a chorus of gospel singers in a positive, preachy gospel number. Nothing new about that. But frankly, I don't give a damn.<br />
<br />
Anything Went,<br />
- JAnonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10996771273232767374noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6741858433334888054.post-41074517193523781052010-09-07T12:40:00.003-04:002011-01-02T14:33:04.083-05:00In The Rough.*<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjoLl209LlojvVGsQdtamEl_ZSuD2L5sTUp_O6_zcPrZteHe7lEmGRpDJCIw9EGHCKD6eip5qJ4NsauEfKNDoxIRLFY8Vz4pYn8WGl7EzFgiL790cgZAe6rsMVwJ3nwAYg9-ZI1-vpBRZg/s1600/marina-diamond.png"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 285px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjoLl209LlojvVGsQdtamEl_ZSuD2L5sTUp_O6_zcPrZteHe7lEmGRpDJCIw9EGHCKD6eip5qJ4NsauEfKNDoxIRLFY8Vz4pYn8WGl7EzFgiL790cgZAe6rsMVwJ3nwAYg9-ZI1-vpBRZg/s400/marina-diamond.png" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5514029378724762082" /></a><br />Me: "I'm going to a concert tonight."<br /><br />Friend: "Oh, who?"<br /><br />Me: "Marina & the Diamonds."<br /><br />Friend: <span style="font-style:italic;">(blank stare)</span><br /><br />And so it goes. If I thought it was hard trying to find people who'd heard of Robyn when I attended last month's show, I found even fewer who had discovered Marina & the Diamonds. This is despite the fact that Marina burst onto the music scene seemingly out of nowhere last May, having already hit it pretty big overseas in her native United Kingdom (she hails from Wales). It was an indie-sized explosion.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjBC-iRPHxk3RcCvYAfIFvhHax_rQpjMr3nJt5Q78OTtaQ2_4wEU2vAhXdfYJeVWITwFIR49Hk1tW7miSFysg0uAOiBm8FwNizpvRzJL9R158gk6YOLo3Pq8IbJkM6EUHaWVbA8KnKNUBU/s1600/1gq26p.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 241px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjBC-iRPHxk3RcCvYAfIFvhHax_rQpjMr3nJt5Q78OTtaQ2_4wEU2vAhXdfYJeVWITwFIR49Hk1tW7miSFysg0uAOiBm8FwNizpvRzJL9R158gk6YOLo3Pq8IbJkM6EUHaWVbA8KnKNUBU/s400/1gq26p.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5514029640921615890" /></a>But you need to make a pretty big splash nowadays to get the mainstream wet, so Marina is still far from a household name. Who is she? She's Lilly Allen after some anger management classes, Florence + the Machine without the dagger in her heart, Bjork from a planet a <span style="font-style:italic;">little</span> closer to Earth - ie, she might wear that swan costume, but she'd be a little more in on the joke. <br /><span style="font-style:italic;"><br />"TV taught me how to feel, now real life has no appeal."</span> Her lyrics point to feeling lonely and disaffected in modern times, but without any accompanying melancholy - her tunes are poppy and upbeat. When she sings, <span style="font-style:italic;">"Girls, they never befriend me / 'cause I fall asleep when they speak / of all the calories they eat" </span>in "Girls," it perfectly encapsulates her outsider status amidst today's more traditional pop artists, but Marina isn't feeling sorry for herself. Marina's songs celebrate being smarter, sassier, and more unique than the masses, which is why her relative obscurity works so well. Could the mainstream ever truly embrace her, when she spends most of her time making fun of them?<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh3YlooSM7C5G-RlVDjCxFwYPilmvd6ou_RmRXShO8N1ogCsrYcVRsuuyVB_tYgdYrPVisNehbITQuIKZbH0u5EfYO3W1BEu1ANzMVT_mb_ZOvy-udqbrx1WVW6muwc8xXHHYySpmAcdos/s1600/2sailjo.jpg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 321px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh3YlooSM7C5G-RlVDjCxFwYPilmvd6ou_RmRXShO8N1ogCsrYcVRsuuyVB_tYgdYrPVisNehbITQuIKZbH0u5EfYO3W1BEu1ANzMVT_mb_ZOvy-udqbrx1WVW6muwc8xXHHYySpmAcdos/s400/2sailjo.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5514029861773954306" /></a>More fun facts: according to Marina (whose last name is Diamandis), "the Diamonds" are not the band that backs her up, but rather <span style="font-style:italic;">us</span> - her adoring fans, who indeed believe they have found something sparkly and special amidst today's pop music rough. <br /><br />And, if you take everything on Wikipedia at face value, she also "has a synesthetic condition that involves seeing musical notes and days of the week in different colours." What? That's crazy!<br /><br />Given her unusual persona, playful lyrics, and a style of singing that, while sonorous, always suggests that she's "doing a voice" to make us laugh, I was quite curious to see what Ms. Diamandis would sound like live and what her persona would be. I could envision her being somber and a little spacey, like Bjork, or making bold, ambitious political statements, like Sinead O'Connor, or being laid-back and too humble to take on any persona at all, like she belonged at Lilith Fair. Thankfully, Marina did not assume any of these roles.<br /><br />Let's just say I was not disappointed.<br /><br />Unlike at Robyn's show, where I feared for the future of humanity because the crowd was <span style="font-style:italic;">so</span> gay, the typical Marina & the Diamonds fan is not as gay as you might think. This, perhaps, can be attributed partially to her indie darling cred in the music scene, and mostly to how damn hot she is in her "Hollywood" video.<br /><br /><object width="640" height="385"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/n1VTcJfL7RE?fs=1&hl=en_US"></param><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"></param><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"></param><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/n1VTcJfL7RE?fs=1&hl=en_US" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowscriptaccess="always" allowfullscreen="true" width="640" height="385"></embed></object><br /><br />But at her New York City Webster Hall appearance, Marina was not going for "sexy," per se. Or if she was, well, girl's got a screw loose. Marina emerged in a full-body black velvet dress looking like some combination of a 19th century vampire straight out of Transylvania, a cast member from <span style="font-style:italic;">Dynasty</span>, and an escaped mental patient. Which is to say, she looked <span style="font-style:italic;">awesome</span>. Throughout the show she sported an assortment of nutty eyewear, including sunglasses with peace signs and sunglasses with dollar signs. The sense of humor so prevalent in her music remains intact on stage - I was relieved that Marina's primary interest seems to be in having fun and making sure her fans do, too. She comes off a lot like her music - unusual, breezy, easy to like, and meaningful only if you're really paying attention.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjqkEI8a1y9wd_0CdwNUAYFOeDBn_5UUo4sQRsdsYYSSN3WqSvEFiRvg6C1MYwWKwz9vFXeLUrm4v5qiiiLQ0sWqVisOOSqa1_eefYuDmnIHVjVfdOU-Cs27Mvo0GZnJvH_yEIhY5Lxqv4/s1600/adp63d.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 286px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjqkEI8a1y9wd_0CdwNUAYFOeDBn_5UUo4sQRsdsYYSSN3WqSvEFiRvg6C1MYwWKwz9vFXeLUrm4v5qiiiLQ0sWqVisOOSqa1_eefYuDmnIHVjVfdOU-Cs27Mvo0GZnJvH_yEIhY5Lxqv4/s400/adp63d.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5514029636053427298" /></a>She sang "I Am Not A Robot" bathed in blue lights that made her look, if not like a robot, rather like one of the Na'vi in James Cameron's <span style="font-style:italic;">Avatar</span>, wielding glow-in-the-dark pink hearts that matched her glow-in-the-dark hot pick lipstick. She serenaded two oversized hamburgers in "Hollywood," in which she tells us, <span style="font-style:italic;">"I'm obsessed with the mess that's America." </span>Indeed, many of her songs seem to poke fun at our culture and Western culture in general, and Marina repeated that sentiment many times throughout the night: "I'm obsessed with you!" She claimed London isn't her home - New York is. <br /><br />Marina got a little more soulful playing keyboard on "Numb" and then "Obsessions," then went back to bringing down the house, dancing to my personal fave, "Oh No!" When she said goodnight, quite a few people made their way toward the exits despite the fact that the lights hadn't even come up in a faux-closing. Moments later, prompted by her Diamonds' effervescent enthusiasm, Marina returned - much to the surprise of those who had already left their spots near the front of the stage, stopping right in front of <span style="font-style:italic;">me</span> instead. "She's singing again!" one hissed. Have they <span style="font-style:italic;">never</span> been to a concert before? Despite this distraction, I soon became lost in the music again as Marina serenaded us with a downbeat interpretation of 3OH!3's "Starstrukk," <span style="font-style:italic;">totally</span> transforming the frat-boy prankishness of the original's <span style="font-style:italic;">"L-O-V-E's just another word I never learned to pronounce" </span>into something stirring and beautiful.<br /><br />Marina never forgets to have fun, though - her biggest applause was for the wisdom: "Drink to forget, but never forget to drink!"<br /><br />So if you haven't yet, do yourself a favor and catch up with everyone else who's on top of it. I have included some videos so you can do just that.<br /><br /><object width="640" height="385"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/Cr-SqRWImmI&color1=0xb1b1b1&color2=0xd0d0d0&hl=en_US&feature=player_embedded&fs=1"></param><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"></param><param name="allowScriptAccess" value="always"></param><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/Cr-SqRWImmI&color1=0xb1b1b1&color2=0xd0d0d0&hl=en_US&feature=player_embedded&fs=1" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowfullscreen="true" allowScriptAccess="always" width="640" height="385"></embed></object><br /><br />Not a robot,<br /><br />X.X.http://www.blogger.com/profile/14845533891411766527noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6741858433334888054.post-87277335028750284032010-09-03T15:21:00.002-04:002010-09-03T15:57:29.007-04:00Itch, Scratch... I Was Taking a Nap<span style="font-style: italic;">Every Friday is Improv Friday at Said Panties. On Facebook, X and J take a poll of their friends for a topic (any topic) to write on. The most popular, ridiculous, or random is selected, and both X. and J must write about it. This week's topic, <b>bedbugs</b>, comes from <a href="http://www.facebook.com/?ref=home#%21/USCscreenwriter?ref=ts">Jonathan Kuhn</a>.</span><br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgqPSK0A2hvw9bO0DrdrJVG_ezFn5XAMI7VtP0W1FE2nqT8Ann0ik9Ly6Ckt1758Jv_xsLzuI1UV-OAlNGGuEOMT1Ov-Vv2lg-nhBenLEqcfsFk5p1v299RNrv3esPUoK2f4RaIyqsjhwk6/s1600/get-rid-bed-bugs.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgqPSK0A2hvw9bO0DrdrJVG_ezFn5XAMI7VtP0W1FE2nqT8Ann0ik9Ly6Ckt1758Jv_xsLzuI1UV-OAlNGGuEOMT1Ov-Vv2lg-nhBenLEqcfsFk5p1v299RNrv3esPUoK2f4RaIyqsjhwk6/s320/get-rid-bed-bugs.jpg" /></a></div>We New York City folk have a lot to deal with on a daily basis. Every day we get showered (assuming we have water), eat breakfast (assuming the rats or roaches or asshole roommates didn't eat all of our Kashi first), brush our teeth (assuming our teeth weren't stolen by New York's roving tooth bandits), get dressed and try to catch the subway (assuming it's running, and not on fire) or a cab (assuming they haven't been knifed by Islamophobes) to get to work (assuming we still have a job, in this economy). And that's just the beginning. Subway manhole covers explode in fiery blazes into the sky. Terrorists plot to blow up our garbage cans, office buildings, cars, and major tourist traps. Muggers abound, waiting to take our cash at the blade of a knife. This isn't even covering the wandering crazy people, the piles of uncleaned dog poop, or the other thousands of things that stand between us and existing comfortably. We don't need any more challenges every day.<br />
<br />
But we just got a new one, anyway, and it's invisible to the naked eye. No, I'm not talking about The Invisible Man or poisonous gas (although I'm sure we have those as well.) I'm talking about bedbugs. They're the newest citizens of New York City, and they're sick and tired of us ignoring their presence - so they're stepping up their parasite game.<br />
<br />
As a youngster, my parents often kissed me goodnight and said that tried and true salutation: "Sleep tight, don't let the bedbugs bite." I always thought it was simply a cute thing they were saying. I assumed that there was no such things as bedbugs - that they were made up creatures who came to put me to sleep and give me pleasant dreams. Little did I know they were actually fuck-ugly crab/spider creatures that really DO exist. In hindsight, I feel that any parent that says this to their child should lose their offspring to child services, as they are no doubt acknowledging that they don't care for their child's welfare, and that they are living in such a highly concentrated level of filth.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjWX289YSdfgp3svuw6hsVlWH0Swh3w091BZamCwLdF6O6z5f1d46Etgr_jpqfmWeqpqIzvQEmRs2_DD-zjf1e7HcjQ3GTFn_JAqI4Twj-Hmaim-Uo0Oozcs7OJA4lWDC8eHrFipndhlJ3k/s1600/bed_bugs.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjWX289YSdfgp3svuw6hsVlWH0Swh3w091BZamCwLdF6O6z5f1d46Etgr_jpqfmWeqpqIzvQEmRs2_DD-zjf1e7HcjQ3GTFn_JAqI4Twj-Hmaim-Uo0Oozcs7OJA4lWDC8eHrFipndhlJ3k/s320/bed_bugs.jpg" /></a></div><br />
But I digress (don't I always?) Bedbugs in New York! They're like tourists, except they don't carry cameras and ask you for directions to Central Park down in Battery Park City, they just invade your clothing and furniture and bite and feed on you until you are covered in unsightly welts. I (knock on digital wood) have never had to deal with these beasts. But we New Yorkers are very paranoid about that double-B word. If you DO have bedbugs, you make sure not to ever admit to it in public, lest people near you regard you as they would plague victims with open, seeping sores. Apparently getting bedbugs sucks big time. You can never know when you're actually rid of them, and the process of ridding them involves basically incinerating all of your worldly possessions and shaving off every follicle of hair on your body.<br />
<br />
Once upon a time, bedbugs were a nightmare story you heard every now and again. But it's as though the bugs hired a PR firm in an effort to increase their visibility. And they are going places. Literally. Hollister's flagship store in SoHo, Abercrombie's 5th avenue flagship, a Victoria's Secret, the AMC Super-Plex on 42nd street. Not a week seems to go by that I don't read about another business shutting down to set fire to all of their merchandise. And then I'm that MUCH more paranoid. As it stands, anyone who's seen a movie in the past few weeks, any woman with a push-up bra, or any guy dressed like a douchebag with a polo with popped collar is potentially infested with these vermin.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjY-JWREESI1Na_y9Tl0pXuP5-P419kMSan5pLF1lHd88V12W2ZOrOSj0Lxakf_f___jjiaFUqSYlKdPAoLZ8PhZ_1YzPMgqoxB2mmSds8LKLNIU3L45-zFxmORZEmgWGz9tVi22nx5RpV1/s1600/product-enlarged.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjY-JWREESI1Na_y9Tl0pXuP5-P419kMSan5pLF1lHd88V12W2ZOrOSj0Lxakf_f___jjiaFUqSYlKdPAoLZ8PhZ_1YzPMgqoxB2mmSds8LKLNIU3L45-zFxmORZEmgWGz9tVi22nx5RpV1/s320/product-enlarged.jpg" /></a></div><br />
Bedbugs? More like Every-Fucking-Where bugs. And, of course, every itch I get, my mind explodes in fear and worry. Did I finally get bedbugs? Is my apartment suddenly swarming with them? It's been a few weeks since I heard of another bed bug attack, and so I am waiting, one eye forever open. Where will they strike next? Jennifer Convertibles? Some meatpacking district restaurant with beds instead of chairs? The Pleasure Chest?<br />
<br />
Luckily nowhere I go has been affected by the intrepid critters. But the day I hear that bedbugs have lain itchy waste to a Gamestop, gay club, or Dunkin Donuts, will be the worst day of my life. Imagine! No, don't imagine. Be terrified.<br />
<br />
What no one ever says about bedbugs is that they are a more politically correct form of crabs. They are classy crabs that you can get in totally innocent situations. What sucks is that you can now pick up something itchy and contagious by just going home with someone and making out with them in their bed. Are you horrified yet? I am. All my future hookups will take place on cement slabs in vacuum sealed safes, just to be completely certain.<br />
<br />
The other thing about bedbugs is that they are not THAT horrifying. It's not like they'll kill you. And they don't skitter around your apartment, catching your eye, like rats, roaches, waterbugs, or CIA wiretappers. When they get to you, all they do is nibble. And so you itch, and scratch. It's no worse than chicken pocks or sunburn, really. It's just the realization that there are thousands of gross things crawling all over you like you're a shish kabob dropped into an anthill.<br />
<br />
Okay. Maybe they are horrifying after all. <br />
<br />
Wait. I spoke to soon. The latest attack has happened, probably as I began writing this post. <a href="http://www.guardian.co.uk/technology/2010/sep/03/google-infested-bed-bugs">Google's New York office has been infested</a>. No doubt by an employee wearing a super-cleavage bra, or a programmer who just HAD to wear that faded and distressed visor he bought a few weeks ago at Abercrombie. And now that the bedbugs have arrived, they'll probably start fucking around with the search giant's algorithm, forcing thousands of Internet workers like myself to completely re-code and re-tag their websites to regain top search result positions against sites the bedbugs decided were more important.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhsmZFVOO2eOVdkuzk5K0IecPbnGCTkZx5G6r8E8AJXd0o5AssCOSGMdvXWNDR-DkupWmB9JEHcnCWCmAJYmihxS1CTcLpww1cq1vVwzDisGDprRMy74xpNZFoC5uiOalF7cBdM13eDbA9Z/s1600/funny-pictures-kitten-looks-for-bugs-in-your-computer.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhsmZFVOO2eOVdkuzk5K0IecPbnGCTkZx5G6r8E8AJXd0o5AssCOSGMdvXWNDR-DkupWmB9JEHcnCWCmAJYmihxS1CTcLpww1cq1vVwzDisGDprRMy74xpNZFoC5uiOalF7cBdM13eDbA9Z/s320/funny-pictures-kitten-looks-for-bugs-in-your-computer.jpg" /></a></div><br />
I'll tell you the best thing about bedbugs, though: free days off from work! These stores often have to shut down for days while people dressed up like the Ghostbusters show up with indescribable tools and doodads to rid the space of the invisible marauders. You can imagine that the employees of all of these overtaken businesses and offices were laughing their way to be deloused and have all of their belongings forever destroyed.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj8nWDdWUC7SjjcZMEj2m-w6QP7_HPfUBssGWuKaYgvd0bO8jUH8hOFZkar9ceitFASxuxbmBRr4fWRce1JJcS2xks7nhUsxd0QORwXEInwMIb2GUWM9npFieqKDp16Z0D2PrNjF3ka1PrH/s1600/6a00d8341d1ea853ef01053688327d970c-450wi.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj8nWDdWUC7SjjcZMEj2m-w6QP7_HPfUBssGWuKaYgvd0bO8jUH8hOFZkar9ceitFASxuxbmBRr4fWRce1JJcS2xks7nhUsxd0QORwXEInwMIb2GUWM9npFieqKDp16Z0D2PrNjF3ka1PrH/s320/6a00d8341d1ea853ef01053688327d970c-450wi.jpg" /></a></div><br />
Did you start itching while reading this post? I know I did.<br />
<br />
Itchy and Scratchy: it's not just a cartoon any more.<br />
<br />
J.Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10996771273232767374noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6741858433334888054.post-69793059523836425412010-09-03T13:24:00.021-04:002010-09-03T16:08:45.734-04:00Sleep Tight.<span style="font-style: italic;">Every Friday is Improv Friday at Said Panties. On Facebook, X and J take a poll of their friends for a topic (any topic) to write on. The most popular, ridiculous, or random is selected, and both X. and J must write about it. This week's topic, bedbugs, comes from <a href="http://www.facebook.com/?ref=home#%21/USCscreenwriter?ref=ts">Jonathan Kuhn</a>.</span><br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiJukoVL44TqrvqldCmBgdHG7MAI60oUPueXGmWZGE-f0xt-mlDNAGrvdOAEm5-Ou2Uy5TJ_6wh49zeCjhcFCfEFM3i0urAip7j34AMcSn2ZT5Nst_bRcpuRKopmOVthx_Kxdm7yZCyJm8/s1600/Bed-Bug-Cartoon.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5512755444066137202" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiJukoVL44TqrvqldCmBgdHG7MAI60oUPueXGmWZGE-f0xt-mlDNAGrvdOAEm5-Ou2Uy5TJ_6wh49zeCjhcFCfEFM3i0urAip7j34AMcSn2ZT5Nst_bRcpuRKopmOVthx_Kxdm7yZCyJm8/s400/Bed-Bug-Cartoon.jpg" style="cursor: pointer; display: block; height: 200px; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; width: 204px;" /></a><br />I was warned of many things when I moved to New York City: the crime, the cost, the cynicism. It seems like everyone I talked to had at least one caveat about a newcomer in the big city.<br /><br />One thing I wasn't warned about is bedbugs.<br /><br />Well, I suppose that's not true. I've actually been warned about bed bugs ever since I can remember.<span style="font-style: italic;"> "Sleep tight! Don't let the bedbugs bite!"</span> And up until last fall, I actually believed it was just a saying. In my mind, bedbugs were sort of goofy-looking and cute, a friendly neon green in color, and they wore shoes. I don't know why, I was four. Remember that game "Cooties"? I figured the Bedbugs might be their wacky distant cousins, who get a little feisty when they drink. <br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj8P4vJ2het1vVDqqse9BKU6JCue54fqUveKGOSSKCRct92clx6XerzvKQs9Ur_b_dgkbXqAKhJ4wDEQCfBzig0eyxjKGRrZV4X_aVTiIkWEImC7ct5NrFRIYd2Kxz11-5iB7uRF-1IRtE/s1600/cootie.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5512755732065234306" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj8P4vJ2het1vVDqqse9BKU6JCue54fqUveKGOSSKCRct92clx6XerzvKQs9Ur_b_dgkbXqAKhJ4wDEQCfBzig0eyxjKGRrZV4X_aVTiIkWEImC7ct5NrFRIYd2Kxz11-5iB7uRF-1IRtE/s320/cootie.jpg" style="cursor: pointer; float: left; height: 320px; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; width: 182px;" /></a>Somehow I went on believing this, all throughout my formative years. Even when I moved to Los Angeles, I never heard any cases of bedbugs being real. For all I knew "bedbugs" were right up there with the boogeyman and monsters in the closet - fictional creatures meant to terrify children into behaving. Little did I know bedbugs are living, breathing mini-monsters, and repopulating New York City faster than Pinkberry knockoffs. Spoo-fuckin'-ooky.<br /><br />I have looked up bedbugs on Wikipedia before, back when I first heard about them, so I could be sure what I was up against. I'm not going to look them up again, because if there's one thing I hate, it's bruschetta, and if there's another thing I hate, it's the image of a tiny creature that intends to crawl all over me and suck my blood while I sleep. <br /><br />I don't intend to subject my readers to pictures of bedbugs or their nighttime handiwork on the flesh of unsuspecting victims. But imagine my surprise while I was riding the subway one day last October, and I saw an advertisement for how to get rid of them. <span style="font-style: italic;">"Call now for professional help!"<br /></span><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi1efLF5DwNe_SmGlTpT2Mx7hV-gT_vIpZ4uMWOfYmAy82I8fJFt19a4F4FbQtG_s4hMszLt0vdC0RRGnxCQ_ktw5fNsnDms3W3BJQQQcK8qcGlTUIM8UNSqfQx9AG0NxIqaaMAtwVaS8k/s1600/Harry+and+the+Hendersons.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5512757956805196530" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi1efLF5DwNe_SmGlTpT2Mx7hV-gT_vIpZ4uMWOfYmAy82I8fJFt19a4F4FbQtG_s4hMszLt0vdC0RRGnxCQ_ktw5fNsnDms3W3BJQQQcK8qcGlTUIM8UNSqfQx9AG0NxIqaaMAtwVaS8k/s400/Harry+and+the+Hendersons.jpg" style="cursor: pointer; float: right; height: 253px; margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; width: 300px;" /></a>"What?" I wondered aloud, as if I'd spotted an ad for a device that allows you to capture the Tooth Fairy or kick Sasquatch out of your bed. "Those things are <span style="font-style: italic;">real</span>?"<br /><br />Oh, they're real, all right. And in the months since I've moved here, they've popped up in a number of disturbing locations, such as AMC theaters and Victoria's Secret. (I guess we know your secret, now, Vicky. Yes, your bedbug infestation is probably something you should keep on the DL.) Reportedly bedbugs have also hit Abercrombie & Fitch, but I don't know. If you ask me, those bites could really have come from anything, given all the time those people spend rolling around naked in the woods. Not so sexy now, is it?<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi1hRCZPg8HkZvajtdfuXToilPtpiebrd1cPDMpNemSQpri-7WBYYPVDABSPjgVZPknTUUbN50mZm6UC2ioki1F5ZTuJ-g-r6P6AcUlAL5jjpMZaa6YKjssHiSx0vK3NbgfG6lqtwQ3BxE/s1600/nicholas-lemons-abercrombie.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5512758236290069490" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi1hRCZPg8HkZvajtdfuXToilPtpiebrd1cPDMpNemSQpri-7WBYYPVDABSPjgVZPknTUUbN50mZm6UC2ioki1F5ZTuJ-g-r6P6AcUlAL5jjpMZaa6YKjssHiSx0vK3NbgfG6lqtwQ3BxE/s400/nicholas-lemons-abercrombie.jpg" style="cursor: pointer; float: left; height: 267px; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; width: 400px;" /></a>Nevertheless, bedbugs are a force to be reckoned with, and it's only getting worse. As if the muggings, high cost of living, and bitchy NY attitude are not bad enough, now I have bedbugs to contend with! Suddenly <a href="http://www.theonion.com/articles/84-million-new-yorkers-suddenly-realize-new-york-c,18003/">this article</a> is looking truer and truer by the minute.<br /><br />I am petrified. Properly getting rid of bedbugs can take weeks and weeks and thousands of dollars. Some people find it easier to just burn everything they own and move. I was in that AMC theater just one week before it was closed for bedbugs! And now I am <span style="font-style: italic;">never</span> going back, because you just never know when they'll pop back up. Did you know bedbugs can survive up to 18 months without eating? They're like supermodels! But unlike <span style="font-style:italic;">that</span> much more attractive brand of parasite, when a bedbug feeds off you and then skitters off in the morning, you actually <span style="font-style: italic;"> do</span> wish you'd kicked them out of bed.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgkDQq8E4jbzA-wVsUhPvwidm5-PEAfMCdelOpKjJLjQJ201A_kGUzpDsXxpEBqbr48FPmilrvU8o_jR95K8FJkH73N5ZV_wGHIASKbuy_Os-F_Gu5EcYJXyrre-ovha4BmQHXfUZbnR24/s1600/images.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5512758504668639266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgkDQq8E4jbzA-wVsUhPvwidm5-PEAfMCdelOpKjJLjQJ201A_kGUzpDsXxpEBqbr48FPmilrvU8o_jR95K8FJkH73N5ZV_wGHIASKbuy_Os-F_Gu5EcYJXyrre-ovha4BmQHXfUZbnR24/s400/images.jpg" style="cursor: pointer; float: right; height: 189px; margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; width: 266px;" /></a>Yes, bedbugs have been deemed the single most formidable pest in America, meaning they're harder to get rid of than your pseudo-stalker ex-boyfriend, and just as resilient when sprayed with pesticides. They hide under rugs, in clothing, under the couch, waiting for you to fall asleep - just like your average slasher in a bad 80's movie - and, just when you think you've finally killed them, they're bound to pop up for one final scare and a sequel. They lay their terrifying eggs all over the place and don't even have the decency to die for over a year! My research tells me travel is the easiest way to pick up bedbugs, which is the first time I've been happy to be too poor to go anywhere. Bedbugs also enjoy hitching a ride on our bodies, which is how they're getting into our favorite stores, offices, and places of leisure. I don't know about you, but I never wanted to be a bus driver. So I <span style="font-style: italic;">certainly</span> don't want to be shuttling around bedbugs. Not unless they each pay me $89 a month for unlimited rides, at least.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjbx02A9LPt_si2CooUFWKi1PTP3hU-6OCkqWy1ir6QQRTGeMt5FnVZ0KfuXsGNifUB4Tnmd6JZR508BTiK7u9nn1eFLkwHXPnw1FnIPXXAkncOcRaxlZrgm90NlrXXi9iQ2QDz8AOhJoI/s1600/jada.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5512758931467890562" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjbx02A9LPt_si2CooUFWKi1PTP3hU-6OCkqWy1ir6QQRTGeMt5FnVZ0KfuXsGNifUB4Tnmd6JZR508BTiK7u9nn1eFLkwHXPnw1FnIPXXAkncOcRaxlZrgm90NlrXXi9iQ2QDz8AOhJoI/s400/jada.jpg" style="cursor: pointer; float: left; height: 220px; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; width: 400px;" /></a>It's been quite some time since I shopped at Abercrombie & Fitch, and I suppose there was a time in my life when I would have been mildly pleased to know that blood-sucking parasites had invaded the place. (Hint: high school.) But that time is long past. Outbreaks at Abercrombie, Hollister, and Victoria's Secret mean these critters could soon find their way to stores I actually like. And don't even get me started on the movie theaters! I cannot bring myself to return to the AMC in Times Square, but can I feel safe in any theater, ever again? If I ever needed another reason to avoid the multiplexes and only see arthouse cinema, now's the time.<br /><br />And today, we learn that Google's Chelsea offices have been infested with bedbugs, which is ironic because to research this post I typed "bedbugs" into Google. Am I responsible for this? <br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiNNwhy2o1UAAxbQFKeBugHnDRBiHpOB8Xuk6j0P-9uBcT_jTiy43LzeF9HCba34Fr9zAqkkCmRhLK26GaPz2QWyQ2L1yJSXMt10sgIUuNXtVAMwFkmzAdkgsbzBWXesOryOECqUfsKnjQ/s1600/503325Mimic-Posters.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5512759919987766962" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiNNwhy2o1UAAxbQFKeBugHnDRBiHpOB8Xuk6j0P-9uBcT_jTiy43LzeF9HCba34Fr9zAqkkCmRhLK26GaPz2QWyQ2L1yJSXMt10sgIUuNXtVAMwFkmzAdkgsbzBWXesOryOECqUfsKnjQ/s320/503325Mimic-Posters.jpg" style="cursor: pointer; float: right; height: 320px; margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; width: 208px;" /></a>I'm convinced that we haven't seen the last of bedbugs. This is just the beginning as they take over the world, like in that movie <span style="font-style: italic;">Mimic</span> where Mira Sorvino creates cockroaches that haunt the subways looking like child molesters in big coats and hats. They're already seeing <span style="font-style:italic;">Inception</span>, trying on panties, and checking out that shirtless A&F model at the front of the store, thinking, "Boy, doesn't he look yummy." Just like the rest of us. They're Googling, for Christ's sake! What's next? Will they be texting? <span style="font-style: italic;">"Just bit this fat bitch LOL!"</span> Will I have to compete with them for taxis and seats on the subway? Will they demand marriage equality? I am already approached by a number of human beings who want to suck on me while I slumber, must I stave off bedbugs? Sleeping tight won't cut it anymore - do we need to see movies and shop tight, too? This makes me want to die.<br /><br />Who's to blame? Well, here's a twist: how about M. Night Shyamalan? I think he saw this coming, and in the laughable trailer for his new movie - ostensibly about the devil, but that seems like a stretch - he tried to warn us. <span style="font-style: italic;">Someone in this elevator has bedbugs!!</span> Am I right? <br /><br /><object height="241" width="450"><param name="movie" value="http://www.traileraddict.com/emd/24411"></param><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"><param name="wmode" value="transparent"></param><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"></param><embed src="http://www.traileraddict.com/emd/24411" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowscriptaccess="always" wmode="transparent" width="450" height="241" allowFullScreen="true"></embed></object><br /><br />"Everything happens for a reason," they say. But I can think of no use on this Earth for bedbugs, except to creep me the fuck out.<br /><br />Sleeping regrettably loose,<br /><br />X.,X.http://www.blogger.com/profile/14845533891411766527noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6741858433334888054.post-71602541572981014582010-09-02T13:20:00.002-04:002010-09-02T13:33:50.476-04:00One Less Moaning Groan<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEggGXbFFfS-5SAdKHJUYc_DJ8JDonRYMk_y_I41GJAgmsvJOXpXceihxGIDCT4MNnm7c3NJ91YHm_gj-aJlVsj45m7yfu_JAlzi0YqPZFF1dykziI9YQV14v0kzYyinBZ40yiXRqj-3Hxdj/s1600/Justin-Bieber-dick-where.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEggGXbFFfS-5SAdKHJUYc_DJ8JDonRYMk_y_I41GJAgmsvJOXpXceihxGIDCT4MNnm7c3NJ91YHm_gj-aJlVsj45m7yfu_JAlzi0YqPZFF1dykziI9YQV14v0kzYyinBZ40yiXRqj-3Hxdj/s320/Justin-Bieber-dick-where.jpg" /></a></div>The other day, I received an invitation to my 10-year high school reunion on Facebook, which felt to me like the equivalent of a group of Eskimos approaching me with rope, preparing to lash me to an ice floe and send me out to sea. I ultimately accepted the invite, but the damage had been done. Since that day, I have been aggressively looking back to figure out just what happened.<br />
<br />
When did I get so old? It seems like only yesterday that I was in college. Or high school. Or even junior high school. And now I'm more than 4 years out of college and 10 years out of high school. Holy Jesus. By the time I finish this post, I'll probably be fifty years old (longest blog post EVAR!) that's how fast time seems to be going these days. <br />
<br />
Through all of this inner reflection, I have been able to recall instances of being younger, and looking at my parents (and older folk in general) as they let loose that standard moan: "what's become of music these days? Remember (name I didn't know)? And what about (name that I may have heard once, somewhere)? Whatever happened to them!? Kids just listen to crap these days." This often happened whenever I'd have command over the family radio or CD player and would pop in the latest boy band or whatever to dance in-the-closet-ly along to.<br />
<br />
And I would roll my eyes at these adults. Thinking: what do they know? Now That's What I Call Music volume 8 is the shit! Long live Marilyn Manson, Nine Inch Nails, Tool, Korn and everyone else! (I had a very, very eclectic taste in music, mind you. No one else had mix tapes (yes, tapes. STFU). That would jump from N*Sync's "Bye Bye Bye" to Type-O Negative's "Too Deep: Frozen." Then again, no one else was regularly sent to the school counselor either, but I digress.)<br />
<br />
And then I began to get older. But, as I aged, I found my musical taste expanding along with what was on the radio, or at the clubs. I was aware of new musical upstarts auto-tuning themselves onto the scene. And I began to think: will I ever become like those old folks from my childhood? Could I possible be proof that you can ALWAYS be with it? I mean, I was in it! I knew Justin Timberlake and Britney Spears and Katy Perry and all of them! And I was able to get down to their tunes as much as I was able to boogie with Back Street Boys, 98 Degrees, Boyz II Men, Another Bad Creation and all the other pop crap I grew up devouring.<br />
<br />
But then something must have happened. Or maybe it was happening all along. Because today I find myself in the exact same place of my former elders. I only first heard of Miley Cyrus when Party in the USA was released. I didn't know that The Jonas Brothers came out of the same Disney musical pop star factory, or that they had started with their own show.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<center><iframe frameborder="no" height="270" scrolling="no" src="http://www.theonion.com/video_embed/?id=14268" width="480"></iframe><br />
<a href="http://www.theonion.com/video/disney-lab-unveils-its-latest-line-of-genetically,14268/" target="_blank" title="Disney Lab Unveils Its Latest Line Of Genetically Engineered Child Stars">Disney Lab Unveils Its Latest Line Of Genetically Engineered Child Stars</a></center><center> </center> <br />
But you know what? It's fine. It's okay that I'm not "with" these latest pop sensations. They leave me alone, and I leave them alone. We are co-existing peacefully and will let bygones be bygones. Except for one. One single tween star has been coming on my radar over and over, despite my efforts to ignore him every single day.<br />
<br />
And that girl is Justin Bieber.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi2Z4Iz5H0x9y0r5PARFISwXBAe7d2SDRGeBbb-Wh0Wf7xyhlWVniKz_OULKolm73F3DhLmpd4bYWnmcXmvYI2RTXGofkDHZg0mapHi9w7HX9St08NasJiNb07MCE81QDw-TjlhMauVVRRu/s1600/Justin-bieber_NorthKorea.gif" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi2Z4Iz5H0x9y0r5PARFISwXBAe7d2SDRGeBbb-Wh0Wf7xyhlWVniKz_OULKolm73F3DhLmpd4bYWnmcXmvYI2RTXGofkDHZg0mapHi9w7HX9St08NasJiNb07MCE81QDw-TjlhMauVVRRu/s320/Justin-bieber_NorthKorea.gif" /></a></div><br />
You probably know more about Justin than I do. My one experience seeing him performing would be from New Year's Eve this past year, where he performed in a cast out in LA in the later hour of Dick Clark's New Year's Rockin' Eve. I don't know why he had a cast, and I didn't really care for him all that much. I also was too busy (thankfully) attending to my boyfriend's skyrocketing fever and mysterious flu-like illness that overtook him. I am actually jealous, as I imagine the hallucinations that stemmed as a result of the fire in his brain were probably more on key, and less elvish in appearance.<br />
<br />
To be honest, I think I know more about Justin Bieber's fans (known as "Beliebers") than I know about the superstar himself. From what I think I understand, he got his start on YouTube. He is canadian. People think he looks like a lesbian. He got pegged in the head with a water bottle a few weeks ago. He is already working on a biopic and a biography (I, unlike others, will not fault him, as I have written two "biographies" already and I've been alive twice as long as he.) And that is it! Is there more to him? Maybe! <br />
<br />
Now, what do I know about the Beliebers? Oh, plenty. For one, they can't spell. At all. For two, they are VICIOUS, PROFANE, and MURDEROUS. I'm serious. Just pop his name into a Twitter search bar. The results are gorier than a Friday the 13th movie festival. They have invaded Twitter like a swarm of locusts, and tweet and re-tweet each other every other minute, imploring the Biebster to follow them. Why? What will him following do for you, exactly? He's still not going to sleep with you. Or talk to you. He's too busy cutting singles with Usher and other misguided stars who are trying to lash their dying corpses to his poprocket.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEib9fO2OWjuXfqbEB5NsXrEW1SEXFQ6D6HkRjYLYbbJH-2vk3QN7Pav2rE4R5cPe8kfEf_UsmnxZjrS_vIHkVAtVjaPsItsQAdyfMJBAHyHx1BMoCj7JiDGbuCGlvWJQ3vI4iV4OE1gjBf7/s1600/pulling-hair-out1.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEib9fO2OWjuXfqbEB5NsXrEW1SEXFQ6D6HkRjYLYbbJH-2vk3QN7Pav2rE4R5cPe8kfEf_UsmnxZjrS_vIHkVAtVjaPsItsQAdyfMJBAHyHx1BMoCj7JiDGbuCGlvWJQ3vI4iV4OE1gjBf7/s320/pulling-hair-out1.png" /></a></div><br />
These Beliebers are also on the warpath against the Jonas Brothers, who have their own set of frothing fangirls. Epic battles between Beliebers and Jonas Buckeroos (I made that nickname up, not sure if Jonas fans have a convenient pseudonym for their crew) occur every single day. And it is because of these Beliebers, and the penning of the term "Bieber Fever" that I am faced down with this sprite that shares my name every single god damn day.<br />
<br />
Justin, meet me at camera two: I know we have the same name. I know you're a big shit superstar. I'm sure your music is just wonderful to girls with not-yet-fully-formed ears. I am sure that you work hard, and ride your segway hard. But please, please, PLEASE go hide out somewhere for a while. I can't stand these fanatics. And I can't stand hearing about you every day.<br />
<br />
A few weeks ago, <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=qF1hf4g9bn8&p=3A415CC5DFF635AE&playnext=1&index=42">Pink put herself in a slingshot at a concert outside of the US and an accident occurred</a>, flinging her off the stage and into a barricade. If I had not been staring at Twitter THAT moment, I never would have known she had almost died. Meanwhile, I think the dog that is leashed outside of my office was telling a stop sign about that water bottle that slammed into your noggin. That's just plain wrong.<br />
<br />
I am beginning to think that there is only one cure for Bieber fever, and it is the same as used for killing vampires: stake the girls through the heart, cleave off their head and stuff it with garlic cloves. And you know what? If that works, then I am all for this alternative (and classic!) treatment.<br />
<br />
Justin Bieber has crossed the line from talentless jerkoff to talentless jerkoff whose every single jerk off is reported by every media outlet, every day. He dominates the Twitter trending topics, replacing VALUABLE trending topics like this <a href="http://hungoverowls.tumblr.com/">blog of photos of owls that look like they are hung over.</a> And it doesn't look like it's going to be improving any. Lord knows if the Beliebers don't get me, their pedophile mothers will. For christ sakes, Justin just sold out Madison Square Garden yesterday. And if I am to believe the review I read in the Times, Justin is just starting to grasp what sex on his penis might feel like, and so he will be flirting with girls and driving them all the wilder.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjBYKr_lY1aNJSodiSSW7umynONVlFLdx5nTvJa8iqLC4FVF7iXb3f4EzbKtwbuJl2X8maVs7hGprbLj-_LbDNV3-f8PI8h7pHECXIYFM9Jq0ld0p9_WeiS6myqVUNvJyDKuE0_904aSYH8/s1600/tumblr_l7m7puV4z71qclcx7o1_400.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjBYKr_lY1aNJSodiSSW7umynONVlFLdx5nTvJa8iqLC4FVF7iXb3f4EzbKtwbuJl2X8maVs7hGprbLj-_LbDNV3-f8PI8h7pHECXIYFM9Jq0ld0p9_WeiS6myqVUNvJyDKuE0_904aSYH8/s320/tumblr_l7m7puV4z71qclcx7o1_400.jpg" /></a></div><br />
Justin Bieber makes me pine for Jonas Brothers with their chastity rings, and Miley Cyrus with her penchant for turning into a superstar country idol when she is sleeping. It makes me wish for Boyz II Men and Bel Biv Davoe and Another Bad Creation when they all came together to perform "Motown Philly". (And don't even think about reminding me that Boyz II Men actually came out and performed with Bieber last night. That hurts more than anything.)<br />
<br />
And then I wonder: when did music get so bad? What are these crazy kids getting themselves into? And then I feel old, just like my parents probably did. And that makes me hate Justin even more.<br />
<br />
It's either that Justin, or this Justin. But, seeing how pop stars usually age, I imagine that if I bide my time and sit silently, Justin will be doing coke and coming out of limos in skirts with no panties in no time. And then this generation will be able to feel the same shame and embarrassment that mine does when we see Joey Fatone hosting soon-to-be-canceled singing competitions.<br />
<br />
And that will be the sweetest revenge of all.<br />
<br />
J: The Other White JustinAnonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10996771273232767374noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6741858433334888054.post-72225412931642787972010-09-02T13:01:00.014-04:002010-09-07T00:47:48.577-04:00Shake Me 'Til You Wake Me From This Bad Dream.*<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEihUAEx9WvVn_BdZZeB99cjXWIdG_jPw8fZrGKZJ-B1HxF4-PD4g6jVMjN76li813cvVFhZJksYTT96xzQdnR0Q7MKajZlLRLWmbVE_JQnsekVfhCrkKLwWTwZJTZ3MXXUUf37_m3WOjs8/s1600/justin-bieber-fans.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 289px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEihUAEx9WvVn_BdZZeB99cjXWIdG_jPw8fZrGKZJ-B1HxF4-PD4g6jVMjN76li813cvVFhZJksYTT96xzQdnR0Q7MKajZlLRLWmbVE_JQnsekVfhCrkKLwWTwZJTZ3MXXUUf37_m3WOjs8/s400/justin-bieber-fans.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5512385493473047234" /></a><br /><br />Oh, Justin. I knew I'd meet you in my blogs eventually. I just never expected it to be quite like this...<br /><br />So Justin Bieber sold out Madison Square Garden. He could probably sell out the state of Texas, if there was a sound system large enough. Tweens are frightening, frightening versions of actual people, and they have terrible taste. This has been true since the dawn of time. It wouldn't surprise me if Jesus Christ was the original Justin Bieber, and the only reason we still know who he is is because BC 16 year olds were, like, so majorly crushing on him. Jesus Fever! At least back then they didn't know how to Tweet. <br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgZ2h5bvYgTev5G6pnVIgnNMVNydLyRMevfMRbRB-onJm2LffaMt-iFH80ctD05JuikVT40cFPgICxvlnln3ByE_EI2RkBw0q5nB06dmWwn-I65CAoJUo_HtaRXp1AVill4o7Uiu-P1TTE/s1600/beatles_fan_400x300.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgZ2h5bvYgTev5G6pnVIgnNMVNydLyRMevfMRbRB-onJm2LffaMt-iFH80ctD05JuikVT40cFPgICxvlnln3ByE_EI2RkBw0q5nB06dmWwn-I65CAoJUo_HtaRXp1AVill4o7Uiu-P1TTE/s400/beatles_fan_400x300.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5512385813333492978" /></a><span style="font-style:italic;"> Twilight</span>, The Jonas Brothers, <span style="font-style:italic;">Harry Potter</span>...all things that become huge because every adolescent and their mother loved it. (And I do quite literally mean "and their mother." What is with Moms jumping on these bandwagons? Are they trying to stay hip? I'm pretty sure there's nothing "hip" about a middle-aged woman wearing a T-shirt depicting a shirtless werewolf-boy that could be her son, and who, if he <span style="font-style:italic;">was</span> her son, would definitely call CPS and have her incarcerated.) Elvis, The Beatles, David Cassidy, New Kids on the Block, the Backstreet Boys, and now Justin Bieber. These artists vary in quality, but they all got their start as teenage dreamboats - and some of them had the good sense to go away soon after.<br /><br />I fully expected to see Bieber Fever strike the headlines of The New York Times someday, but more in a world-ending, pandemic, Bubonic plague sort of way. I'm surprised by the very serious tone of <a href="http://www.nytimes.com/2010/09/02/arts/music/02bieber.html?_r=1">this article</a>. <span style="font-style:italic;">"Instead his songs crackle with the first blush of seduction and power...?"</span> Really? You heard a crackle? I heard a gunshot, just before journalistic integrity made it's final farewell to this earth. <span style="font-style:italic;">"Those are also among Mr. Bieber’s slower songs, which leave his sometimes thin voice unprotected. He fared better on rowdier numbers like 'Bigger,' 'Baby' and 'One Time'..." </span> Um, excuse me, just who is this article for? Eight year old girls don't read the New York Times! You want to reach that audience, you Tweet "OMG! OMG! I HEART JUSTIN BIEBER! I JUST PEED!" That's about the only "review" of this show you need. I suppose it's possible he was trying to reach the mothers, in which case all he could have Tweeted: "OMG! OMG! I HEART JUSTIN BIEBER! MENOPAUSE IS HERE!"<br /><br />I was also surprised to see the author of this article was male, but no judgment. <br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjfX_aof3sHxwPtj87my7BAaLvh3G4EOHbHsVxVrB4Tf2LiAd8_S1Jj679TLgh9Gql0w8JhfaDRllefDxYK-6M3Ham9LFWXmKe0s_URmGyWDHYpgvCiOoH9LM7Q4dFKoHFMTBOn3KB7Sg8/s1600/1277482003-justin-bieber-mom-playboy.jpg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 286px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjfX_aof3sHxwPtj87my7BAaLvh3G4EOHbHsVxVrB4Tf2LiAd8_S1Jj679TLgh9Gql0w8JhfaDRllefDxYK-6M3Ham9LFWXmKe0s_URmGyWDHYpgvCiOoH9LM7Q4dFKoHFMTBOn3KB7Sg8/s400/1277482003-justin-bieber-mom-playboy.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5512386116353223714" /></a>Yes, Justin Bieber is ridiculous. He's about as awkward and goofy as I was as a teenager, except <span style="font-style:italic;">way </span>more popular with the ladies and friends with at least one famous rapper who has probably shot somebody. I can't exactly dig his helmet of hair and chipmunk cheeks - if you ask me, it might as well be Alvin, Simon, Theodore, and Justin Bieber. <span style="font-style:italic;">"Juuuuuustiiiiin!!!"</span> I can't take him seriously. And while it is certainly true that he does indeed look like a lesbian, that's only because so many lesbians dress like 15 year old boys. You can't blame Justin Bieber for that.<br /><br />However, I have a defense mechanism for dealing with the Justin Biebers of this world. When I sense someone getting popular, I automatically withdraw any and all attention I have ever paid to them and hide inside a shell that protects me from superstardom. (It's not unlike the cloak that shields me from reality TV, which I discussed yesterday.) I have a surprising gift for tuning out what I don't want to hear, and it isn't merely a product of getting older. It's good taste! I was born with it. (Okay, that's a lie - Transformers, Care Bears...I didn't discriminate.) But by the time I was a teenager, anyway, I had pretty much sussed out whose side I was on in the epic battle between good and evil over our souls and ears.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgI-52YgvLzBxnLFttMrwrvQLNH-W-HIo8CnmFlHhqF4iDRKTKQntRTvlwfJusKeO7kZXinH5wgw2RW03gS3jkXE_CTTMn1IwP8-RTSEElMAS9oWbNLsKZnw7WeCYAWmHZlzNR0anHUp4Y/s1600/back_street_boys.jpg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 288px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgI-52YgvLzBxnLFttMrwrvQLNH-W-HIo8CnmFlHhqF4iDRKTKQntRTvlwfJusKeO7kZXinH5wgw2RW03gS3jkXE_CTTMn1IwP8-RTSEElMAS9oWbNLsKZnw7WeCYAWmHZlzNR0anHUp4Y/s320/back_street_boys.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5512386795293584578" /></a>It's true. When I was in junior high and high school, I was pretty disinterested in the Backstreet Boys and N*Sync, and had only a passing interested in Christina Aguilera and Britney Spears. I watched TRL sometimes, mostly because my sister's love for one Nick Carter knew no bounds, but mainly I listened to 107.7 "The End." I know this means nothing to most readers, but for grunge and rock in the late 90's you really could do know better than this Seattle radio station.<br /><br />This was about when the genre "alternative" was founded, back when it really seemed like there were only two choices: the teen pop phenoms or the likes of Korn, Smashing Pumpkins, and Marilyn Manson.<br /><br />None of those artists were precisely my jam. I spent my formative years with Sublime, Red Hot Chili Peppers, Green Day, Stone Temple Pilots, and Nirvana, plus a few more obscure bands such as Zebrahead and Dynamite Hack. And, okay, I also really liked Madonna's <span style="font-style:italic;">Ray of Light.</span> But that was pretty dark too...for Madonna.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjZvizEjANzbcVMDjAUIt_gceAUSfsbsq7MQ1LpFhIZN9xmlf5MR3ckr9_hS5BH5yuKgaKC32-Iju8rBZ6w5nzgOgD5YE_bgSCTEep3R2O_bj97h5-NoOoyFLfjvNhl55Hz9crZ7bXKTcc/s1600/madonna+frozen.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 304px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjZvizEjANzbcVMDjAUIt_gceAUSfsbsq7MQ1LpFhIZN9xmlf5MR3ckr9_hS5BH5yuKgaKC32-Iju8rBZ6w5nzgOgD5YE_bgSCTEep3R2O_bj97h5-NoOoyFLfjvNhl55Hz9crZ7bXKTcc/s400/madonna+frozen.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5512387746157148498" /></a>It wasn't until college that I even really became aware of most current pop music, so immersed was I in my beloved alternative. And even then, I'm ashamed to admit that I enjoyed pop song remixes much more than I enjoyed the original tunes. For the uninitiated, a pop remix is basically when they take the already-repetitive lyrics of the chorus and repeat them even more, for longer. Granted, the remixes I liked best were the more artistic ones that fully re-imagined the song and often made it much darker and more meaningful, often by only using a line or two from the original song. I've tried looking for similar remixes in the years since, but it seems every remix I come across these days is of that first variety - if they haven't "evacuated the dance floor" after hearing that line approximately 70 times on a ten minute loop, Mr. DJ, then they're probably never going to.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi_tswncPeRK8HiEPGzHAoArWc6uSAn66kyvvNpceaiKfsNtdXlDgxJj3dGZIj0FpDN9cMfn77LPcqHA_jqcKk51nwId260DPlAWx5gV5JaM0Z6Oo1KqiLQpd7u1P8AJ6_megqnQa_EuaY/s1600/Justin-Bieber1.jpg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 331px; height: 396px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi_tswncPeRK8HiEPGzHAoArWc6uSAn66kyvvNpceaiKfsNtdXlDgxJj3dGZIj0FpDN9cMfn77LPcqHA_jqcKk51nwId260DPlAWx5gV5JaM0Z6Oo1KqiLQpd7u1P8AJ6_megqnQa_EuaY/s400/Justin-Bieber1.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5512387954315667634" /></a>Now my relationship with pop music is fleeting. I pick and choose what I want to hear, and generally am not subjected to what I don't. This means I'll check out what Katy Perry, Kanye West, and Rhianna are up to, while I ignore anything by Taylor Swift, The Jonas Brothers, or Miley Cyrus. I have a very powerful filter circling around my head at all times; only the most radioactive of singles ("You Belong to Me," "Party in the USA") make it through to my ears uninvited. Thankfully, we live in a world that allows those of us who'd rather listen to pop from Robyn, Annie, Sia, La Roux, Marina and the Diamonds, and Little Boots to do so while the rest of the world has their Justin Bieber.<br /><br />There are always alternatives. Every generation has had them. Maybe the pop icons will always be more ubiquitous. Maybe they'll even be <span style="font-style:italic;">so</span> in our faces we want to push them in front of a train. That's fine. I bet there are some people who wanted to push Paul and Ringo in front of a train, too. It's called diversity. If we all liked the same music, we'd be no better than robots, and no one would ever be pushed in front of a train. How boring would that be? What kind of a world? <br /><br />As for me, I have enjoyed Bieber's "Baby" more times than I care to tell. Something about those lyrics, "Baby baby baby oh, baby baby baby no," really speaks to a profound part of me, I don't know. Plus I think it's funny to hear Ludacris try to rap without saying "pussy." A few months ago, I also discovered an <span style="font-style:italic;">even younger</span> teenage pop star. From Australia - jackpot! What's my prize?? <br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgqg_FdAfY9ks-45XWbhRYh6Zs4TibaXaXKRn-JrT61Fv6ZgKaIPbfQ-ORPYDo8ieKjDUJJB-jlP-vnFjdo0hgV5aIsE_zC7qIal8P7cfTs0dxHIlxWOKCQphEg9u8ptV7vZz110_yOgeQ/s1600/Cody_Simpson_l_8e3e082bcc3447e5aab02b7c563f_bigger.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 214px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgqg_FdAfY9ks-45XWbhRYh6Zs4TibaXaXKRn-JrT61Fv6ZgKaIPbfQ-ORPYDo8ieKjDUJJB-jlP-vnFjdo0hgV5aIsE_zC7qIal8P7cfTs0dxHIlxWOKCQphEg9u8ptV7vZz110_yOgeQ/s320/Cody_Simpson_l_8e3e082bcc3447e5aab02b7c563f_bigger.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5512388603253946418" /></a>And while I realize that this is my second post in a week that will flag me as a pedophile, I am taking that chance by sharing Cody Simpson with you. Mr. Simpson may not be at the heights of Bieber stardom quite yet, but he was born the year <span style="font-style:italic;">Titanic</span> came out, so there's plenty of time for him to get there. <br /><br />In a disturbing trend, I'm pretty sure the teen idols are just getting younger. It used to be that the men were quite a few years older than their girly fans. Now it's the case of the Incredible Shrinking Superstar. What will they think of next? When can we expect a boy band made up of zygotes singing about the bitch who broke their hearts? <span style="font-style:italic;">Womb Tunes</span>...you heard it here first. Preteen girls and their moms can have their Justin Bieber, but for my money, I will take an even younger Australian with a human's haircut. <br /><br />And if anyone hits <span style="font-style:italic;">him</span> with a water bottle, you will know my wrath.<br /><br />Now, excuse me, I'm off to go hide in my pop culture shell.<br /><br /><object width="640" height="385"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/quIZkUMm55E?fs=1&hl=en_US"></param><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"></param><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"></param><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/quIZkUMm55E?fs=1&hl=en_US" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowscriptaccess="always" allowfullscreen="true" width="640" height="385"></embed></object>X.http://www.blogger.com/profile/14845533891411766527noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6741858433334888054.post-69185244014046740162010-09-01T11:20:00.014-04:002010-09-01T12:48:27.349-04:00The A-Holes<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgyeQjO32KoePAg6T26VBvDrpfKcih81fJi-awHooP8GqfUv86yNzP0pyioP8dg8Zk8RLBOqgbVSZQcLZ5jhxMlhpLboPpK_mxr5MpnXZmH5dHyQQ9y5-NR1MLmRDieP2MKJgQ6D_IQAQ2K/s1600/354x220.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgyeQjO32KoePAg6T26VBvDrpfKcih81fJi-awHooP8GqfUv86yNzP0pyioP8dg8Zk8RLBOqgbVSZQcLZ5jhxMlhpLboPpK_mxr5MpnXZmH5dHyQQ9y5-NR1MLmRDieP2MKJgQ6D_IQAQ2K/s320/354x220.jpg" /></a></div>Did you know that there's a gay A-List in New York? Surely you must. But did you also know that it's comprised mostly of nobodies who no one has ever heard of (or heard of briefly and then forgot) who basically do nothing, and talk about nothing? Well, if you have never known this, that gay bastion of cable, Logo, is seeking to set you straight. Or gay, as it were.<br />
<br />
Now, I have been told by a few people in my time that I am a "nightlife" personality. I have also been called at least once (though by a drunken friend), "The King of the Twinks." I often deny these claims. I am not hunting for celebrity, nor am I interested in possessing any bit of it. NOR do I really think I am one (feel free to leave mean anonymous comments to cement me in this knowledge). I want friends, I want family, and I want money and thankfully I have those things... so I'm pretty set.<br />
<br />
Anyway, in my occasional nightlife adventures, I do spend some time with actual personalities in the NYC gay scene - top tier drag queens that are bowed to on the street every day, promoters who have been throwing hugely successful parties for decades. These folks might be considered A-Listers. But even these people don't claim to be superstars (and the ones who do tend not to actually be one). They simply blush and/or blanch when you praise them.<br />
<br />
This speaks to a basic fact: if you have to constantly announce that you are Big Shit, then chances are you're really not much of a somebody at all. Look at actual celebrities. They cover themselves in sheets to hide from papparazzi. They use fake names to check into hotels. They have to hide from the public for fear of being trailed all day by fans and admirers. Those are celebrities. <br />
<br />
Imagine my rage, then, when I stumbled upon this trailer for an upcoming reality show on Logo, titled "The A-List".<br />
<br />
<center><embed allowfullscreen="true" allowscriptaccess="always" base="." flashvars="configParams=autoPlay%3Dfalse" height="320" src="http://media.mtvnservices.com/mgid:uma:video:logotv.com:556056" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" width="385"></embed></center><br />
<br />
So what we have here seems to be a "Real Housewives-esque" reality show featuring gay men who are supposedly somebodies, though I had to spend minutes in Google figuring out who the hell any of them actually are. What they do is still left unknown. They seem to like swimming, sitting in restaurants, picking out ugly clothing, and mentioning the fact that they are on the A-List.<br />
<br />
What defines being on the A-List, besides proudly stating "Am I on the A-List? Oh, definitely."? Apparently it includes eating at "the finest restaurants" (though no actual Gay-Lister should be caught consuming anything, if you ask me). It means weekending in the Hamptons in your skimpy bathing suit and it means getting "whatever you want, when you want it." That's their definition, not mine. So let's start there.<br />
<br />
Newsflash: if the aforementioned is all it takes, then I passed about 40 A-Listers on my way to work this morning (and one of them might have been homeless). Fancy dining, expensive vacations, and facials (of both varieties) are staples of gay New York living, fellas. It's not like the rest of us are eating at McDonalds and vacationing at Lake George.<br />
<br />
You're not on the A-List, you're just on camera. And even THAT isn't that special these days. Did you know all you really need to do is own a cake store or tanning salon in New Jersey to get a show? Yeah! That's it! Hell, you can just pop out a baker's dozen babies and TLC will be banging down your door for merchandising rights. You can even LOSE in another reality show, and STILL get your own show! This just in: I now am starring in a reality show, because I wrote about someone who lost a reality show and then got their own reality show. See you on the A-List!<br />
<br />
If it's about access to parties, I have another news item for your consideration: in a recessed economy, anyone can get into just about any party. Just show you have some money and some friends. Or just give your email address to me or any other promoter in NYC. We'll SPAM the fuck out of you every week with FREE VIP access. You can be a superstar to all of your friends who delete my emails and have no idea that anybody who says "I'm on Justin Luke's List" gets in for free.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi7KzKhqtXHoCuWRu7GlvX7aYG7H8X1eboh5BuBSiDwHBIPPRoEgD_zhLjTanOI1WoT_prAkO6YigUM65xvD8x7VHajc7SMhvtWhtJWwdhQDkRpbN3UCepYTXSAZRwteEPI2jkGVBjjhOY0/s1600/bouncer1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi7KzKhqtXHoCuWRu7GlvX7aYG7H8X1eboh5BuBSiDwHBIPPRoEgD_zhLjTanOI1WoT_prAkO6YigUM65xvD8x7VHajc7SMhvtWhtJWwdhQDkRpbN3UCepYTXSAZRwteEPI2jkGVBjjhOY0/s320/bouncer1.jpg" /></a></div><br />
I think what gets me angriest about this show is how Logo seems to be positioning it. If this was a "check out these hot messes!" I would probably be all about it. Who doesn't like seeing liquored up disasters in super-tight jeans throwing up into their Vuitton murses? I know I would. But this is not what Logo is doing. This trailer makes the A-Listers' lives look oh-so-glamorous. From vacant boutiques to wood deck-wrapped swimming pools, all the while fabulously skipping up the ladder of celebrity, we are to idolize these Gay Listers and want to be them. <br />
<br />
I give you Logo's description of the show:<i> They're stacked, packin', fierce and ambitious! From the producers of </i><i>The Real Housewives of Atlanta comes </i><i>The A-List: New York--a new docu-reality show following members of New York's gay elite plus their families, best girlfriends, and pocket dogs as they navigate being fabulous in the city.</i><br />
<br />
Stacked, packed, fierce and ambitious!? That sounds more like a teetering pile of lions, suitcases, and investment bankers. Which would probably make a better reality show, if you ask me. And how does one actually "navigate" being "fabulous"? Is it really that complicated? Because these boys just told us they get what they want, when they want it, and where they want it. That doesn't sound very difficult. So unless the show's producers plan on blindfolding them and forcing them to traverse a catwalk suspended 100 feet above a bad neighborhood in Spanish Harlem, I don't think there's much drama or intrigue to be found here.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"> <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjb97VRPsU5tdg9BFx-vOl5BEbKgfTHQ5eNmtfCP4ReJIr3j0ej2GXe2xRX-TJIlSDt_jFRUT4eMsGA7Srh14HfxZNSzRdL9zU1GMnNMlCfGGqOus4RDeWdVVocFgYmzGbxQ5XHX57pwSKi/s1600/vip-list-goldman-sachs.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjb97VRPsU5tdg9BFx-vOl5BEbKgfTHQ5eNmtfCP4ReJIr3j0ej2GXe2xRX-TJIlSDt_jFRUT4eMsGA7Srh14HfxZNSzRdL9zU1GMnNMlCfGGqOus4RDeWdVVocFgYmzGbxQ5XHX57pwSKi/s320/vip-list-goldman-sachs.jpg" /></a></div>But that's not all! <br />
<br />
It seems like Logo can't even decide if we're meant to laugh and be embarrassed on behalf of these boys, or not. Because while the trailer yaks up gallons of glitz and glamour, on the show's description page they cheer: <b>If you thought the housewives were desperate, wait 'til you meet the houseboys! </b><br />
<br />
Wait, so they're all houseboys? No, they aren't. I think one is a photographer. Another one a model. Agador Spartacus they are not.<br />
<br />
<center><object height="385" width="640"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/5wIRVpDzaM8?fs=1&hl=en_US"></param><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"></param><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"></param><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/5wIRVpDzaM8?fs=1&hl=en_US" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowscriptaccess="always" allowfullscreen="true" width="640" height="385"></embed></object></center><br />
<br />
So are they desperate and pathetic? Or hot-to-trot and enviable? Logo, make up your mind, and fast. You can't have it both ways. The trailer says "be jealous" and the marketing says "take pity." I don't think humankind is capable of both simultaneously. And frankly, in the end, viewers will probably take pity on themselves and be jealous of people who spent the same half hour staring at a wall.<br />
<br />
You may have noticed I haven't even MENTIONED the names of Logo's "A-List" in this post. That is because I don't know them, and don't care enough about them to re-Google to get those names. Feel free to do so if you please, but I've already wasted enough minutes on these guys. I know one is named Mike Ruiz, because he shares a last name with an ex-boyfriend of mine. I also know another cast member's name sounds like Rhyming Lemoncool. I think. Maybe.<br />
<br />
Point is: you're not A-List if nobody knows you. For fuck sake, Kathy Griffith is on the D-List and I know her and her mother better than I know any of you. And if you define yourself by pricey food and fancy clothing, then get in line behind the other 400 guys just like you who are wrapped around the entrance to any gay bar in this fair city. (And say my name at the door, so they keep paying me).<br />
<br />
The kicker is that, assuming this show isn't immediately canceled, you boys WILL be some sort of New York City A-Listers. And I'll have to stand idly by as we pay you to appear at our parties, and people flock to see you in the flesh.<br />
<br />
Fuckin A'<br />
<br />
- J.Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10996771273232767374noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6741858433334888054.post-29378301361829874452010-09-01T02:17:00.025-04:002010-09-02T02:20:51.226-04:00Easy A.*<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg1qicyXVwrDYt36u-xYH8MXiFFtD94AeQrkglU23dyhHTYAJALaoHrD1MMgbuNY25hON6mw3YCpSYLIjjuLiVibeIYzfHG6MlSAzPQooCCz-EXN8_WJyVgD9Bw-khivGGOQrrmDLVRXZI/s1600/ParisNarc.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 271px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg1qicyXVwrDYt36u-xYH8MXiFFtD94AeQrkglU23dyhHTYAJALaoHrD1MMgbuNY25hON6mw3YCpSYLIjjuLiVibeIYzfHG6MlSAzPQooCCz-EXN8_WJyVgD9Bw-khivGGOQrrmDLVRXZI/s400/ParisNarc.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5512037169679720098" /></a><br /><br />First off, let me start this entry with a big ol'<br /><br /><span style="font-style:italic;">siiiiiiiigh.<br /></span><br />Okay. Now that that's over with, let me talk about <span style="font-style:italic;">The A-List</span>.<br /><br />Logo has a riveting new show about gay people eating, drinking, and talking. I think they swim and shop too, but my eyes glazed over during the promo, so I can't be sure. This is supposed to be exciting because it takes place in New York City (!!). Surely you've heard of it, it's the concrete jungle where dreams are made...(of?), and if you believe the hype, it's the most fabulous place on earth. <br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj8G5ODfLGyOX8QnCk9Cz9E2jMM7EZCfB4RSjoYK3deWWMDFfDfUi9K40l-Xl2E9s7MDDvonK_lnVDIiaYEg6ShSAbkPHIVDx14D_51z0w2kiZAZV7Xv83Yk7FmlPOeJFI0ryy6sfBWkjA/s1600/images-1.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 225px; height: 224px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj8G5ODfLGyOX8QnCk9Cz9E2jMM7EZCfB4RSjoYK3deWWMDFfDfUi9K40l-Xl2E9s7MDDvonK_lnVDIiaYEg6ShSAbkPHIVDx14D_51z0w2kiZAZV7Xv83Yk7FmlPOeJFI0ryy6sfBWkjA/s400/images-1.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5512042827107848274" /></a>If you live here, though, it's a different story. Which is not to say that New York is <span style="font-style:italic;">not</span> a wonderful place. But let's just say the editors of <span style="font-style:italic;">The A-List</span> have probably left an <span style="font-style:italic;">awful</span> lot of footage on the cutting room floor. Contrary to what Logo would like you to think, any New Yorker who is not contractually obligated to lie on camera will tell you flat out: there is no A-list in New York. Which is to say, there are about seventy A-lists in New York, and it's impossible be on them all. I fully believe all the guys on <span style="font-style:italic;">The A-List</span> are, in fact, on <span style="font-style:italic;">a</span> list. Maybe even a few of them. But one man's treasure is another man's trash, meaning that yes, even these handsome gents are personas non grata somewhere in this city. There are all kinds of scenes in New York, and they're all big enough to exclude somebody. For example, something tells me none of these boys made the cut for this month's Modesty BBQ, where guests are served a delicious heaping helping of humble pie. New York also has a lot of events for people who have devoted their time and attention to kindness, charitable acts, and improving the lives of their fellow man, instead of improving their abs at David Barton. So sorry, boys - you're not on that list either. You wouldn't even make Schindler's.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhO8q8gKFeRXSWIMA5V40CaZvcb3wlhuqL95NrFpuRjREsuOk1N6XXhlSjM0LVZRRr2jkaqjN3DQGvu2KTT-4kjt_e72wZw0UHGAfXHCAOC6GFNfP9YTi0oD5SzzMcdH3tMbS5R2fSadEE/s1600/jackmcfarland.jpg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 179px; height: 152px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhO8q8gKFeRXSWIMA5V40CaZvcb3wlhuqL95NrFpuRjREsuOk1N6XXhlSjM0LVZRRr2jkaqjN3DQGvu2KTT-4kjt_e72wZw0UHGAfXHCAOC6GFNfP9YTi0oD5SzzMcdH3tMbS5R2fSadEE/s400/jackmcfarland.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5512044711092319714" /></a>Logo would like you to believe that these men are somehow superior to your average, everyday New York City gay man. Why, because they let fly bitchy quips that probably originated on <span style="font-style:italic;">Will & Grace</span>? Quick, find me a gay who <span style="font-style:italic;">doesn't</span> think they're better than everyone else - and make a show about <span style="font-style:italic;">them.</span> How about because so many of them are models? Please. Every meal I've ever had in this city has been served to me by a "model." And they all carry their headshots on their person <span style="font-style:italic;">at all times</span>, probably waiting for the casting director of a show just like this. From the looks of things, it's possible that some of these guys have more money than your average gay New Yorker, because it's easy to be compatible with a wealthy older gentleman who just wants you for your body when you're not that interesting yourself.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhUHVq_DMDxbKhFHIbIqSe3mSkZtVqePtCipIDo1XWMMsQ5EkXwoUu_7_uqofYKvPTo0vzTQhfaSzAwemK74MYn4Rqq3wxRkMH-jYvRaNRsDOMbwPJWlBAaik7gPje-5S8DL8_ykRWkTDM/s1600/Superior+Man+-+STOP.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 267px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhUHVq_DMDxbKhFHIbIqSe3mSkZtVqePtCipIDo1XWMMsQ5EkXwoUu_7_uqofYKvPTo0vzTQhfaSzAwemK74MYn4Rqq3wxRkMH-jYvRaNRsDOMbwPJWlBAaik7gPje-5S8DL8_ykRWkTDM/s400/Superior+Man+-+STOP.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5512045645274415906" /></a>What audience is <span style="font-style:italic;">The A-List</span> aiming for, exactly? I don't think Logo could possibly have made <span style="font-style:italic;">The A-List</span> with the intention of impressing gay Manhattanites, who already think they are - move over, Snapple! - the best stuff on earth. The most they can hope for is that New York gays will tune in and bitch about how the party they shot at two weeks ago is, like, <span style="font-style:italic;">sooo</span> over. And no heterosexual, New Yorker or otherwise, would ever come within spitting distance of such programming - not because they're homophobic. They just know better.<br /><br />So I guess it's geared toward gays in other cities, small towns in particular, for whom words like "Hamptons" and "Saks" ring bells of fabulousness because they heard them on <span style="font-style:italic;">Gossip Girl</span>. Only those who have never been to New York could buy what this show is selling; perhaps a fifteen year old homosexual watching from his basement in rural Nebraska will see <span style="font-style:italic;">The A List</span> and think, <span style="font-style:italic;">WOW! That's the life!</span> But take it from me, Jailbait - it is not. I assure you.<br /><br /><span style="font-style:italic;">The A-List</span> doesn't depict an elite squadron of New York City men any more than <span style="font-style:italic;">Real Housewives </span>reflects any given city's actual homemakers. There's nothing "real" about them. Sure, there are inherent truths to be found - gay men can be superficial and bitchy, go figure! But we get enough of that at clubs, thank you. I certainly don't need an extra dose of cuntiness from my TV set. Do you? These guys aren't particularly talented or particularly clever, and they aren't the sort of people I generally choose to socialize with in real life. Why would I spend an hour with them at home, when I could step out into the <span style="font-style:italic;">real</span> real New York City, or anywhere, and find someone even slightly worthier of my attention?<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgTUOVAMaMuvLHjWWVHclD3n7DB6aVm0rohLi1p_s1ghZoYRZz7ZNoYcszxZo2zIIfpQUr6cwlnR60dwIFtgFGuzRbwPMijDVV_3NlFF8YzB8lZE4MqngCNRsd5BbcoP36kRAcGpTaF3hM/s1600/alg_real-housewives.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 282px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgTUOVAMaMuvLHjWWVHclD3n7DB6aVm0rohLi1p_s1ghZoYRZz7ZNoYcszxZo2zIIfpQUr6cwlnR60dwIFtgFGuzRbwPMijDVV_3NlFF8YzB8lZE4MqngCNRsd5BbcoP36kRAcGpTaF3hM/s400/alg_real-housewives.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5512039900301583138" /></a>I wouldn't. But before I go on, let me qualify my opinion by stating my disdain for reality television in general - this brand of envy-TV in particular. I have never seen an episode of <span style="font-style:italic;">The Real Housewives of</span> (yawn). The only two I know by name are the ones I had the misfortune of seeing live in appearances at gay clubs, performing their awful, awful singles. (Please take the words "live" and "performing" with a big fucking grain of salt.) Nor do I keep up with Kardashians - I could not pick those girls out of a police lineup of gaudy skanks, unless of course they had their camera crew in tow (and we know they would). For the longest time, I thought "Speidi" was a superhero, and I sure as hell don't know which of those lazy Italian-Americans at the gym, pool, or laundromat is Snooki. Nor do I know with any certainty how to spell "Snooki." Nor will I bother to look it up, lest I soak up any knowledge of <span style="font-style:italic;">Jersey Shore</span> accidentally. I could use that precious brain space for something far more useful. I am blisfully unaware of <span style="font-style:italic;">all</span> of these people, and that's the way I like it. In the dark.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgt-b5z-JOE0vLvTXOAxWDxoQK85wW-TrHXqoOYceujbVessG3HcKdADHrKJHCdOStB0pGVYLNLVVLBHgLKsn-1IH58tz6-kfr63PLeOV3NsIvQkIE2iM71tSrbHhBRqtLSoJEDFtWgMYM/s1600/images.jpg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 261px; height: 193px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgt-b5z-JOE0vLvTXOAxWDxoQK85wW-TrHXqoOYceujbVessG3HcKdADHrKJHCdOStB0pGVYLNLVVLBHgLKsn-1IH58tz6-kfr63PLeOV3NsIvQkIE2iM71tSrbHhBRqtLSoJEDFtWgMYM/s400/images.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5512041347325016594" /></a>The reason for this isn't simply because I don't enjoy having luxuries I'm not privy to rubbed in my face, though that is partially true also. Really, it's because I don't see these "luxuries" as that luxurious. How can it be, when it's so artificial? "Reality TV" is the biggest misnomer of all time. These programs are as realistic as <span style="font-style:italic;">Battlestar Galactaca</span>. Some even less so. They feature people essentially acting as versions of themselves, going to prearranged locations, where scripted things happen. The clubs they go to are sponsors, the products they use have been worked out in merchandise deals. I don't envy reality TV stars any more than I envy your Average Joe who walks into a theme park, because that's all it is. A ride. When the show ends and the cameras stop rolling, they'll return to whatever their <span style="font-style:italic;">real</span> reality was, and I'd be willing to bet it isn't nearly as glitzy and cushy as it looked on TV.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhKupavwHyjh0j_va49M269ghmn_GvR_WnwvW75dmQfHlCWNbDfjZda5rw17qnBO92vk0qDWg3pn0w18Rr21Jio7saWlHyJuiR21yu1dGZcWVfXWY83RUZoC950Ia1pJbvl4Md1arDFZwE/s1600/reality-tv-illustration.gif"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 256px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhKupavwHyjh0j_va49M269ghmn_GvR_WnwvW75dmQfHlCWNbDfjZda5rw17qnBO92vk0qDWg3pn0w18Rr21Jio7saWlHyJuiR21yu1dGZcWVfXWY83RUZoC950Ia1pJbvl4Md1arDFZwE/s320/reality-tv-illustration.gif" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5512046079471117346" /></a>So as for the Gay Housewives, the Kept boys, the A-listers, or whatever they'll be known as - I don't care. Truly. This is television at its most transparent, no better or worse than <span style="font-style:italic;">The Real Kardashians of Jersey Shore, Get Me Out of Here - I'm A Worthless Human Being!,</span> or any other heterosexual equivalent. I've met Reichen and have nothing but nice things to say about him. The rest don't sound any more spoiled or obnoxious than people I encounter in New York every night of the week. Besides, who amongst us wouldn't sound like a horrible person if the cameras were rolling at all times?<br /><br />But will I waste any of my time or self-esteem watching them navigate their way through New York's party scene, envying them every step of the way? Nah. I, too, have eaten in expensive restaurants and been to the Hamptons. I, too, have attended parties with movie stars and music idols. I, too, dated people who were on television shows not so unlike <span style="font-style:italic;">The A-List</span>, and I didn't care then, either. (Which might be why it didn't work out.) To some, this might all seem pretty astounding, but for those who have chosen to live in New York and Los Angeles (and perhaps other places I can't attest to), it's just life. And once you've done all this, you've <span style="font-style:italic;">done</span> it...no need to rehash it all in an unimaginative, uninspired TV program that is a clone of dozens of others just like it, starring people who are clones of dozens of other people just like them. Is reality TV scripted? You betcha. And all the dialogue reads <span style="font-style:italic;">blah, blah, blah...</span><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjaW0RZVibkOlkBiKgYg-16YnkdNpk_atwo_4v-i8eeOjIKl_rb96Nzm32LiXAM2YBEsQlAup1eocML3o9V3O0b5jVzhGERfxXPPmUNjQriXEA2anKHMh3jEaZaZxnlcn4-TWlNtIX-wNE/s1600/JP-Reality-TV-500.jpg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 223px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjaW0RZVibkOlkBiKgYg-16YnkdNpk_atwo_4v-i8eeOjIKl_rb96Nzm32LiXAM2YBEsQlAup1eocML3o9V3O0b5jVzhGERfxXPPmUNjQriXEA2anKHMh3jEaZaZxnlcn4-TWlNtIX-wNE/s320/JP-Reality-TV-500.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5512037499955042594" /></a>And yet I do not judge the "stars" of <span style="font-style:italic;">The A-List</span> for being opportunistic. Who wouldn't capitalize on 15 minutes of fame if someone's willing to cast them on a reality show? We all want to be the beautiful, wealthy, quasi-famous people everybody's talking about - if not for the notoriety, then simply because it'd be more convenient than planning and paying for recreational activities ourselves. Do I wish someone would follow me around with a camera while I did nothing but drink, swim, and gossip in glitzy locations? Sure! And if I set my mind to it, and devoted the next two years of my life to making it happen, I probably could. See, when I try, I can make myself much more attractive than I am by nature, but it's very time-consuming. Were I to make myself pretty enough for the A-list, I would literally do nothing else...which I suppose is the point.<br /><br />For these A-listers, this <span style="font-style:italic;">is</span> their career - and perhaps a wise choice at that. Once upon a time, I thought my days were better spent on creative endeavors than on tanning, grooming, and the gym. But whereas these fellows have landed a TV show, I have only landed this blog. Curses! Foiled again. This match goes to the pretty boys, whose job is to be as famous as they can for as long as they can (which probably isn't very long at all). If I had only thought to make a living out of being self-absorbed and shallow and <span style="font-style:italic;">really</span> set my mind to it, who knows where I'd be by now? Well, probably on Logo. The main difference between <span style="font-style:italic;">A-list</span>'s New York City gays and the rest of us isn't any ethereal quality that makes them worthy of the spotlight, but the mere fact that they wanted it and went after it and got it. So here they are. That's all. <br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjc3lPLl6srtEp0kjRzMnB9dS34BAAqFL_Dqq51mBFgugKeWQbX3hoAweQrai9N0KwloQV-hHdw_I0mwG22fieH_9emCLVDyBxQ1uf5QB2HaWD80MUK40KQHDwwufAgnhVqTej2FZYCCFM/s1600/a_rod_mirror_kiss.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 350px; height: 248px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjc3lPLl6srtEp0kjRzMnB9dS34BAAqFL_Dqq51mBFgugKeWQbX3hoAweQrai9N0KwloQV-hHdw_I0mwG22fieH_9emCLVDyBxQ1uf5QB2HaWD80MUK40KQHDwwufAgnhVqTej2FZYCCFM/s400/a_rod_mirror_kiss.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5512037755059831762" /></a>If I have any beef at all with <span style="font-style:italic;">The A-List</span>, it's with the people who are going to watch it. The internet is already abuzz about the show, and most of the hype is negative - gripes about how these guys are stupid, shallow nobodies unworthy of being branded A-listers. And you know what? I bet these people are going to tune in to the show, too, so they can keep on bitching about how terrible it is. "What is this world coming to, when <span style="font-style:italic;">this</span> makes it on TV?" you complain, with one finger on the "Record All" button. You're having a love-hate relationship with reality TV, but guess who ends up as the battered wife in this scenario? Hint: it's not Reichen.<br /><br />These TV shows exist to make us feel bad about what we don't have, then urge us to judge their subjects so we can feel better about ourselves. We're meant to revel in the luxury and live vicariously through them, then mock these "A-listers" for being superficial. We're supposed to be attracted to the eye candy, and then make catty comments about how they're so caught up in their looks. We laugh at them for trying to be famous when we're the ones turning them into D-list stars. Reality TV knows this, and is laughing all the way to the bank about it. <br /><br />Does making fun of reality TV stars make us smarter and superior to them? I don't think so. Sure, these guy might be vapid, useless narcissists, but at least they're getting paid for the time they put into this show. <br /><br />What's your excuse?<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEizYRNWqXkxN9kPNRvxagTemuQBYbj67cXMjTQ3IB3E6PmHBfsqnEd5FmtjQWXfYSsS6AJzV3zJWdvqDDMSJGKcRXx6g4sotJsVU9M2-jCB2zKWKkIM0p1ihRAtlidNk8s8JkOYZi8Y6uQ/s1600/scarlet_letter.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 288px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEizYRNWqXkxN9kPNRvxagTemuQBYbj67cXMjTQ3IB3E6PmHBfsqnEd5FmtjQWXfYSsS6AJzV3zJWdvqDDMSJGKcRXx6g4sotJsVU9M2-jCB2zKWKkIM0p1ihRAtlidNk8s8JkOYZi8Y6uQ/s400/scarlet_letter.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5512041639605719170" /></a><br /><br /><span style="font-style:italic;">So</span> turned off,<br /><br />X.X.http://www.blogger.com/profile/14845533891411766527noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6741858433334888054.post-90484722187167050472010-08-31T11:02:00.007-04:002010-08-31T11:39:08.127-04:00Oh Peacock, You're So Fine...<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi5SsdIHsoNXp4K01z2yx7gaEHPvIfg8xGtvWKJDySCFzjgTea7uKWBEM1gTiqRKp-Diti1t6Xmc_nSDphbeTfmfD_Tl7HFusuHoCvsIxjsF1LVhOK9cU6Fx6uQrr0bcufkQhVrbqE7-yO7/s1600/Screen+shot+2010-08-31+at+10.56.34+AM.png" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi5SsdIHsoNXp4K01z2yx7gaEHPvIfg8xGtvWKJDySCFzjgTea7uKWBEM1gTiqRKp-Diti1t6Xmc_nSDphbeTfmfD_Tl7HFusuHoCvsIxjsF1LVhOK9cU6Fx6uQrr0bcufkQhVrbqE7-yO7/s320/Screen+shot+2010-08-31+at+10.56.34+AM.png" /></a></div>So, Katy Perry's new album, Teenage Dream dropped. It has a few songs I'm obsessed with, and a few I am sure I will be obsessed with once the DJs I work with jam it, club-style, straight into my brain via my buzzing ears. <br />
<br />
One song that has installed itself in my frontal lobe and commenced snacking on my gray matter would be "Peacock." In the vein of "If U Seek Amy" by Britney Spears, this song doesn't even try to obscure its "hidden meaning." Clearly it is Katy's businessman-created, written, tested, and executed ode to Russel Brand's gigantic throbbing member. Katy isn't winking at us so much as holding up photos of penises as she sings the catchy beat.<br />
<br />
I'm not saying there is anything wrong with this. I am saying, however, why bother? It's not like she'll be pulling a fast one on us. While it can be argued that Sara Bareilles successfully duped us into thinking an attack against a record executive was a vengeful anti-love tuner, there is no argument to be levied on behalf of the "hidden" meaning of Peacock.<br />
<br />
At least If U Seek Amy expected us to spell (which Britney can't even do, so plaudits go to her for challenging herself). In this song, Katy goes ahead and says Peacock once before saying "cock" four hundred more times. And, unless we find out that Russell Brand has an aviary in the backyard of his mansion that houses extremely large birds, an aviary that he has yet to let Katy visit despite her pleas, I'm pretty sure we can close the book on this song.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiTQnkx9oRhUohwJ10GM5uiQ4GC9SL1v_jp8zt3Sa-xzwYXh3adC8IB3x0rs3qJnvri2kEGbAuLQ84gQxGjOiWk5ojj26C74rAnFbRlvzv_gJeQgkkhS1CC7czhUZE4kVFjKZbOmh6r79U4/s1600/Screen+shot+2010-08-31+at+10.55.13+AM.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiTQnkx9oRhUohwJ10GM5uiQ4GC9SL1v_jp8zt3Sa-xzwYXh3adC8IB3x0rs3qJnvri2kEGbAuLQ84gQxGjOiWk5ojj26C74rAnFbRlvzv_gJeQgkkhS1CC7czhUZE4kVFjKZbOmh6r79U4/s320/Screen+shot+2010-08-31+at+10.55.13+AM.png" /></a></div><br />
<br />
Does anyone else catch themselves thinking of the song "Mickey" (as in "Oh Mickey you're so fine, you're so fine you blow my mind") when they hear this song? I know I am. Whether this is an officially sampled beat, or just something that's uncanny-valley close to what I'm associating with, I do not know.<br />
<br />
It makes sense, then, when given how bluntly this song cockslaps you in the eye over and over again, that Gay Softcore Pornographer and Music Video Director <a href="http://tinyurl.com/yeezy8h">Ryan James Yezak</a> has tackled this video as a sequel to his sexy (and New York bashing) <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=kelUCEcdO8M">California Gays video</a>. <br />
<br />
<br />
<center><object height="385" width="640"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/S3bRPHPQsOs?fs=1&hl=en_US"></param><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"></param><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"></param><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/S3bRPHPQsOs?fs=1&hl=en_US" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowscriptaccess="always" allowfullscreen="true" width="640" height="385"></embed></object></center><br />
<br />
He certainly doesn't disappoint. He has come a long way in 1 month's time. His number of on-camera, barely clothed twinks has near doubled. He's gotten his hands on a number of sets (versus a beach, boardwalk, and street). These sets include a bright white bedroom set (I feel really bad for whoever got stuck with THAT cleaning bill). He's also now lined up a sponsor in American Apparel and somehow gotten his hands on a live peacock-cock-cock. <br />
<br />
His editing, as always, is stellar. I still take issue with some of <a href="http://bit.ly/9qVUcS">Christian Beasley's</a> choreography. Sometimes it doesn't fit in the frame, and sometimes it just looks silly (and not in a sexy way). Why are they back-flapping fake arm-wings? I don't know. Also, the black paint on white sheets, for some reason, makes me think Lady Gaga, whether it's actually a Gaga trope or not. And when the music pauses for a brief dialogue scene, the microphone makes Beasley's weakly delivered line, and this video sound a lot lower in quality than the rest of it looks. And finally, I think I may be growing tired of Yezak's use of the "three guys dancing, now I'll transition to them doing the same dance but in a different arrangement" editing trick. It was impressive in California Gays, and it's smoother and better executed here. But perhaps when he makes his next video, he can branch out to other camera trickery.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg_3Tf2dsEPDjKRn85BtqcmmuYMjrNtXDivDmV3MC32vvDTBTjIqSumakjrpHtu9KP4JNUTGSzZBOPJRDQbnTUgKO_gveLOf3MMWKKTQ3crhE1Wz-oLg3BkiiTgbB3HxICKOcDIKW-ng14n/s1600/Screen+shot+2010-08-31+at+10.55.24+AM.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg_3Tf2dsEPDjKRn85BtqcmmuYMjrNtXDivDmV3MC32vvDTBTjIqSumakjrpHtu9KP4JNUTGSzZBOPJRDQbnTUgKO_gveLOf3MMWKKTQ3crhE1Wz-oLg3BkiiTgbB3HxICKOcDIKW-ng14n/s320/Screen+shot+2010-08-31+at+10.55.24+AM.png" /></a></div><br />
But don't think my criticism is saying that this video is subpar. It certainly is not. I have already watched it twice, gritting my teeth through the shitty resolution and choppiness of YouTube. That says a lot. This is a great, high-energy, scintillating, and visually explosive project. And I imagine they did it in a very short period of time. His use of typical "fantasies" including the football locker room and the doctor's office are executed with a nice mix of sexiness and cuteness, making you laugh and suppress your arousal at the same time. I also found myself a fan of his "white outfits on white background" portion, basically showing his dancers as a group of free-floating limbs. Bonus points for the "letter play" with the t-shirts - did American Apparel print those on demand?<br />
<br />
Also, I think the people who are saying that this video is "terrible" over at PerezHilton.com can go get trampled by non-metaphorical peacocks. Get over it, boys. Whatever deep-seeded issues you have that drive you to pee all over this peacock, they have nothing to do with this fantastic homage to a hotter than hot pop goddess.<br />
<br />
And now this leaves me to wonder: what will Yezak do next? I haven't listened to the Perry album enough to levy a guess. Maybe he'll step away from Katy and do another artist? Ke$ha perhaps? I'll tell you this much: I'm excited to find out. I'm also curious to see if Yezak can parlay this into something else - television, or a legit directorial gig. Eyes are certainly on him (even though they're probably mostly gay eyes.)<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh4E-yYVGo6gaxqbGIFMTR3X_hOT87P201f1m7YuaEHRZZkWOI3mHMefA6iDN0GxoIx87dxQjED25zuKIpdpxKpKkFp9tic69Sg9uGhsSWp1F6nU92pAa9HWxXlDsX9alprSCm2yKtZY7-2/s1600/Screen+shot+2010-08-31+at+10.55.32+AM.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh4E-yYVGo6gaxqbGIFMTR3X_hOT87P201f1m7YuaEHRZZkWOI3mHMefA6iDN0GxoIx87dxQjED25zuKIpdpxKpKkFp9tic69Sg9uGhsSWp1F6nU92pAa9HWxXlDsX9alprSCm2yKtZY7-2/s320/Screen+shot+2010-08-31+at+10.55.32+AM.png" /></a></div><br />
And of course, I have a hard time critiquing Yezak's work simply because I cannot do what he does at all. I am a jokester with a flipcam who occasionally video tapes go-go boys licking each other's sternums. As is evidenced by my most recent video project, a video highlights reel of BoiParty.com, Pepper Mint, and Dougie Meyer's booze cruise this past Sunday night, which is shamelessly included below. If I deserve any credit at all, it's for finding a good reason to re-use Andy Samberg and T-Pain's "I'm on a Boat."<br />
<br />
Either way, I am critiquing Mr. Yezak because I am not-so-secretly rooting for him to make it big. To get more of these videos out. To let me see more and more of those ridiculous cuties, <a href="http://bit.ly/cylquk">Joe Lauer</a> and <a href="http://bit.ly/9F7Bux">Spencer Titus</a>. And if you boys end up reading this and come to NYC any time soon, I will happily talk Alan Picus into having you perform at our parties all week long. You'll find a healthy fan following here, I can assure you of that.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<center><object height="385" width="640"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/NNRL2-bwK04?fs=1&hl=en_US"></param><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"></param><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"></param><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/NNRL2-bwK04?fs=1&hl=en_US" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowscriptaccess="always" allowfullscreen="true" width="640" height="385"></embed></object></center><br />
<br />
I wanna see your emu-moo-moo...<br />
- J.Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10996771273232767374noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6741858433334888054.post-91670112938689609902010-08-31T02:06:00.028-04:002010-09-01T16:51:38.517-04:00It Takes A Diva To Suck This Hard.*<br />
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjE2eZy-XV-SsETI5DYI6LaNvj_EuhWnEscB0kx746T5p8aRw_a139DE4vCyirKr6GCWyadvSD__TY41vLd-ZH6Bm-VDgXV_ZXX2hVfTlJuanmop-Hdl9lh-Smshv0bbLnqFSzb2u6B5iY/s1600/121053__mariah_l.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5511490674578589698" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjE2eZy-XV-SsETI5DYI6LaNvj_EuhWnEscB0kx746T5p8aRw_a139DE4vCyirKr6GCWyadvSD__TY41vLd-ZH6Bm-VDgXV_ZXX2hVfTlJuanmop-Hdl9lh-Smshv0bbLnqFSzb2u6B5iY/s400/121053__mariah_l.jpg" style="cursor: pointer; display: block; height: 300px; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; width: 400px;" /></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjyVtI0D8eMbr_uyBhph1QagPl_Go7NBX6bESePI2WS9Jk9eDn0lswpEMDg4_zMlJWtxcBKm8nRSlNfsfUMLCUFf9JgQMN0D2jnwARfjaWv3RIi5i4ccEPnO1fVltX_LrE0X9cJx-ETmO0/s1600/mariah.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5511490681850922178" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjyVtI0D8eMbr_uyBhph1QagPl_Go7NBX6bESePI2WS9Jk9eDn0lswpEMDg4_zMlJWtxcBKm8nRSlNfsfUMLCUFf9JgQMN0D2jnwARfjaWv3RIi5i4ccEPnO1fVltX_LrE0X9cJx-ETmO0/s400/mariah.jpg" style="cursor: pointer; display: block; height: 240px; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; width: 400px;" /></a><br />
When actors play musicians in movies, the results are often spellbinding. Take Joaquin Pheonix as Johnny Cash in <span style="font-style: italic;">Walk the Line</span>, Angela Basset as Tina Turner in <span style="font-style: italic;">What's Love Got To Do With It</span>, and Jenna Maroney as Jackie Jormp-Jomp AKA Janis Joplin, which we can only assume would have been amazing if it weren't just a storyline on <span style="font-style: italic;">30 Rock</span>. And that's just the ones based on real people. Jeff Bridges just won an Oscar playing a country music star named Bad Blake. Terence Howard was awesome as a fictional rapper in <span style="font-style: italic;">Hustle & Flow</span>. Gwyneth Paltrow's upcoming role in <span style="font-style: italic;">Country Strong</span> could land her at the top of the charts <span style="font-style: italic;">and</span> on the red carpet come Oscar season. <span style="font-style: italic;">Almost Famous...Amadeus...Ray</span>...the list goes on and on.<br />
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjqVDsA7FlHktP4mcHF3QXf1O0MwCEhCfEPQtDUJrX_GNfEuwnZFif3_gTDe9N8Se9fPMd8ql7ObgRlbzU7IoXMDzAqmFVC7pvp2EkoTHklQvv_UBntQmhgQfCTzEcONFmkUb4X5eQEjq0/s1600/171626__sa5_l.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5511495641095466114" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjqVDsA7FlHktP4mcHF3QXf1O0MwCEhCfEPQtDUJrX_GNfEuwnZFif3_gTDe9N8Se9fPMd8ql7ObgRlbzU7IoXMDzAqmFVC7pvp2EkoTHklQvv_UBntQmhgQfCTzEcONFmkUb4X5eQEjq0/s320/171626__sa5_l.jpg" style="cursor: pointer; float: left; height: 320px; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; width: 255px;" /></a>You know what's <span style="font-style: italic;">not</span> spellbinding? When Hollywood tries to reverse that winning formula and lets musicians pretend to be actors. I call to the stand Taylor Swift, Miley Cyrus, and now Christina Aguilera, along with every other musician who thought looking convincingly-pure-yet-secretly-horny in a music video meant they could carry a movie. I'm looking at you, Madonna in <span style="font-style: italic;">Swept Away</span>! And now I'm looking away, because it hurts.<br />
<br />
Are there exceptions? Sure. To the surprise of many, Justin Timberlake has proven worth his salt as an actor - witness him as the creator of Napster in David Fincher's upcoming "Facebook movie" <span style="font-style: italic;">The Social Network</span>. Bjork powered through the notoriously difficult Lars von Trier's <span style="font-style: italic;">Dancer in the Dark</span>, her first film role (and last, she has vowed). And Eminem made it all the way through the Academy Awards without committing a hate crime when he was nominated for <span style="font-style: italic;">8 Mile</span>'s "Lose Yourself," a film in which he capably portrayed a young white rapper from Detroit. Hmm.<br />
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiLXd8W3O-wYmVkAFB7A7NmE87v0FX0U-t3krv86q6t5A64nVruZVqa5GWFfcSf2nfTqWbFsFymU2wDiI6GppZ7wJmSjDC-THzfbc9emQYG5mt2Dh8rE9kSUNoak1K_q441g6_OU16m6Vs/s1600/From-Justin-to-Kelly-thumb-560xauto-24081.gif" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5511492445176013682" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiLXd8W3O-wYmVkAFB7A7NmE87v0FX0U-t3krv86q6t5A64nVruZVqa5GWFfcSf2nfTqWbFsFymU2wDiI6GppZ7wJmSjDC-THzfbc9emQYG5mt2Dh8rE9kSUNoak1K_q441g6_OU16m6Vs/s400/From-Justin-to-Kelly-thumb-560xauto-24081.gif" style="cursor: pointer; float: right; height: 264px; margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; width: 400px;" /></a>But for every Jennifer Hudson, there's a Kelly Clarkson and Justin Guarini, who weren't even convincing as characters named Justin and Kelly in <span style="font-style: italic;">From Justin to Kelly</span>. (Lucky for them, they happened to find a script in which the characters had their same first names. What are the odds? Imagine how much worse it would have been had they not played themselves? World-endingly bad, I'd guess.) In fact, musicians fail at playing themselves surprisingly often. Mariah Carey was more convincing as a social worker with a mustache in <span style="font-style: italic;">Precious</span> than she was as a pop diva in <span style="font-style: italic;">Glitter</span> (never mind that both movies sound like her pre-Mimi album titles). And it's been awhile since I saw David Bowie as a drugged-out space oddity in <span style="font-style: italic;">Labyrinth</span> (that counts as playing himself, right?), but all I remember is a giant codpiece, which probably isn't a good sign.<br />
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgDGEmxDfHai8J-ix99AkgWeZnp9VFo4aoCkFW1P-BMK3rbpY16imBWPJXi1PgaAsKO34T57l1P8lea11w6Qr1oMiaJU5oXADC4cb8P_LN-khcF4DQCfCl5XHzXk2-_JRRkJbtbv4Dn3oM/s1600/bowie+labyrinth+14.png" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5511492632250273858" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgDGEmxDfHai8J-ix99AkgWeZnp9VFo4aoCkFW1P-BMK3rbpY16imBWPJXi1PgaAsKO34T57l1P8lea11w6Qr1oMiaJU5oXADC4cb8P_LN-khcF4DQCfCl5XHzXk2-_JRRkJbtbv4Dn3oM/s400/bowie+labyrinth+14.png" style="cursor: pointer; float: left; height: 320px; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; width: 217px;" /></a>Despite these past horrors, young musicians are still neglecting to brush up on their Meisner technique, judging by the latest crop testing their acting chops by playing characters very similar to themselves - and still failing. Naturally, I avoided seeing <span style="font-style: italic;">Valentine's Day</span> because I don't hate myself and did not wish for my penis to fall off, but a friend turned me on to the jaw-droppingly-atrocious acting by Taylor Swift in this "romantic" "comedy." This clip begs the question: is this improv? Did she know the camera was rolling? Was this honestly the <span style="font-style: italic;">best</span> take? Or somehow, possibly the <span style="font-style: italic;">only</span> take? Is Jennifer Garner supposed to act <span style="font-style: italic;">that</span> uncomfortable, or is she as horrified by Taylor Swift's appearance in this movie as I am? <br />
<br />
I present Exhibit A, to make of what you will:<br />
<br />
<object height="385" width="640"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/4v7Hpz1pWmc?fs=1&hl=en_US"></param><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"></param><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"></param><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/4v7Hpz1pWmc?fs=1&hl=en_US" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowscriptaccess="always" allowfullscreen="true" width="640" height="385"></embed></object><br />
<br />
How did this happen? I know Ms. Swift is considered very down-to-earth and relatable because she prefers sneakers to high heels and sits in bleachers, but this girl could not act her way out of a paper bag. If both she and a paper bag were up against each other for an Oscar, the paper bag would win, hands-down. If only Kanye would appear in this movie and drag Taylor out of it! I won't comment on whether or not she deserved that Video Music award, but she sure as hell didn't deserve to be cast in this movie. Not when there are plenty of other talented actresses, paper bags, and house flies out there who could have brought more depth and believability to the role of Completely Ordinary Girl. You can wear T-shirts all you want, Taylor, but you have blown your cover. <br />
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh6zUxQHqNBRWlEABrO1Sk6pYPAXcIl9tMuS8PjcmKTvsPA2BR14Tyq0cJOFl7RA-wKALrfJP-2IuV5dhs4sDljr77V8Mb-v70Otumu39r10ANrPygqlcf2ypbEr4C3zNDgREODfik_yrY/s1600/gallery-msg-124550361423-3.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5511493018807612738" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh6zUxQHqNBRWlEABrO1Sk6pYPAXcIl9tMuS8PjcmKTvsPA2BR14Tyq0cJOFl7RA-wKALrfJP-2IuV5dhs4sDljr77V8Mb-v70Otumu39r10ANrPygqlcf2ypbEr4C3zNDgREODfik_yrY/s400/gallery-msg-124550361423-3.jpg" style="cursor: pointer; float: right; height: 302px; margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; width: 400px;" /></a>Faring only marginally better is Miley Cyrus in <span style="font-style: italic;">The Last Song</span>, a role that was written for her by Nicholas Sparks. Reportedly she wished to stretch beyond the limitations of playing a musician on a Disney sitcom, so guess what! She plays a musician. But on a bigger screen. Oh, and this time, she stubbornly <span style="font-style: italic;">refuses</span> to play the piano anymore because she's mad at her Dad, and is punishing him by declining her admission to Julliard. This means she spends the movie making out with an Australian, saving sea turtles, and trying to solve the mystery of who burned down the local church instead. (No, seriously.) <br />
<br />
That's fine by me, I didn't want to hear her sing anyway - but guess whether or not she eventually <span style="font-style: italic;">does</span> sing, and decides to give Julliard a shot after all? She does! And guess whether or not someone dies of cancer? They do! And guess if Miley at one point dons a blond wig and becomes a wacky country superstar? Well, no...but that didn't stop me from laughing at the movie as if it were a sitcom anyway. As Nicholas Sparks heroines go, Ms. Cyrus is no Rachel McAdams or Robin Wright, nor an Amanda Seyfried or Diane Lane. I can't say her acting was truly terrible because there was nothing good in the film to compare it to. The highest compliment I can give her is that she didn't make the movie suck any harder than it was already going to. Sparks has a true gift for making two specific demographics cry: 1) women, and 2) me. But for very different reasons.<br />
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhck8DJaGqxbM4UnDddz7zY3XgnzE0AF9uYq_u8X-YUeoJoPVGhgpgcSaOTXv7KHka5BEyDt9RHjISJ4-CcnR-4Oi_RfwHg02xd3Vt7t2dxUeZ_4rihljYzaGn-pTEdTNP_CSN9FrflskY/s1600/beyonce-obsessed-movie-still.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5511493477363288834" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhck8DJaGqxbM4UnDddz7zY3XgnzE0AF9uYq_u8X-YUeoJoPVGhgpgcSaOTXv7KHka5BEyDt9RHjISJ4-CcnR-4Oi_RfwHg02xd3Vt7t2dxUeZ_4rihljYzaGn-pTEdTNP_CSN9FrflskY/s400/beyonce-obsessed-movie-still.jpg" style="cursor: pointer; float: left; height: 300px; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; width: 300px;" /></a>Now this Thanksgiving comes the latest offender, and quite possibly the most delicious of them all: Christina Aguilera in <span style="font-style: italic;">Burlesque</span>, which looks something like <span style="font-style: italic;">Chicago</span> meets <span style="font-style: italic;">Showgirls</span> - meets guilty pleasure heaven meets a great big smile on my face. We get not one but <span style="font-style: italic;">two</span> divas-turned-actresses! We also get singing, dancing, and Alan Cumming, officially making this the gayest movie ever made. And yes, I am including gay porn. Sure, maybe it's unfair to judge the movie before it comes out, but something tells me Christina's acting debut will be more Beyonce in <span style="font-style: italic;">Obsessed</span> than Beyonce in <span style="font-style: italic;">Dreamgirls.</span> And that something is the trailer for the movie:<br />
<br />
<object height="385" width="640"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/5ch_5ZWFFis?fs=1&hl=en_US"></param><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"></param><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"></param><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/5ch_5ZWFFis?fs=1&hl=en_US" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowscriptaccess="always" allowfullscreen="true" width="640" height="385"></embed></object><br />
<br />
You'll note that "Academy Award-winner" Cher also appears, and probably recall that she, too, got her start as a singer. Does that mean there's hope for this movie? I don't think so. Yes, Cher won an Oscar, but that was a long time ago - way back when she could still move her face. Judging by her big, uncomfortably long moment in this trailer, the Academy will be stopping by Cher's fortress any day now to "repurpose" that Oscar, and I seriously doubt they'll be handing it over to Little Miss "Sex for Breakfast" any time soon, either. <br />
<br />
Still, it's about time Aguilera made her acting debut. Fellow Mouseketeers Justin and Britney have been at it for years, and Mandy Moore has all but left her pop persona in the dust after snagging juicy roles in the likes of <span style="font-style: italic;">Saved!, American Dreamz</span>, and <span style="font-style: italic;">Entourage</span> (plus one Nicholas Sparks movie). Better late than never: <span style="font-style: italic;">Burlesque</span> is poised to be Christina Aguilera's <span style="font-style: italic;">Crossroads.</span> Remember that debacle? No? Oh, stop pretending. <br />
<br />
Here, let me remind you:<br />
<br />
<object height="385" width="640"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/v2HkjNwD-7Q?fs=1&hl=en_US"></param><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"></param><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"></param><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/v2HkjNwD-7Q?fs=1&hl=en_US" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowscriptaccess="always" allowfullscreen="true" width="640" height="385"></embed></object><br />
<br />
To be fair, it's not Brit-Brit's performance that is so bad as it is the material she has to work with, which is true of so many of these poor divas. Ms. Spears is actually quite the thespian - you may recall her performance as Someone Who's Not Batshit Crazy during the first several years of her career. She had us all convinced then, didn't she? If we only knew.<br />
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh-JuMI6Q_-azqNhBlQ4HaNkyNhJjX1MHYv-_n7OiH7Bgld5di6_MmZTq8tsu4OLNOYVjPnvcueVZX2sjYAPo_rwU7uwCPD1IHwRv5WIhMbZaPE6SFe8zvp2ntp0c03QhDE2GC3QbJiTG8/s1600/christina_aguilera_dirrty.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5511497566559271714" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh-JuMI6Q_-azqNhBlQ4HaNkyNhJjX1MHYv-_n7OiH7Bgld5di6_MmZTq8tsu4OLNOYVjPnvcueVZX2sjYAPo_rwU7uwCPD1IHwRv5WIhMbZaPE6SFe8zvp2ntp0c03QhDE2GC3QbJiTG8/s320/christina_aguilera_dirrty.jpg" style="cursor: pointer; float: right; height: 320px; margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; width: 320px;" /></a>Anyway. The plot of <span style="font-style: italic;">Burlesque</span> places Christina as a small-town girl - but stop right there! It's already ridiculous. Which small town is she from? Obviously A Divaville, Nebraska? I've bought Ms. Aguilera in a variety of roles, including S&M kitten, Boogie Woogie Bugle Girl, genie in bottle, mud wrestler, third wheel in a <span style="font-style: italic;">ménage à trois</span> with Britney and Madonna, and even the reflection of a cartoon Asian princess in drag. However, I steadfastly refuse to believe that the girl has ever milked a cow, or even looked at one. I have no doubt that Christina will give <span style="font-style: italic;">Burlesque</span> her all, but I am afraid "her all" will not nearly be enough to save this sucker. When Stanley Tucci tells her, "Great enthusiasm, terrible timing" in the trailer, I have a feeling this is really just him giving the songstress a few acting pointers when they didn't know the cameras were rolling. Am I being too hard on <span style="font-style: italic;">Burlesque</span>? Well, any movie with a character named Alice and a "Wonderland" punchline deserves all the mockery I can muster, if you ask me.<br />
<br />
There's virtually no way <span style="font-style: italic;">Burlesque</span> can be good. Thus one can only hope it lives up to its ludicrous trailer and is as much of a jumbled, awkward mess as Christina's album <span style="font-style: italic;">Bionic</span>, which dropped earlier this year with a big, fat THUD. I sure hope the director found room for "Vanity" amongst the musical numbers! In fact, I'd forgive Christina all of <span style="font-style: italic;">Bionic</span> if the album's worst tracks (and there are plenty) were written specifically to go along with campy musical numbers in this movie. Cher doing "Bobblehead"? Well, a boy can dream.<br />
<br />
Regardless, I know exactly what I'll be thankful for this November - a big, fat turkey like <span style="font-style: italic;">Burlesque</span>.<br />
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgdQnaCZSNZTJeAI3fYKDVEOeFUzQeKkthkIsUEeTXNPDCalj0w8n0JpGyJtFcBTZoRZmhHiyrKWT8ICWAKLe4N5QSgT5iBzAMa5syIYbD-a1aeaVDswttwshLzbHUKIY9_Uwzf7TNnU3s/s1600/wild_turkey.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5511477949556082466" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgdQnaCZSNZTJeAI3fYKDVEOeFUzQeKkthkIsUEeTXNPDCalj0w8n0JpGyJtFcBTZoRZmhHiyrKWT8ICWAKLe4N5QSgT5iBzAMa5syIYbD-a1aeaVDswttwshLzbHUKIY9_Uwzf7TNnU3s/s400/wild_turkey.jpg" style="cursor: pointer; display: block; height: 300px; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; width: 300px;" /></a><br />
<br />
Gobble gobble,<br />
<br />
X.X.http://www.blogger.com/profile/14845533891411766527noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6741858433334888054.post-84351934658742909162010-08-30T13:37:00.002-04:002010-08-30T13:49:57.614-04:00Baby We Were Born to ROTFLOL<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjPcdKrXswKc-a89Zy3XyOJGwpmisjWRNK-G687rDDuYD84ti3RuI2atzvK3sn61GCLZsVpYk7P2YzNGF6kmY-J42Gfa5QbGfDrV9faXZq0f4CyC2J7rKqX5V6_ZORe-6a5Ab_zCQ_GOb6F/s1600/jimmy-fallon-emmy-awards-opener.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjPcdKrXswKc-a89Zy3XyOJGwpmisjWRNK-G687rDDuYD84ti3RuI2atzvK3sn61GCLZsVpYk7P2YzNGF6kmY-J42Gfa5QbGfDrV9faXZq0f4CyC2J7rKqX5V6_ZORe-6a5Ab_zCQ_GOb6F/s200/jimmy-fallon-emmy-awards-opener.jpg" width="133" /></a></div>I was not in front of a television last night to see the Emmys, as I was actually somewhere drunk along the Hudson River on a big gay boat cruise. But that doesn't matter. Thanks to the state of the Internet, I don't need to be anywhere in order to see anything any more. Case in point: I just watched the opening to last night's Emmy Awards featuring Jimmy Fallon, a bunch of Glee characters, and far too many amazing cameo celebs just this second.<br />
<br />
And it's made me really want to write an award show opening number. Taking a tip from the Tony Awards (or so I'm guessing), it seems that every award show now needs to have live performances kicking off their often boring festivities. In a world where viewers have four thousand niche channels to which they can surf, you have to work, and work damn hard to keep their attention. Last night's opening number is a perfect example of an epic win.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<center><script src="http://player.popsugar.com/player.js?embedCode=54ZWpvMTp-_DoybSfLiAElWM-h06ly7Z&height=236&deepLinkEmbedCode=54ZWpvMTp-_DoybSfLiAElWM-h06ly7Z&width=420">
</script></center><br />
Once upon a time, musical numbers were pretty much limited to the Tonys and the Grammys. Then, at some point, the Oscars got in on the game by featuring live performances from their nominated "best song" category (X, feel free to correct me here, I'm too lazy to look up whether this is true or not; however, if Jimmy Fallon and Jon Hamm were singing the information to me, I might be more likely to pursue the knowledge.)<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhf3ixSeasxMat4o5wyhjMAFah48ZtZDain2qRTqv9Qsj-jdnsJouo06Jj0yfOhyphenhyphenTFYji7Hw8TUBqbtqZ7Eyz_hsMBUSNCCO30xMMhxyx64t_5VS3RwR37kVHiLeJLcEAW62C1q3jOu1sK4/s1600/modern_family_emmy_b.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhf3ixSeasxMat4o5wyhjMAFah48ZtZDain2qRTqv9Qsj-jdnsJouo06Jj0yfOhyphenhyphenTFYji7Hw8TUBqbtqZ7Eyz_hsMBUSNCCO30xMMhxyx64t_5VS3RwR37kVHiLeJLcEAW62C1q3jOu1sK4/s320/modern_family_emmy_b.jpg" /></a></div><br />
But here comes The Emmys with a 6-minute piece that I will probably watch at least 4 more times while composing this post.<br />
<br />
Seriously, check out the cast in this number! Do we remember the time when actors were too "above it all" to get involved with these petty entertainments? Their job was to show up, walk the red carpet in their borrowed finery, sit down and make interesting facial expressions when the camera turned on them. But now?<br />
<br />
Well, just look at it! My personal heroine, Tina Fey is willing to show up, make jokes, and get splashed with fruit juice. Jon Hamm, who is quickly becoming basic cable's George Clooney, abandons the seriousness of his troubled advertising avatar to booty dance with Betty White, who is probably the second coolest octaganerian I know (the first being my Grandpa, who was asked to co-star in this video, but had to turn it down because the Yankees were playing a double header last night).<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEghmIblkqHlKHNubsf7cClIWrwYLqqVlflMvCw3b4qsD7e7uywpigYNtQsu6KQyC0ovjeOMMWXzJmYlFNzDOM9ELaOxI61EL9ptl7UgXNaXw45qUk9KISm6lHzl1dZLggsJ4HG9J3nHpGIC/s1600/tina_fey_sarah_palin.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEghmIblkqHlKHNubsf7cClIWrwYLqqVlflMvCw3b4qsD7e7uywpigYNtQsu6KQyC0ovjeOMMWXzJmYlFNzDOM9ELaOxI61EL9ptl7UgXNaXw45qUk9KISm6lHzl1dZLggsJ4HG9J3nHpGIC/s320/tina_fey_sarah_palin.jpg" /></a></div><br />
And then we have the tragic Kate of Kate plus twenty, or however many spawn she brought into this world via reality television. Good for her, though, allowing all of us to laugh at her. Sure, she's probably thinking: "hey look! screen time! om nom nom." But, still, the fact that she plays in the joke that is really just a joke about her is excellent for this.<br />
<br />
Add to this video Randy Jackson of American Idol, Tim Gunn of Project Runway, that fat guy from Lost, Jane Lynch (who will probably just start BEING Sue Sylvester, since everyone seems to really prefer her as bitchy, dykey, and sardonic), and the painfully sexy Joel McHale of The Soup and Community and you have the equivalent of the most hilarious orgy I would ever ask to be a part of.<br />
<br />
This points to a new brand of celebrity, i feel. The old guard is being left behind for the Feys and Hamms and Whites who are willing to take the extra time to show up at the award show location a day (or more) in advance to practice and film, all while making fun of themselves. Why? Because long gone is the day where movie stars and TV stars were figures so far out of our reach that we were only allowed to see them on the screen. Today, where the average attention span doesn't have time to watch a YouTube video on their phone while running to the store, you need to pull out all the stops and make sure you are everywhere.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgDuJYycrKdpqYEodOhTfWcgswKvep5Cx5p3wsee80PGAxzQz8dz2GYmz6mDStYpy8fKIyuqSiU4DoFWXggC0N72kvi4uAJSOCVIQFFTkskm7RLAgQfW6KROG6YfQzgGmHAcTKE34e_8TfB/s1600/glee_cast_fox.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgDuJYycrKdpqYEodOhTfWcgswKvep5Cx5p3wsee80PGAxzQz8dz2GYmz6mDStYpy8fKIyuqSiU4DoFWXggC0N72kvi4uAJSOCVIQFFTkskm7RLAgQfW6KROG6YfQzgGmHAcTKE34e_8TfB/s320/glee_cast_fox.jpg" /></a></div><br />
Another example of extra effort being put in would be the equally funny "Modern Family" segment featuring both Stewie Griffin AND George Clooney.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<center><object align="middle" classid="clsid:d27cdb6e-ae6d-11cf-96b8-444553540000" height="283" width="384"><param name="allowScriptAccess" value="always" /><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true" /><param name="movie" value="http://widget.nbc.com/videos/nbcshort_at.swf?CXNID=1000004.10045NXC&widID=4727a250e66f9723&clipID=1246396&showID=413&siteurl=http://www.nbc.com?vty=fromWidget_Video&dst=nbc|widget|NBC Video&__source=nbc|widget|NBC Video"/><param name="quality" value="high" /><param name="bgcolor" value="#000000" /><embed src="http://widget.nbc.com/videos/nbcshort_at.swf?CXNID=1000004.10045NXC&widID=4727a250e66f9723&clipID=1246396&showID=413&siteurl=http://www.nbc.com?vty=fromWidget_Video&dst=nbc|widget|NBC Video&__source=nbc|widget|NBC Video" quality="high" bgcolor="#000000" width="384" height="283" align="middle" allowFullScreen="true" allowScriptAccess="always" type="application/x-shockwave-flash"></embed></object></center><br />
(Look out, Jon Hamm, Clooney's onto your trickery, and he's willing to sleep with gay men to keep his place in the spotlight.)<br />
<br />
Again, here the humor is perfect. Stewie's referencing Married with Children is something I know I think about every time I enjoy Modern Family. And who, gay or straight, hasn't considered the 3-D power of Gloria's breasts? <br />
<br />
This stuff is brilliant - it is right up my alley as far as humor goes. It is complex in that it references multiple shows, winks so many times at you that you might think it's having an epileptic fit, and doesn't bother dumbing down the jokes for you. And I want in on this.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg8B0f9AP6q-ggRs03J1eRwCsaXojUXK-pb66qO_4aYrGcFzpxNw1rOaac9s6D1wBalGjQibYcAqjQ1VgeN8eDMS6owj2e-SNP8G0d9oL_NMJxatw-c1H2hpkijJum-hgOakAiz___klbxx/s1600/Modernfamily.PNG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg8B0f9AP6q-ggRs03J1eRwCsaXojUXK-pb66qO_4aYrGcFzpxNw1rOaac9s6D1wBalGjQibYcAqjQ1VgeN8eDMS6owj2e-SNP8G0d9oL_NMJxatw-c1H2hpkijJum-hgOakAiz___klbxx/s320/Modernfamily.PNG" /></a></div><br />
How do I get a job writing award ceremony sketches and openings? I would LOVE to fight back the dry and useless late-show-esque monologues of yesteryear (yes, I know they still exist, but each year we beat them back further and further with the help of song, dance, and video montages... keep it up!)<br />
<br />
I would love to have the full roster of television's stars at my disposal. I'd throw the Simpsons together with John Stewart and Hugh Laurie as Doctor House. I could do whatever I wanted with Kyra Sedgwick as The Closer and Conan O'Brien. The possibilities are endless, and potentially endlessly hilarious.<br />
<br />
Apparently last night's Emmys was one of the best awards show broadcast in history. Quick. Funny. Some cried "overkill" (again, I didn't see it.) But allow me to come in on the side of overkill: I'd rather have a show with far too many jokes than one with not enough. Bravo Jimmy Fallon. Bravo writers. Bravo TV actors. I can't wait to see what you have inspired in the other award shows that broadcast in the coming months.<br />
<br />
And to close out this post, I won't bother trying to be funny or succinct... I'll just show you Jimmy Fallon saying goodbye to "24", "Law & Order", and "Lost".<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<center><object height="385" width="640"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/CL0pKOPTB8g?fs=1&hl=en_US"></param><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"></param><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"></param><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/CL0pKOPTB8g?fs=1&hl=en_US" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowscriptaccess="always" allowfullscreen="true" width="640" height="385"></embed></object></center><br />
Presented without commercial interruption,<br />
- J.Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10996771273232767374noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6741858433334888054.post-18593175921868477622010-08-30T11:23:00.017-04:002010-09-01T02:52:42.591-04:00Pandora's Box Office.*<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiheKqlxeJVynxcV1pznJAQfVBreweJpHfGXRiEzzyuKHiN6Va33dtQPFKiHvZeeAcedDnvgNn1dQ-DrdNpi1qXgmrGGPxxIp8TxWsfhP5dObMHSrjpTotO0mj3X3pn0-_LPJJFwvE6nVI/s1600/3dglasses.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiheKqlxeJVynxcV1pznJAQfVBreweJpHfGXRiEzzyuKHiN6Va33dtQPFKiHvZeeAcedDnvgNn1dQ-DrdNpi1qXgmrGGPxxIp8TxWsfhP5dObMHSrjpTotO0mj3X3pn0-_LPJJFwvE6nVI/s400/3dglasses.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5511247760791600802" /></a><br />In the crowded movie marketplace, you'd be forgiven for missing it: a little James Cameron movie about blue aliens amongst this weekend's crop of box office hopefuls. <br /><br />The tally? At the top, <span style="font-style:italic;">The Last Exorcism</span> makes $21.3 million. <span style="font-style:italic;">Avatar</span> comes in 12th with a paltry $4 million.<br /><br />Say it with me now: <span style="font-style:italic;">"Pooooor Avatar."</span><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhkqRlqJu9XC03hqpQM60N3UaOaswvRD1BvtebnMKZ_IV5XppU9522NmrGn-vFtIXurHb-kjI_PcKG-7fmdIMQUOpSQIBPuNlnOw6tLG3U2_3yB1w9Cc-BeB9zOXMI590pmhXD7RWgvGEg/s1600/images-1.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 276px; height: 182px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhkqRlqJu9XC03hqpQM60N3UaOaswvRD1BvtebnMKZ_IV5XppU9522NmrGn-vFtIXurHb-kjI_PcKG-7fmdIMQUOpSQIBPuNlnOw6tLG3U2_3yB1w9Cc-BeB9zOXMI590pmhXD7RWgvGEg/s400/images-1.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5511247961406503522" /></a>James Cameron's "Special Edition" of his 3D epic was bested even by <span style="font-style:italic;">Vampires Suck</span> and <span style="font-style:italic;">Nanny McPhee Returns</span>. I guess more people wanted Nanny McPhee to return than the Na'vi. You know what sucks even more than vampires this weekend? <span style="font-style:italic;">Avatar</span>! (I've stopped myself before an expandable/<span style="font-style:italic;">Expendables</span> joke. Oh wait - no I haven't!)<br /><br />When <span style="font-style:italic;">Avatar</span> was released just nine months ago, a live action 3D movie was still a pretty nifty concept. Was <span style="font-style:italic;">Avatar</span> mind-blowing? It was. Were the special effects special? Yes! Visually, we'd never seen anything like it. (Thematically, well, some of us <span style="font-style:italic;">had</span> seen <span style="font-style:italic;">Fern Gully: The Last Rainforest</span>, but it had been awhile.) I think we all recognized that there were certain story flaws inherent in <span style="font-style:italic;">Avatar</span>, but to the vast majority of moviegoers, it didn't matter. We were wowed. We were awed. We felt as if James Cameron had truly transported us to Pandora. Another world. <br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiRbK14AYuoWke3MQo3C6WY0xUZRkNuhoBekv4x0IF38QXNQrcKdPf1tA0tTI-JiKv65jb1pS3ieI0HV_WqYJtjyGQwXrauptsJpi5URMz_xMhq_uWTrfl5TBLfufhppQlvO2nt6roby0A/s1600/425.Avatar.Saldana.Worthington.lc.121409.jpg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 296px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiRbK14AYuoWke3MQo3C6WY0xUZRkNuhoBekv4x0IF38QXNQrcKdPf1tA0tTI-JiKv65jb1pS3ieI0HV_WqYJtjyGQwXrauptsJpi5URMz_xMhq_uWTrfl5TBLfufhppQlvO2nt6roby0A/s400/425.Avatar.Saldana.Worthington.lc.121409.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5511248824584865074" /></a>And yes, maybe we were there about 20 minutes longer than we needed to be. And maybe it cost us roughly $4 more than we should have paid. But it was worth it.<br /><br />Now fast forward a few months. Three dimensions are <span style="font-style:italic;">sooo</span> last Christmas. Everything and its mother is being released in three dimensions. None of this 3D is as good as <span style="font-style:italic;">Avatar</span>'s, because didn't James Cameron spend like 70 years making that movie? Also, none of these movies are as good as <span style="font-style:italic;">Avatar.</span> <span style="font-style:italic;">The Last Airbender. Clash of the Titans. Piranha. Step Up.</span> I would be a lot happier if the extra dimension was <span style="font-style:italic;">character</span> depth, and for that you don't need to put on any silly glasses.<br /><br />It doesn't surprise me that the rerelease of <span style="font-style:italic;">Avatar</span> didn't fly. For one, it's too soon. We all just took out second mortgages on our homes so we could afford the upcharge on 3D movies to see it the first time. For another, <span style="font-style:italic;">Avatar</span> is available on DVD. This "Special Edition" comes with 9 minutes of extra footage that I'm sure is really great, and hopefully contains the subtlety and nuance that was originally cut from the film. But are those extra 9 minutes that somehow weren't good enough to put in the film the first time, but are suddenly <span style="font-style:italic;">so good</span> that you absolutely must shell out another $645 to see it on the big screen, in 3D, on IMAX? Then there's also the matter that, back in December, <span style="font-style:italic;">Avatar</span> was pretty much it for 3D, and now thanks to that film's $750 million take, we have been inundated. I never thought I'd say it, but Hollywood: Less depth, please!<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj0oyUb8GApIkULYpxR_FBa3dbjCwJ-AnoloV5W7wGnrnXcgI9mPQorgZ9FoKycW4dBa5mPb152NDb5cXu9upBGvB3Jy_yaXADhLYjLJpybfeJjiodLX-6nFAyc1_nSvgu6vFJMtRPZl68/s1600/images.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 237px; height: 213px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj0oyUb8GApIkULYpxR_FBa3dbjCwJ-AnoloV5W7wGnrnXcgI9mPQorgZ9FoKycW4dBa5mPb152NDb5cXu9upBGvB3Jy_yaXADhLYjLJpybfeJjiodLX-6nFAyc1_nSvgu6vFJMtRPZl68/s400/images.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5511249104772846498" /></a><br /><br />Personally, I'm not a fan. Aside from <span style="font-style:italic;">Avatar</span>, I have never wanted to see a film in 3D. I enjoy films such as <span style="font-style:italic;">Toy Story 3</span> in 2D as much as I possibly could, no extra depth required. In most cases, I think 3D is just a distraction from the elements of films I like: story, characters, dialogue. None of these are enhanced with such technology. In fact, the whole reason <span style="font-style:italic;">Avatar</span> was received so well is <span style="font-style:italic;">because</span> the 3D distracted from story, characters, and dialogue. Because, watch <span style="font-style:italic;">Avatar</span> without those glasses on, and you'll see those elements seem flatter than ever.<br /><br />The real problem with the rerelease is this: a mere nine months after its release - and only six months since it was the top rival to the year's Best Picture winner <span style="font-style:italic;">The Hurt Locker</span> - <span style="font-style:italic;">Avatar</span> is cheesy. Those blue people running around look like cartoons, that military bad guy is so over the top he might as well have a cape and twirly mustache, and "I see you" is no "I'll never let go, Jack" and never will be. Back in January, I placed it in the #10 slot on my list of 2009 films. Did an alien creature take over my body and force me to do this? No. Back then, all those months ago, <span style="font-style:italic;">Avatar</span> was spectacle. I, like many, was enamored of it. But on subsequent viewings on DVD, it doesn't quite hold up. Is our world really changing at such a rate that yesterday's Biggest Movie of All Time can already be such old news? Is <span style="font-style:italic;">Avatar</span> already just a punchline?<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjo1LKkx16i8YqaQABuAXh1Z4eRAb51wBcP4llBJpBveqoCfInNRvjcjQGS20jPTF-CUw1cuZMZm5SxY32nqCtMYWCbDWkTQ-8BJ0hF5n1ywyfP2HQnBHeAPy83M6fbV_X_amQEouz58Mc/s1600/8437_Titanic_jack_et_rose.jpg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 300px; height: 180px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjo1LKkx16i8YqaQABuAXh1Z4eRAb51wBcP4llBJpBveqoCfInNRvjcjQGS20jPTF-CUw1cuZMZm5SxY32nqCtMYWCbDWkTQ-8BJ0hF5n1ywyfP2HQnBHeAPy83M6fbV_X_amQEouz58Mc/s400/8437_Titanic_jack_et_rose.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5511249374999492402" /></a><br /><br />I don't think <span style="font-style:italic;">Avatar</span> is a bad movie; I think it's far better than it could have been. The story and characters are serviceable for what it is. There are certainly worse blockbusters out there. Did you know there's even <a href="http://www.learnnavi.org/navi-grammar/#nouns-and-pronouns">a way to learn</a> the language of the Na'vi people from home? (Yeah, because <span style="font-style:italic;">that'll</span> be a marketable skill someday. If you're going to take the time to learna foreign language, good for you - but please choose one that exists.) <br /><br />I can't help but feel this "Special Edition" smacks of money-grubbing greed on the studio's part, especially when this is <span style="font-style:italic;">already</span> the highest-grossing film of all time. How much more money do you need, James Cameron? If this edition is so special, why didn't you just put it out the first time?<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh6Bt0_55EH9G3TAMK6UW1FIfPJiBCYH6twC3GrKrwTybnKeI3HWInj4_TXP_Q4PSWag4xxTUZeGIWNh6wxBwNOnqJGGWBzuMZa0i00GqryS3MsWO0BeboS2wypIwP4RkygOY-KaJ2GLBs/s1600/images-4.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 259px; height: 194px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh6Bt0_55EH9G3TAMK6UW1FIfPJiBCYH6twC3GrKrwTybnKeI3HWInj4_TXP_Q4PSWag4xxTUZeGIWNh6wxBwNOnqJGGWBzuMZa0i00GqryS3MsWO0BeboS2wypIwP4RkygOY-KaJ2GLBs/s400/images-4.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5511249692493357570" /></a>Personally, I'm pleased that <span style="font-style:italic;">Avatar</span> didn't fare so well in its rerelease. That moviegoers stood up to the Man and said, "No more. Not this time." I'm well aware that 3D isn't going anywhere, but this gives me some hope that all is not yet lost. (However, I will shamelessly admit that it's been a good 13 years since I saw <span style="font-style:italic;">Titanic</span> in theaters and I am <span style="font-style:italic;">definitely</span> up for a 3D Special Edition of that one. Jack + Rose 4eva!) <br /><br />Still, I can't help but feel at least a <span style="font-style:italic;">little</span> bad for James Cameron. I mean, sure, he has directed the two highest-grossing films of all time, but he also watched his ex-wife beat him in multiple categories at the Oscars this year. For a guy like Jim, a $4 million weekend at the box office must really sting. James Cameron probably spent $4 million on <span style="font-style:italic;">breakfast</span> this morning. (And then rereleased his breakfast with 9 extra minutes of footage right afterward. In IMAX.)<br /><br />Poor king of the world. I bet he's feeling really blue.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiuiRpR9KdvJ8hnlW7uAY6WRwW6Tyfk-O4hIDQR5SDWe01-s-C_AOiOEAK_sZoqg256H-HyD1Cvs8XB7mfOPlBAq5i1Bt9Ihxr20zCNrjuuOHQ5w_YhB1ze4TULV2SY-kdUSLT8IUXTX1E/s1600/images-2.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 275px; height: 183px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiuiRpR9KdvJ8hnlW7uAY6WRwW6Tyfk-O4hIDQR5SDWe01-s-C_AOiOEAK_sZoqg256H-HyD1Cvs8XB7mfOPlBAq5i1Bt9Ihxr20zCNrjuuOHQ5w_YhB1ze4TULV2SY-kdUSLT8IUXTX1E/s400/images-2.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5511250485740133266" /></a><br /><br />I'll never let go,<br /><br />X.X.http://www.blogger.com/profile/14845533891411766527noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6741858433334888054.post-71593329090746439042010-08-27T13:53:00.001-04:002010-08-27T14:02:10.873-04:00...You Gonna Eat That?<i>Every Friday is <b>Improv Friday</b> at <a href="http://saidpanties.blogspot.com/">Said Panties</a>. On Facebook, X and J take a poll of their friends for a topic (any topic) to write on. The most popular, ridiculous, or random is selected, and both X. and J must write about it. This week's topic, <b>The Newsworthiness of Eating Used Condoms</b>, comes from <a href="http://www.facebook.com/michael.steinwand">Michael Steinwand.</a></i><br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiYC1rHXquJ5la10erjijC8Qrzb-80vLAIZ8LgWq6aHldus9U84yogsuGS5BTZvIxy7iZnvTlDuMrdguhvPT4jkqJRU4aAt1XO5YlXdd9xcXlUCz8WW1GPfYarvVctQeHSUVgDLK97bC_fe/s1600/bear_shining_costume.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiYC1rHXquJ5la10erjijC8Qrzb-80vLAIZ8LgWq6aHldus9U84yogsuGS5BTZvIxy7iZnvTlDuMrdguhvPT4jkqJRU4aAt1XO5YlXdd9xcXlUCz8WW1GPfYarvVctQeHSUVgDLK97bC_fe/s320/bear_shining_costume.jpg" /></a></div>In our 24-hour news cycle, urgency is a resting state. The second something isn't controversial, exclusive, or dire, the general cable news audience will switch to the next red-faced screaming pundit. Every bit of news is BREAKING, BREAKING, BREAKING with large graphics that "swoosh!" in and "kaboom!" out of frame. Crosshairs are focused over children's faces, tombstones transform into blood-dripping Islamic signs.<br />
<br />
These days you aren't watching the news so much as it's coming out of your television and chewing on your eyeballs. It should come as no surprise to anyone, then, that all of this breaking news has effectively broken cable news. You don't tune in to Fox or MSNBC to learn about things, you tune in to get enraged, to get your marching orders and daily list of hate targets. They're too busy focusing on one non-story all day to bother actually delivering you a full serving of news. They'll happily show you the same five clips, over and over again, while interviewing people who don't actually know what's happening.<br />
<br />
But I don't need to tell you all of this. That's what The Daily Show is for.<br />
<br />
But when the story of a little boy snacking on a condom in an Atlanta hotel makes the news, you know it's a slow day, and I need to cry foul. This isn't news. This is filler. It's flavorless Oreo cream, or the air they fill bags of chips with to make them look more full than they actually are. It doesn't need to be reported, and I think they know this.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjHKEVHa0aEphneLDS55N6mTwePsX-weXZd6S4ZtAOMAS4zBcTHq5S1b7_W2M9nM77CPmaymBYRu2Pe5og82dMr77TBPAomPQj_4zzwNG7pGQk9VIddAWWrn6hkdgXzN1K9NXIuPzwk5qHD/s1600/shining1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjHKEVHa0aEphneLDS55N6mTwePsX-weXZd6S4ZtAOMAS4zBcTHq5S1b7_W2M9nM77CPmaymBYRu2Pe5og82dMr77TBPAomPQj_4zzwNG7pGQk9VIddAWWrn6hkdgXzN1K9NXIuPzwk5qHD/s320/shining1.jpg" /></a></div><br />
What's the matter, Fox? Did Obama lock himself in the oval office today? Did not one member of the administration make a gaffe ten years ago that you could blow out of proportion? Can't Glenn Beck just do another one of his blackboard drawings connecting anteaters to nazis to Joe Biden's next door neighbor? (THE CONNECTION IS THERE, I'M JUST INFORMING YOU!)<br />
<br />
Well, whatever the reason, the result is here before us: the dumbest news story ever created (I know, I know, there's probably worse stories than this. Still.) Even the poor Fox writer assigned to this story knows that there's nothing really to report: a kid stuck a used condom in his mouth, he developed a fever, he is being STD tested, we do not know what happened after that. But I'll bet the writer was elated not to have to write another fantastic piece of ad hominem trash accusing Nancy Pelosi of being a back alley abortionist with the power to turn men gay with her gaze during her college years.<br />
<br />
So instead, the writer turns to DYNAMIC language. The story isn't exciting or urgent, so his language must take care of that problem. The result, I think you'll agree, is like a treatment for a really great horror movie that tragically never follows through.<br />
<br />
Observe some excerpts:<br />
<br />
"The incident happened on Aug. 1 at the Wyndham Gardens hotel in downtown Atlanta, where she had taken the boy and his cousin for a <b>weekend of family fun</b>."<br />
<br />
<i>This would be where we cue the ominous music. The Grandma, grandkid, and cousin are driving along a mountain road. Perhaps The Shining's Overlook Hotel in the misty background. Perhaps a bat is flying above their car.</i><br />
<br />
"Jones said <b>at first glance</b> room 329 looked perfectly clean, except that there was no soap and no towels." <br />
<br />
<i>Foreshadowing! Even the hostel in Hostel had soap and towels (and lots of bare-breasted travelers.)</i><br />
<br />
"Then, she said, she noticed <b>something more troubling</b>." <br />
<br />
<i>Oh my God. WHAT IS IT? No mints!?</i><br />
<br />
"I'm like, 'Girl, you know, <b>these sheets don't smell clean</b>,'" Jones said."<br />
<br />
<i>This is similar to the "I'm just going to go check out where that sound in the woods came from. I'LL BE RIGHT BACK, GUYS."</i><br />
<br />
The next morning, Jones said, <b>she awoke to a horrifying scene</b>.<br />
<br />
<i>Of course, at this point, you're picturing a room full of dead bodies. Or an infestation of alien spiders with hungry eyes. Or that the child has transformed into a vampire.</i><br />
<br />
<br />
But, no, our little victim was merely giving a tongue job to the worst eclair he's ever tasted.<br />
<br />
<br />
Anticlimactic? You betcha. I mean, sure, it's horrifying. But not in the standard type of horror we're used to. We usually reserve horrifying for things like unknown beasts devouring people, or blood being let out of elevator doors. I'm sure the Grandma could have awoken to far more horrifying scenes like the cousin stabbing the grandson, or any scene from High School Musical 2.<br />
<br />
This, Fox News, is a bit of overkill.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEggzkXs1CCJ06iDTM2kvqupdUQ7Fz9RBRfpKCCnPia50jITGFM3nECaX-L3xCifiMCBQW_Y5caib7B02zlPcnn7jwJDlQA-iLW3G3qjO1us_5nxvp8IOVwbzCmb07p98LM-VdcUj-TaOjYg/s1600/the-shining.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEggzkXs1CCJ06iDTM2kvqupdUQ7Fz9RBRfpKCCnPia50jITGFM3nECaX-L3xCifiMCBQW_Y5caib7B02zlPcnn7jwJDlQA-iLW3G3qjO1us_5nxvp8IOVwbzCmb07p98LM-VdcUj-TaOjYg/s320/the-shining.jpg" /></a></div><br />
Also, am I the only person who sees a lot of inconsistencies in Grandma's story of terror? First of all, who the hell is going to go to sleep in a bed that smells "off"? And what, exactly, does "not clean" smell like? I know what clean smells like. Flowers and fields and bunnies. I'm going to assume that "not clean" smells like ass or jizz or slut sweat. If that's the case, wouldn't you give a quick ring to housekeeping?<br />
<br />
<br />
And why didn't she call to complain about the absence of soap and towels? This to me is proof of neglect. Those children in Granny's care were left unwashed for an evening, or forced to bathe, soapless, and then air dry, which could certainly get them sick any way. At this rate, I'm wondering if the Grandma maybe traipsed this filthy rubber into the room, having picked it up earlier when she took her kids swimming in the local dump (it doesn't smell clean!)<br />
<br />
<br />
And finally, I think it's quite convenient that Grandma awoke to find her grandson giving head to the condom. I ask you: how long was junior tongue-jabbing the jimmy wrapper? And there was still semen in it? He could have been slurping on that thing for hours. I also imagine that the intimate practice of used-condom-tasting is a silent one. Again, Granny's story falls short.<br />
<br />
<br />
You know what I think? This is some sort of grand set up. Grandma trashed those sheets. She planted the condom and FORCED the kid to eat it. Now THAT is a horrifying scene. Like that lady who threw a cat in the garbage can this week. And shame on Fox for picking this story to be the first instance where they don't assume the worst of their subject, adding in vague yet accusatory statements like "some folks say the Grandma fed her grandson the condom because he had told her he supported Obamacare."<br />
<br />
<br />
If you're going to make news of anything and everything, then let's be sure to treat it like news, Fox. Get that STD-infecting, not-clean-bed-sleeping, octogenarian geriatric monster on camera and force her to fess up. If we're going to decide, as you claim we have the choice to do, then get crackin' with the reporting.<br />
<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEix5Qjb6jtfzIJXVjPryP5jASTkXf7bS5XbdikoEIuGZdxvPleFejsjiHtQzTnHwn60svt9MvR-0XcHjH69wFmAt2PQlE0oZS3ipTRS5dCcXLFU73zp0GD1lj2TDGsywLSU-TF09XU9GmfW/s1600/the-shining.bmp" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEix5Qjb6jtfzIJXVjPryP5jASTkXf7bS5XbdikoEIuGZdxvPleFejsjiHtQzTnHwn60svt9MvR-0XcHjH69wFmAt2PQlE0oZS3ipTRS5dCcXLFU73zp0GD1lj2TDGsywLSU-TF09XU9GmfW/s320/the-shining.bmp" /></a></div><br />
<br />
Heeeeeeere's Herpes!<br />
- JAnonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10996771273232767374noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6741858433334888054.post-69214291725592981612010-08-27T11:10:00.015-04:002010-08-27T15:42:50.709-04:00Dental Damn.<i>Every Friday is <b>Improv Friday</b> at <a href="http://saidpanties.blogspot.com/">Said Panties</a>. On Facebook, X and J take a poll of their friends for a topic (any topic) to write on. The most popular, ridiculous, or random is selected, and both X. and J must write about it. This week's topic, <b>The Newsworthiness of Eating Used Condoms</b>, "comes" from <a href="http://www.facebook.com/michael.steinwand">Michael Steinwand.</a></i><br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgT5XDWrvUSo2dsrAEw68EYrsSCAlz7j-ovMbCaWiH6UXsAQZ96aMV38of9C9_SSXMy4y8wyuZ4AUQ8uczV498MJi5VrmDKD0-cPFlrAvFtJDMjZrZukSey-eVJBpYvbqqPA8hxD_97mz8/s1600/4116324846_7fba5ede9b_m.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5510102411233933682" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgT5XDWrvUSo2dsrAEw68EYrsSCAlz7j-ovMbCaWiH6UXsAQZ96aMV38of9C9_SSXMy4y8wyuZ4AUQ8uczV498MJi5VrmDKD0-cPFlrAvFtJDMjZrZukSey-eVJBpYvbqqPA8hxD_97mz8/s400/4116324846_7fba5ede9b_m.jpg" style="cursor: pointer; display: block; height: 240px; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; width: 160px;" /></a><br />Here's something new: did you hear the one about the cum-guzzling toddler?<br /><br />No, I'm not talking about the star of the underground porno <span style="font-style: italic;">Baby Facials 7</span>. I'm referring to the grandson of one Ms. Carmen Jones, who was found snacking on a used prophylactic in their Atlanta motel room. The boy has had an outbreak of blisters and is being tested for sexually transmitted diseases.<br /><br />This is pretty horrifying, and <span style="font-style: italic;">almost</span> not funny. <br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiJ7F0vSUtFEWhTXK9knsW0UDBhLGF3i1fTYZzMCMZETk2zq27vqmlfOeYcp0u75nD7Us4I9VjKoAsphmfBJNsaQraZb_S-IqHoBkJDZp5b7KUbt-4766PkY9YBTaoC4oIFVRcgKJVbwUU/s1600/images-8.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 154px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiJ7F0vSUtFEWhTXK9knsW0UDBhLGF3i1fTYZzMCMZETk2zq27vqmlfOeYcp0u75nD7Us4I9VjKoAsphmfBJNsaQraZb_S-IqHoBkJDZp5b7KUbt-4766PkY9YBTaoC4oIFVRcgKJVbwUU/s200/images-8.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5510125034874483426" /></a>I feel sorry for this kid - and his poor grandmother, who will never, <span style="font-style: italic;">ever</span> be entrusted to take care of a minor again. Imagine, you're trying to do a sweet thing and take your grand-tot to Six Flags for a nice getaway. You intend to take your pride and joy on Superman's Ultimate Flight and to Bugs Bunny's Carrot Patch. <br /><br />But instead, you inadvertently take him on some Two Dolla' Tranny's Gonorrhea-Go-Round, and then straight to the nearest Planned Parenthood. <br /><br />Some grandmothers get chewed out for buying their little darlings too many toys or letting them have cookies before dinner, which, at worst, might make them fat and greedy. Grandma Jones, on the other hand, has let Junior play with something kids nowadays don't encounter until they're <span style="font-style:italic;">at least </span>nine or ten, and the consequences are far greater. Suddenly, those warnings not to let the boy snack on unhealthy items all weekend take on a whole new meaning. Hot dogs and churros are looking pretty nutritious now, aren't they, Mom? When compared to the <span style="font-style: italic;">herpes-riddled ejaculate</span> your boy has been slurping. Spoil-weekend with Grammma <span style="font-weight:bold;">FAIL</span>.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgptv2NdtZ5_xrqij5FfoeVjGbPcbnvOf9gODWsKGShUb0xpq-b6hp7AD1IIMtrRSgQe2tMap3NJQFSEg2YZCWMNhWLUIfVzndkQcm-8LxtyRHs8YZrXMIBd4OlQhMKHLw4gLryEtBjmBs/s1600/37604532v1_225x225_Front.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5510103064473523442" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgptv2NdtZ5_xrqij5FfoeVjGbPcbnvOf9gODWsKGShUb0xpq-b6hp7AD1IIMtrRSgQe2tMap3NJQFSEg2YZCWMNhWLUIfVzndkQcm-8LxtyRHs8YZrXMIBd4OlQhMKHLw4gLryEtBjmBs/s400/37604532v1_225x225_Front.jpg" style="cursor: pointer; float: right; height: 225px; margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; width: 225px;" /></a>Given the boy's outbreak of blisters, prognosis is not looking good. Luckily, HIV is not known to survive outside the body for very long, but that doesn't mean feasting on a stranger's discarded baby-making fluid can't do damage. What are the odds that this condom contained at least one STD? I don't have a great deal of faith in people who have sex in motel rooms, <span style="font-style: italic;">especially</span> those who are too lazy to throw out their used condoms when they are done. (I suppose it's heartening that they used protection at all, but this is probably only because they were committing adultery. Who else goes to a motel?) Maids must find several dozen of these critters in beds, on the floor, and stuck between the pages of that complimentary Bible <span style="font-style: italic;">every day</span>. They must wonder why guests are unable to dispose of such waste themselves. Throwing away your own used condom is a minor inconvenience; throwing away someone else's used condom can be a traumatizing, life-altering experience. Note to all human beings forever: <span style="font-style: italic;"><span style="font-weight: bold;">please discard your contraceptives after utilizing them.<br /></span></span><br />I really wish someone had captured this moment of discovery to put on YouTube - although, I don't know. Would that qualify as kiddie porn? I've already probably been flagged by the FBI for the combination of words used in this entry.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjwJfTj1opNgC0zOA7erG7TuucI6kOkZxH6WRdM_-3Z9Xycy3lB7DPWQuGQo6SKnJ_r7e3Xne1yyqciN1sUiUhLWTanvANkp1WGTOyuvrfesSrzZqkXaEe7yo7tXL6cHv1ivY5krB-v9g8/s1600/images-1.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5510102770927319858" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjwJfTj1opNgC0zOA7erG7TuucI6kOkZxH6WRdM_-3Z9Xycy3lB7DPWQuGQo6SKnJ_r7e3Xne1yyqciN1sUiUhLWTanvANkp1WGTOyuvrfesSrzZqkXaEe7yo7tXL6cHv1ivY5krB-v9g8/s400/images-1.jpg" style="cursor: pointer; float: left; height: 218px; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; width: 232px;" /></a>This highlights another point, which is that kids are <span style="font-style: italic;">dumb</span>. I know the boy was only four years old and should probably get a pass, but come on! I'd like to think that, even at the tender age of four, if I had found a balloon in my bed that had a slightly musky odor and was filled with a mysterious milky ooze, I would have had the good sense not to try and inflate that balloon. I have it on good authority that condoms are <span style="font-style:italic;">not</span> tasty (well, unless they're flavored - but who really uses those, besides junior high school girls counting calories?). So why Junior had his tongue all in and out of this soiled rubber, I'll never know. Still, no four year old who only wanted to blow up a balloon should be punished by watching his own face blow up...with herpes. It'll be rough being the only kid in kindergarten with a sexually transmitted disease - you know, the one kid to whom <span style="font-style: italic;">"Ew, boy cooties!"</span> actually applies. <br /><br />Any bets on what the kids on the playground will nickname this poor schmo? <a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhd4YDQcbuNhCw7Bx0_rId6nLWWD8yNO6fF6Ncu0-zxLK-5iwLjWYIZUSJXr2ZMhvJplcN_mrLky5v7LVuha-B_LarZTLVluHc9um9ufyDOOrmWiQ8cG4gjkf1cwZZbLQ-Yih8GNP_FVh0/s1600/playing-with-condom.jpg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 356px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhd4YDQcbuNhCw7Bx0_rId6nLWWD8yNO6fF6Ncu0-zxLK-5iwLjWYIZUSJXr2ZMhvJplcN_mrLky5v7LVuha-B_LarZTLVluHc9um9ufyDOOrmWiQ8cG4gjkf1cwZZbLQ-Yih8GNP_FVh0/s400/playing-with-condom.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5510118229874831282" /></a><br /><span style="font-style:italic;"><br />"Jizz Kid?" <br /><br />"Mister Blister?" <br /><br />"Spunk-Face Jones?"Â </span> <br /><br />I know. Sad, isn't it? Kids can be so cruel.<br /><br />And what of the fact that this item is reported as "news"? Clearly the sensationalism of the piece trumps any pretense that this information is being shared for the good of the people. This item could not be any more salacious and gossipy if the article read, <span style="font-style:italic;">"OMG! OMG! OM<span style="font-weight:bold;">F</span>G! A little boy had a used condom in his mouth, you guys! It had spooge in it and now he has blisters! Ewwwww!!!!"</span> Who are we kidding? This is exactly the sort of story people email to their friends and laugh uproariously at, then pause for a second and make a sad face and say, "But it <span style="font-style:italic;">is</span> kind of sad, though," to be clear that they are not a monstrous human being incapable of empathy for children who make unfortunate mistakes involving a stranger's semen. And then resume laughing. Few things in this world are truly shocking anymore, but a doe-eyed moppet ingesting a load of stale man-milk and breaking out into sores still raises some eyebrows. This makes me feel like there's still hope for America.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg_IDPIMBrmoKzzUzTo4wWdY4SSw0lAZHIx4Ed6uV8vwOxUefjOZTK4UC9wr_Nz7eL0sTGgC3PjKGo7YKcMpNx13rtzcRKBPp-fWVihSoHmWeP8_hTywJr2f597KiYWy3ImkhvU8WnCnmU/s1600/canstock2774678.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5510103470508930562" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg_IDPIMBrmoKzzUzTo4wWdY4SSw0lAZHIx4Ed6uV8vwOxUefjOZTK4UC9wr_Nz7eL0sTGgC3PjKGo7YKcMpNx13rtzcRKBPp-fWVihSoHmWeP8_hTywJr2f597KiYWy3ImkhvU8WnCnmU/s400/canstock2774678.jpg" style="cursor: pointer; float: left; height: 100px; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; width: 150px;" /></a>Is this story newsworthy? I'd say so. Grandmothers everywhere will be checking the sheets more carefully before tucking in Junior. Nobody wants to be "<span style="font-style:italic;">that</span> Nana." Motels will be more diligent in making sure post-coital love gloves are removed <span style="font-style:italic;">before</span> opening the room up for a sweet old lady and her precious tyke in tow. And maybe, just maybe, unfaithful spouses will take that extra thirty seconds before showering off from that "workout" at the "gym" to dispose of their seed, thinking, "Wouldn't it be terrible if a four year old rented this room before it was cleaned, found this condom, and put it in his mouth, prematurely contracting the herpes simplex virus that I am myself am currently unaware I carry, but will soon face the consequences of when this very STD alerts my wife that I'm cheating on her?"<br /><br />Why yes, Unfaithful Spouse, it <span style="font-style:italic;">would</span> be terrible. <br /><br />Just ask Spooge-Face Jones.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgV-VGl0f-sZkCr_b32vKbHbjqf5ECZLHrnsXCr0Mw5A4cbVznhBKFw81T1Q_fs9D_kea6uWueg2pi5LHiWMEd8flPG5b3B_YgoG5FVxdtdRjBNFfw1MEkAayTKZTYHp96TeQux9du4X_w/s1600/images-7.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 274px; height: 184px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgV-VGl0f-sZkCr_b32vKbHbjqf5ECZLHrnsXCr0Mw5A4cbVznhBKFw81T1Q_fs9D_kea6uWueg2pi5LHiWMEd8flPG5b3B_YgoG5FVxdtdRjBNFfw1MEkAayTKZTYHp96TeQux9du4X_w/s400/images-7.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5510121195394847810" /></a><br /><br />Ribbed for her pleasure,<br /><br />X.X.http://www.blogger.com/profile/14845533891411766527noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6741858433334888054.post-45407958042534501512010-08-26T16:05:00.012-04:002010-08-26T18:05:14.169-04:00When You're A Stranger.*<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh11qGF-UlMVMiEws4PZ3efQ3feEF2SXGXTjQ6nTLgR8BeWqhrgjWSS1OmpgkMVRE5oSsKoE_EYOwJJ860Ng8v5Z0pAvTtTwcePoxDUxi338UrSpY4sndk2BjomRgQ5Oj6YQy3RJlrHHO4/s1600/Chatroulette_Nazi.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 296px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh11qGF-UlMVMiEws4PZ3efQ3feEF2SXGXTjQ6nTLgR8BeWqhrgjWSS1OmpgkMVRE5oSsKoE_EYOwJJ860Ng8v5Z0pAvTtTwcePoxDUxi338UrSpY4sndk2BjomRgQ5Oj6YQy3RJlrHHO4/s400/Chatroulette_Nazi.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5509835634674126306" /></a><br />I, like J, have never been on Chatroulette. This is because I take great care to avoid ever coming face-to-face with your average American. Especially those with enough free time on their hands to spend hours webcamming with strangers.<br /><br />Most of what I know about modern-day human beings, I know from Starbucks. Starbucks collects a smattering of life forms. Once upon a time, Starbucks was considered a white upper middle class cliche. But not anymore. Now it attracts people in every age bracket and social class, of every creed and color. And an awful lot of schizophrenics. Why, just today, in the very seat I am sitting in now, there was man obsessively cleaning his glasses and cell phone with a little vial of fluid, then arranging them neatly, only to resume cleaning them immediately after getting them <span style="font-style:italic;">just so.</span> Somebody get this guy a venti soy Zoloft Frappuccino pronto!<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEga0NAsEdUrjjhF9fHCdGeeh6v8PIK7tMqQ6DSqn0uvCqyljIvrBcGeHp9ngkgj8aMQ6LHzMLTTM5cNXEQYUJd1X_W54XuAg9aFQfQH9VELCkmTRu-gAXw_6mhRmeUgq7ji8Hdi_USfDVk/s1600/starbuck-desktops.jpg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 282px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEga0NAsEdUrjjhF9fHCdGeeh6v8PIK7tMqQ6DSqn0uvCqyljIvrBcGeHp9ngkgj8aMQ6LHzMLTTM5cNXEQYUJd1X_W54XuAg9aFQfQH9VELCkmTRu-gAXw_6mhRmeUgq7ji8Hdi_USfDVk/s400/starbuck-desktops.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5509836044091708946" /></a>So it follows that my only experience with Chatroulette is seeing people on it at Starbucks. Yes, at Starbucks. Because people often seem to confuse Starbucks with their own living room, behaving in ways that are really only appropriate in the privacy of your own home. This includes taking your shoes off, feeling up your girlfriend, and trolling hookup websites for hours on end. About the only thing I haven't seen someone do at a Starbucks is play <span style="font-style:italic;">Russian</span> roulette, but I assume it's only a matter of time.<br /><br />The "brilliant" feature of Chatroulette is that you can do anything, and with the click of a button, vanish, never to be seen by the person on the other end again. <br />I believe it is still illegal to flash your penis to a stranger on the street and then run away, but for some reason this cyber-equivalent is perfectly acceptable. It's the "ring your neighbor's door bell and then hide in the bushes giggling" for the 21st century. <br /><br />And I thought technology was suppose to <span style="font-style:italic;">advance</span> us? Talk about adding a new meaning to "Ding Dong Ditch."<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiurOT32pU9Y1yVzV8Pa0YWiatSd0iPlw8FmBDVpYyr8yVO0D8Sc-i6ldeyzR-BY_ljYWI9s3C1rFA6MIBG_c4JJQThv3rKSRt-l8yogQrag5eM08mJObnTlwgipLWvp98XBpbaBF15cio/s1600/mag-1268396304.jpg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 327px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiurOT32pU9Y1yVzV8Pa0YWiatSd0iPlw8FmBDVpYyr8yVO0D8Sc-i6ldeyzR-BY_ljYWI9s3C1rFA6MIBG_c4JJQThv3rKSRt-l8yogQrag5eM08mJObnTlwgipLWvp98XBpbaBF15cio/s400/mag-1268396304.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5509836955982232882" /></a>The "supposed" function of Chatroulette, I'm guessing, is friendship and perhaps even romance. It harkens back to the chat rooms of the 90's, when the people we spoke to online would generally be total strangers who live hundreds of miles away. In the years since, with the advent of Myspace and Facebook and the like, that style of chatting had all but gone out the window, until someone thought to combine this with webcams.<br /><br />Now, I know not <span style="font-style:italic;">everyone</span> uses webcams for erotic purposes, but I can't help but associate them with naughtiness. It's always disturbing to me when a family member or other person I don't want to think about naked mentions using one, even though I know (assume) there was no X-rated activity involved. In college, my mom offered to buy me a webcam so she could see me while we talked on the phone. I flatly refused, as if my mother suggested I host a meth-fueled "golden showers" party in my dorm room. I'm sure there are some people in this world who would use a webcam completely innocently, but these are not the kinds of people I consort with.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgWd_VZ06Hfvs0iuHo5Lozv0pSCx_znt8Wnmp4EdTjN__dmPVes9i0w-ILj5gw93K4qdmqusps8f26uKbpRACjjiir2m8O7Gu86oqw4V-O-TPeU7QemeljeUfE7knzZOy9IcbRfN_fpAHI/s1600/images-1.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 196px; height: 257px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgWd_VZ06Hfvs0iuHo5Lozv0pSCx_znt8Wnmp4EdTjN__dmPVes9i0w-ILj5gw93K4qdmqusps8f26uKbpRACjjiir2m8O7Gu86oqw4V-O-TPeU7QemeljeUfE7knzZOy9IcbRfN_fpAHI/s400/images-1.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5509836265634067298" /></a>So inevitably Chatroulette was going to be about T & A. Well, T & A & D & P. If there's one thing your average American is good at, it's wasting time. If there's another thing, it's shameless narcissism. Chatroulette combines both of these American pastimes, like apple pie smeared on a baseball. And as if the people you meet on the internet are not fickle enough, Chatroulette allows you to just...disappear. Craiglist is full of Missed Connections like <a href="http://longisland.craigslist.org/mis/1854600964.html">this one</a> nowadays, with people who feel they have really, truly bonded with you and your naked appendages over the past twenty minutes and now are left with no way to contact you.<br /><br />In fact, it feels like the main reason for Chatroulette's inception is so that Hollywood can produce a gimmicky movie about it, the way they try and do with every new technology. Imagine the possibilities:<br /><br />1) CHATROULETTE: THE HORROR MOVIE - A <span style="font-style:italic;">Rear Window</span> for 2010 in which someone witnesses a murder on Chatroulette, but <span style="font-style:italic;">no one believes him.</span><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgBpmGJJ2-1hAXL20LfEF7-rMcVwmtIcHDIkFgtQnxpYTwzNEJKk6ndj_xHw5WGBchca0Dg02VvpJkVF7XP6ZPHd5YMuoK_azbgArelWdhYEyEgH8b_OI9qdmPsrg_FkFGk7pS7jwyGFzM/s1600/chatroulette-horror.jpg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 345px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgBpmGJJ2-1hAXL20LfEF7-rMcVwmtIcHDIkFgtQnxpYTwzNEJKk6ndj_xHw5WGBchca0Dg02VvpJkVF7XP6ZPHd5YMuoK_azbgArelWdhYEyEgH8b_OI9qdmPsrg_FkFGk7pS7jwyGFzM/s400/chatroulette-horror.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5509837800191962786" /></a>2) CHATROULETTE: THE ROMCOM - A woman finds the love of her life on Chatroulette. He has a beagle. But - oh no! - Chatroulette "automatically nexts" them before they have exchanged the proper information! She must track him down using what little she knows about him: his location, his taste in decoration, what his penis looks like, and the name of his lovable beagle.<br /><br />3) CHATROULETTE: THE INDIE DRAMA - A young girl encounters <span style="font-style:italic;">herself</span> on Chatorulette - or, rather, the long-lost identical twin she <span style="font-style:italic;">never knew she had.</span> They go on a road trip of self-discovery together, come of age, and encounter lots and lots of quirky people along the way. But - uh oh! - her twin secretly <span style="font-style:italic;">only has six months to live.</span><br /><br />4) CHATROULETTE: IN 3D - You haven't had this many strange breasts and unfamiliar penises flying at your face since last Cinco de Mayo!<br /><br />Perhaps someday, if I'm bored enough and possess a webcam, I will check out Chatroulette myself. Until then, I suppose I'll just have to see an unattractive stranger's body parts the old-fashioned way: by waiting for that guy in the trenchcoat who frequents the local playground.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgSx26V0o7n2B5RIUQ6NzUU4FucTIvdRs3YYPAK001Ig6iMOQ376vCdvv5Ft3xeqe6lXWJKlUtObhsv04uQQDO2X-uX2-3QaG9vLYjGw0csD7vdEepneen50WJtn4CLLTO7GXPIoXbvWnc/s1600/images.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 182px; height: 277px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgSx26V0o7n2B5RIUQ6NzUU4FucTIvdRs3YYPAK001Ig6iMOQ376vCdvv5Ft3xeqe6lXWJKlUtObhsv04uQQDO2X-uX2-3QaG9vLYjGw0csD7vdEepneen50WJtn4CLLTO7GXPIoXbvWnc/s400/images.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5509837137891511698" /></a><br /><br />Press "next" to find new person,<br /><br />X.X.http://www.blogger.com/profile/14845533891411766527noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6741858433334888054.post-30063708043376816632010-08-26T11:46:00.002-04:002010-08-26T16:06:55.661-04:00Thrustin' Roulette<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh9QMzxKIEB3hcc4yBtHrtpmuCeZx50v8wWH7oQqjhID_W1WXAioo-XZy0jeGU_QYetXQ8xB8TqZjb9dXP_9CCMec28xpql1O7FvQLQ67QtCkLAomlZFQmHCAjpMd2JlA-YonXLW-iVx7j7/s1600/Screen+shot+2010-08-26+at+10.59.05+AM.png" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh9QMzxKIEB3hcc4yBtHrtpmuCeZx50v8wWH7oQqjhID_W1WXAioo-XZy0jeGU_QYetXQ8xB8TqZjb9dXP_9CCMec28xpql1O7FvQLQ67QtCkLAomlZFQmHCAjpMd2JlA-YonXLW-iVx7j7/s320/Screen+shot+2010-08-26+at+10.59.05+AM.png" /></a></div>Hi, I'm J. And I've never been on <a href="http://www.chatroulette.com/">Chatroulette</a>. But chances are that you have. Or, if you haven't, you've been on at least one of its ten million imitation wannabe competitors.<br />
<br />
And I guess my biggest question is: why? Why on earth would you ever go on Chatroulette? And why is it so damn popular? So widely used that everyone needs to imitate and launch a million more websites like it?<br />
<br />
For those of you who have no idea what I'm talking about, the conceit is a simple one to grasp: Chatroulette is a randomized webcam site. As in you sign on, fire up your web cam, and two screens and a chatroom appear, in one screen is your poorly lit face, in the other: a random stranger. <br />
<br />
Of course, a person is not always what you will find in that other screen. From what I understand, more often than not you will find a penis. Or a person dressed up like a tiger. Or a person dressed up like a penis. Or (if you're lucky), <a href="http://www.geekosystem.com/ben-folds-chatroulette-concert-video/">Ben Folds singing you a song</a> with a crowd of thousands cheering behind him.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<center><object height="385" width="640"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/LfamTmY5REw?fs=1&hl=en_US"></param><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"></param><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"></param><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/LfamTmY5REw?fs=1&hl=en_US" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowscriptaccess="always" allowfullscreen="true" width="640" height="385"></embed></object></center> <br />
<br />
<br />
<center><object height="385" width="640"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/nzakCwZUYHg?fs=1&hl=en_US"></param><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"></param><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"></param><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/nzakCwZUYHg?fs=1&hl=en_US" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowscriptaccess="always" allowfullscreen="true" width="640" height="385"></embed></object></center> <br />
<br />
Okay, so that last one is pretty awesome. I might go on Chatroulette, digging through penises and furries and Alaskans with ukuleles, in the hopes of coming across Ben Folds serenading me. (Though, his observational song might be something like: "Hey guy, why are your eyes bleeding? Why do you look like you've observed something terrifying? Oh guy, don't cry. No, don't put your eyes out with that letter opener...")<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgmJ6fWLNO3BtHdixtBaOfKpQl3ks4fxSpcclquuK0O1zGhfBKzIw64R0AP_sSPBqfJRZzMbC6-U5eMnwWA1m69AABBu4Rw5h8torQ8dlhSBb6NIw0Fg1bFRHZ19oHH1e4v-IZjvJ_KCbBg/s1600/Screen+shot+2010-08-26+at+10.58.57+AM.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgmJ6fWLNO3BtHdixtBaOfKpQl3ks4fxSpcclquuK0O1zGhfBKzIw64R0AP_sSPBqfJRZzMbC6-U5eMnwWA1m69AABBu4Rw5h8torQ8dlhSBb6NIw0Fg1bFRHZ19oHH1e4v-IZjvJ_KCbBg/s320/Screen+shot+2010-08-26+at+10.58.57+AM.png" /></a></div><br />
Even the name, Chatroulette, I contend with. Because, in roulette, you are hoping to win and, while you might not win, the punishment is merely loss of money. Imagine if playing Roulette in Atlantic City had the same consequences of Chatroulette. "Sorry kid, double zeros! Now please sit here while this 80-year old man in grease paint and a pair of torn bicycle shorts straddles your face!" Would people still play? Well, some might. The same people who go on Chatroulette.<br />
<br />
I suppose Chatroulette is more akin to Russian Roulette: the game played only in James Bond movies. In case you don't know what Russian Roulette is, it involves passing around a gun with one bullet inside and everyone takes turns sticking it in their mouth and pulling the trigger. If you lose this game, you die. Winning is exciting in that you're not dead, but losing really sucks. Problem is, using this analogy, Chatroulette would be like a gun with five thousand bullets loaded in it, and you're playing by yourself, continually shooting yourself in the face.<br />
<br />
Then again, I might sooner play Russian Roulette than go on Chatroulette.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj85cAzj1yciIrW0PhDLrLsaMbXJw6Wqk4J4VOT_Q8LRR2E7InzUTj_FXTA-8mvv4Ck7TTa6aYD918gV8Xhg4oIo6Eq2SwVvUpw-nKNYMGtCn7hkKVVtZ0fiJBdsPn7jg5YRUUBOj8RBBB0/s1600/Screen+shot+2010-08-26+at+10.59.35+AM.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj85cAzj1yciIrW0PhDLrLsaMbXJw6Wqk4J4VOT_Q8LRR2E7InzUTj_FXTA-8mvv4Ck7TTa6aYD918gV8Xhg4oIo6Eq2SwVvUpw-nKNYMGtCn7hkKVVtZ0fiJBdsPn7jg5YRUUBOj8RBBB0/s320/Screen+shot+2010-08-26+at+10.59.35+AM.png" /></a></div><br />
So I wonder: what is it that people love about Chatroulette? Is it the fact that you never know what type of penis will appear on your screen? Is it like the excitement of opening a box of Cracker Jacks, only to find that it is filled with odd people (and their penises) you'd never want to know in real life? <br />
<br />
Or maybe it's like going to the monkey cage at the zoo. You can walk up to the bars and watch them scratch themselves, smear poo on each other, and do vaguely almost-human things, all while knowing that you're safe from their grasp. On Chatroulette, all of the exhibitionist weirdos in the world are the fecal flinging monkeys, and yet they can never grab you, mangle your face, and drag your cadaver around their cages. You are safe. And if anyone gets too creepy, you can always skip to the next crazy stranger.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhKkqFptMKTBVwxzdL4m_YdciYrBtWvki0MEW0YTVLm6aLmHQ3L6bTFD7Ea1bZBDNa3vfuC3FH7nDGX_kg2ZKbvk4pnLWhKPxR5rkXFwZiv797wQ24iWKGuZ0LYpQeuLlcNepfnEonrNTTo/s1600/Screen+shot+2010-08-26+at+10.59.55+AM.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhKkqFptMKTBVwxzdL4m_YdciYrBtWvki0MEW0YTVLm6aLmHQ3L6bTFD7Ea1bZBDNa3vfuC3FH7nDGX_kg2ZKbvk4pnLWhKPxR5rkXFwZiv797wQ24iWKGuZ0LYpQeuLlcNepfnEonrNTTo/s320/Screen+shot+2010-08-26+at+10.59.55+AM.png" /></a></div><br />
Either way, Chatroulette is so hot right now, and so everyone is copying it. There is a Chatroulette for stoned people (penises and canabis). There are tons for gay people (penises and... more penises). I'm sure there's a Catroulette and a Ratroulette and a Drat! roulette (no penises, and it never works). Because when I'm looking to be flashed by someone, I want to decide what TYPE of wacko is flashing me, god dammit!<br />
<br />
This is silly, and very, very stupid. Because Chatroulette is a bad enough idea already. We don't need five million more bad ideas flying around, further splitting and dividing the nice solid group of weirdos we've safely confined to Chatroulette. It's better that we keep them all in one place, so we can better observe them and determine how they can be defeated.<br />
<br />
The disagreement between myself and technological trends is not something new. FourSquare, to me, seems like the most useless social media tool in the world. I have no interest in knowing that you have just re-captured the mayorship of your bathtub, or that you just checked in at the laundromat to find the sock you left behind. But clearly others think it's important that all of their friends know that they've stopped by the card store on their way home. And they REALLY want to earn that "nickel off a beer" you get by being the mayor of that bar they don't really like.<br />
<br />
Not every tech trend is terrible, though. At least in Twitter you have to give some editorial or insight ("At the laundromat, saw a random penis! Sooo chatroulette up in here"). I dig Twitter. I get Twitter. And Facebook. And Blogs. Even Tumblr. All of these things make sense in some way. But FourSquare? Or Chatroulette? No. Those make no sense whatsoever. They are testament to our society and generation's sudden need to over-broadcast, letting people know where we are, how often we've been there, and making sure that every random stranger gets to see our penis.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi_1xM19gCC2ldB_siCok6be4nv2WoysNvmZTDqLMm-M2MdegC57JIY731uKdPP7wt6v8WHEbVnbmEcK6BsAIAXhpCmDOEqNqzCi-XfNT3RSfUlibcQSNi4AL2qJuj2OTS760a6Ce0wzMwb/s1600/tumblr_kvjhze74UY1qzpew8o1_500.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi_1xM19gCC2ldB_siCok6be4nv2WoysNvmZTDqLMm-M2MdegC57JIY731uKdPP7wt6v8WHEbVnbmEcK6BsAIAXhpCmDOEqNqzCi-XfNT3RSfUlibcQSNi4AL2qJuj2OTS760a6Ce0wzMwb/s320/tumblr_kvjhze74UY1qzpew8o1_500.jpg" /></a></div><br />
Unfortunately, it seems like the Internet doesn't follow Darwinian logic. If Chatroulette were a living creature, it would be weighted to the ground by all of its exposed genitalia and would drown when the first Ice Age hit. But because of the democratic nature of the Web, and the fact that there are tons of people sitting around bored with un-noticed penises all day with nothing to do, I am pretty sure that Chatroulette and its ilk will be sticking around for a long, long time.<br />
<br />
And if that's the case, perhaps I should just jump on the trend, do some quick manscaping, and start broadcasting my goods to the people. Perhaps it is my duty. Does anyone know where I can buy a grizzly bear costume?<br />
<br />
Ra-Ra-Ra-Ra-Roulettes Face,<br />
J.Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10996771273232767374noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6741858433334888054.post-50143216807750064522010-08-25T15:02:00.013-04:002010-08-26T16:00:21.617-04:00Exes of Evil.*<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiMCclm5NcAPxfm2KOdzf5Hi3p1mE8pTiIduwNDQ4R2CBILEEd5jpFy0RTVXNxyD7LlmjzgLx_Qf210eHRGKCZT4Sq_wdQeNGbLpk3jq81Dy2eMB6EuusRdbtzqhf2S7Ki29arSnfdRnNc/s1600/1226533-7_evil_ex_boyfriends_scott_pilgrim_vs_the_world_575x323_super.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 225px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiMCclm5NcAPxfm2KOdzf5Hi3p1mE8pTiIduwNDQ4R2CBILEEd5jpFy0RTVXNxyD7LlmjzgLx_Qf210eHRGKCZT4Sq_wdQeNGbLpk3jq81Dy2eMB6EuusRdbtzqhf2S7Ki29arSnfdRnNc/s400/1226533-7_evil_ex_boyfriends_scott_pilgrim_vs_the_world_575x323_super.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5509453681561442274" /></a><br />Watching <span style="font-style:italic;">Scott Pilgrim vs. the World</span> is like watching <span style="font-style:italic;">Juno</span> on speed and ecstasy. And by that, I mean the character Juno is on speed, and you're watching the movie on ecstasy. The hipster slang comes out flying with a vengeance, although in the heightened reality of this movie, it makes a lot more sense. In some ways like a cartoon, in some ways like a video game, <span style="font-style:italic;">Scott Pilgrim</span> evokes a level of geekiness heretofore unseen in cinema. Game on.<br /><br />My own experience with video games is basically limited to those with the word "Mario" in the title. Nintendo 64 was as advanced as I got before I outgrew such things. Still, I can fully appreciate the references, since they are mostly throwbacks to the arcade-style games of the 80's and 90's. When Scott defeats an enemy, coins spill, giving him points. At one point, he literally "gets a life." <br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhulXvtIwvg7HCXAzdDzRb0eyBMp4vomPowWP_QM0LR5-574nOebLlIMhs_jo4jtIAFMScnhIObybZKYEzD5teH630eic4IVrmxNe_A9_nIMZeMj9vtxQzMCcc1BgiE4OZSuXtYWX03v6k/s1600/scott-pilgrim-vs-the-world.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 174px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhulXvtIwvg7HCXAzdDzRb0eyBMp4vomPowWP_QM0LR5-574nOebLlIMhs_jo4jtIAFMScnhIObybZKYEzD5teH630eic4IVrmxNe_A9_nIMZeMj9vtxQzMCcc1BgiE4OZSuXtYWX03v6k/s320/scott-pilgrim-vs-the-world.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5509454073635151554" /></a>The story concerns Scott Pilgrim, a member of the rock band Sex Bob-Omb, who is dating a Chinese schoolgirl named Knives Chau. (Despite the sharp imagery, Knives is by far the sweetest character in this movie.) Then he spots Ramona Flowers, who in true hipster movie fashion, dyes her hair alternating bright colors, signaling that she is rebellious and deep and the love of the protagonist's life. Obviously. The romance is essentially an early 20's clone of Jim Carrey and Kate Winslet in <span style="font-style:italic;">Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind</span>, complete with a surreal snowy location where they hit it off. The connection between them isn't nearly as affecting as it was between Joel and Clementine, but that might be because we still have Seven Evil Exes to worry about. <br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh1UJbYeHyItg5WRDQstMMUr0PhMOyK4cqplGz2oxVwP4_xnDOWbgGuHc60ORktC0bcwdq12h7JtMHVjeD6pJP2PjHSWr9xeSiN7WLeO3YYfliHZM68RTWC3qFjOWjrusE9UdjDL_bqSEw/s1600/scott_pilgrim_vs_the_world_poster_evil_ex_3_brandon_routh.jpg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 267px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh1UJbYeHyItg5WRDQstMMUr0PhMOyK4cqplGz2oxVwP4_xnDOWbgGuHc60ORktC0bcwdq12h7JtMHVjeD6pJP2PjHSWr9xeSiN7WLeO3YYfliHZM68RTWC3qFjOWjrusE9UdjDL_bqSEw/s400/scott_pilgrim_vs_the_world_poster_evil_ex_3_brandon_routh.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5509454143969919586" /></a>Yes, Scott is duly informed that he must fight against seven of Ramona's former flames who have ganged up to take down her new beau, including her experiment with bisexuality and a pair of Japanese twins. (That also leaves a movie star, a music producer, a Vegan rock star, and a mascara-loving weirdo who does a Bollywood number accompanied by a fanged harlot backup dancers.) Luckily, nerdy little Scott is quite the Jackie Chan when the situation calls for it, though to defeat a couple of them he also resorts to mind games and outsmarting them. This is possible because almost of Ramona's exes are dumb; they <span style="font-style:italic;">all</span> seem gay, with the possible exception of the lesbian. But it's not like Michael Cera is Butch Cassidy, exactly, either, so I guess the girl has a type: effeminate and evil.<br /><br />That any of this works at all is a testament to director Edgar Wright, who skillfully keeps the tone light and playful while managing to tell a mostly coherent story. (It never makes an attempt to follow real world logic or "make sense," and is probably all the better for it.) What really grounds the film is the inherent metaphor - a person brings baggage from previous relationships to any new ones, and that is something they must overcome in order to make it work. Scott's exes also figure into the mix: Knives Chau attempts to take out Ramona, and Scott's sexy bitch of an ex-girlfriend (now a rock star) is dating one of Ramona's exes. Even in this completely absurd Donkey Kong-level of reality, the film gets on thing right: the he-likes-her-but-she's-with-him-who-used-to-date-me messiness and complexity of modern love.<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgcn34MEzJXi9Ak36BFQfg0x1O9tVegKHmjyXmaXBcyLApc2I5-Hy_HfQIWloxOtGDFwvdO0yxNfTSPVRcBzvhDGSj9WAl0HvKYvuwsMlzZGrjX4zgZCr_9CpFo8RTM4lWtdtpGIFdOvYA/s1600/300px-Knives-film-01.png"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 231px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgcn34MEzJXi9Ak36BFQfg0x1O9tVegKHmjyXmaXBcyLApc2I5-Hy_HfQIWloxOtGDFwvdO0yxNfTSPVRcBzvhDGSj9WAl0HvKYvuwsMlzZGrjX4zgZCr_9CpFo8RTM4lWtdtpGIFdOvYA/s320/300px-Knives-film-01.png" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5509454512870551922" /></a><br /><br />I had a lot of fun at <span style="font-style:italic;">Scott Pilgrim vs. the World</span>. The movie is consistently funny, with a slew of talented performers like Anna Kendrick, Chris Evans, and Brandon Routh popping up briefly (and hilariously). Michael Cera more than holds his own with excellent comic timing and delivery, but the real scene-stealer is Ellen Wong as Knives Chau, who is totally over the top as Sex Bob-Omb's rather clueless lovelorn groupie (while still reminding us of actual girls we knew in high school). She could have her own movie.<br /><br />There are, of course, a few drawbacks: toward the end, the fight scenes get a bit overlong and repetitive; the one with the Japanese twins especially feels rushed and inconsequential. And there are moment when I wished the manic pace of the movie might slow down and give way to a bit more gravity and character development, if only to make the stakes of those fight scenes greater. I also found the depiction of gay characters in the film disappointing. Scott has an unusual relationship with his gay roommate, Wallace: they share a bed and Wallace reports everything Scott does to his sister Stacey (Anna Kendrick) in record time. This is quite funny, but then there are several unnecessary developments with Wallace sleeping with Stacey's boyfriend, then sleeping with Stacey's boyfriend <span style="font-style:italic;">and</span> his own boyfriend, then sleeping with someone totally random. These are all played for cheap laughs, and I can't say they don't stem from a certain truth, but they felt out of place in this movie. <br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgDchUP2a3F5ANw2x59zkVyKhWLCigt6ursW1DyhUm8fdaYB-LdckNFlBeRGda0xSJupQedPlx7_yvxg4hIkBOaVNXt7eJHZM0uuU7q82Cjn6ftjvH-cwo4wMpO6sdSTstQn2MaL1fA2Tw/s1600/125065_anna-kendrick-kieran-culkin-and-aubrey-plaza-talk-scott-pilgrim-vs-the-world.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgDchUP2a3F5ANw2x59zkVyKhWLCigt6ursW1DyhUm8fdaYB-LdckNFlBeRGda0xSJupQedPlx7_yvxg4hIkBOaVNXt7eJHZM0uuU7q82Cjn6ftjvH-cwo4wMpO6sdSTstQn2MaL1fA2Tw/s320/125065_anna-kendrick-kieran-culkin-and-aubrey-plaza-talk-scott-pilgrim-vs-the-world.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5509454707958134754" /></a>Sure, the movie pokes fun at a lot of stereotypes, from hipsters to vegans to Chinese schoolgirls - you can't take much of it seriously. But I wish the film had at least focused its gay caricature around <span style="font-style:italic;">one</span> trait: here the gay character is a gossip <span style="font-style:italic;">and</span> unfaithful <span style="font-style:italic;">and</span> a shameless flirt <span style="font-style:italic;">and</span> disloyal to his friend Scott <span style="font-style:italic;">and</span> promiscuous. It's a bit much, especially in a film that gives the other (non-evil) characters heart to go along with the kooky storylines.<br /><br />But that aside, <span style="font-style:italic;">Scott Pilgrim vs. the World</span> is decidedly one of the most clever films you'll see this year. It's practically <span style="font-style:italic;">dripping</span> with fun. And perhaps I even enjoyed it more than most, for if ever there were a movie tailor-made for me, it is a movie about a League of Evil Exes teaming up and then getting the shit beaten out of them. Like Ramona, I have also found that my past relationships tend to come back to haunt me, sometimes by joining forces. <br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiMXcYhGKnA-uxtARHcnJIkCAuZuVu_7McvydJFNRWAZQr73sHXr-Od-XYF_wwUBRAkvznmlJ3SycKhEKJhZkAGenQ0XTL17W1h_7GayV9m0T3zBN1JcDmDpU4N3R-Obgw6HL1wHJLDSp4/s1600/Scott-Pilgrim-takes-on-an-Evil-Ex-in-Scott-Pilgrim-vs.-The-World_gallery_primary.jpg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 275px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiMXcYhGKnA-uxtARHcnJIkCAuZuVu_7McvydJFNRWAZQr73sHXr-Od-XYF_wwUBRAkvznmlJ3SycKhEKJhZkAGenQ0XTL17W1h_7GayV9m0T3zBN1JcDmDpU4N3R-Obgw6HL1wHJLDSp4/s400/Scott-Pilgrim-takes-on-an-Evil-Ex-in-Scott-Pilgrim-vs.-The-World_gallery_primary.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5509454972833217042" /></a>This may just be a fact of life, and I suppose there's something to be said for time healing all wounds. I've done the mature thing and let bygones be bygones, plenty of times. I've moved on like an adult. But wouldn't it be better if we could just kick their asses? <br /><br />I, for one, think we'd all be a little happier if, after a bad breakup, we just have at it, <span style="font-style:italic;">Mortal Kombat</span>-style. A fight to the finish. Five minutes and you're done. That's one way to get over your ex - stab him through the heart with a flaming sword, and he explodes into money. Then you not only vanquish your evil ex-boyfriend and earn the freedom to begin a new relationship, you also get quarters for laundry. <span style="font-style:italic;">Bonus! </span> <br /><br />Wouldn't that be so much faster and more efficient than yoga, drinking alone, sleeping around, crying yourself to sleep, making voodoo dolls, and countless hours of therapy?<br /><br /><object width="640" height="385"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/kjt4vhSqtFQ?fs=1&hl=en_US"></param><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"></param><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"></param><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/kjt4vhSqtFQ?fs=1&hl=en_US" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowscriptaccess="always" allowfullscreen="true" width="640" height="385"></embed></object><br /><br />Your princess is in another castle,<br /><br />X.X.http://www.blogger.com/profile/14845533891411766527noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6741858433334888054.post-8378464774538216852010-08-25T12:49:00.001-04:002010-08-25T12:58:46.691-04:00Call Ishmael Crazy<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgztXobMsIdE2xJ2ZyX1uvqw80Z6TfMt1Mivy3jJc7npemK3a3m-EXSohUllXPw9C-J9BNzBEF7X7_BD8wBjZctp41vibD4HCVdspo0MX4vNoK7foccZStGIcPnMmfbw9AATbklK3x-TruU/s1600/51P2Z3ACC7L._SL500_AA300_.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgztXobMsIdE2xJ2ZyX1uvqw80Z6TfMt1Mivy3jJc7npemK3a3m-EXSohUllXPw9C-J9BNzBEF7X7_BD8wBjZctp41vibD4HCVdspo0MX4vNoK7foccZStGIcPnMmfbw9AATbklK3x-TruU/s200/51P2Z3ACC7L._SL500_AA300_.jpg" width="200" /></a></div>Writers always say that any self-respecting writer is also a voracious reader. To call me voracious might be an understatement. The doormen at my office building have nicknamed me "Joey Books," in their Bronx accents, often yelling it as I walk by them, my nose buried in some tome. In gayer, less Bronxian circles I have been compared to Belle from Beauty and The Beast, minus the good singing voice and the desire to sleep with extremely hirsute men.<br />
<br />
But what happens when a writer reads about writing? Well, it is both meta and potentially damaging. Take, for instance, the current book I am about to wrap up. A gift from the boy, it is called <a href="http://www.amazon.com/Midnight-Disease-Drive-Writers-Creative/dp/0618230653">The Midnight Disease</a>, which sounds like the biography for the werewolf that Taylor Lautner plays in the Twilight saga. <br />
<br />
Written by Alice Weaver Flaherty, who is both a writer and a neurologist at Massachusetts General Hospital, this book listens to all those folks who have howled that writers are insane, and applies some science to prove it. Yep, them's the breaks, folks. If you're a writer, or, really, creative whatsoever, there is a good chance that you are also insane.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEieYTxauBNtnApOhi9cTG9YBGYj5FXP3PNMmH2PUNCvxqpqrqvEPanY-scfOd9ERcGg2p0BcD0DBRR3E1LmdI_7m02eErQSWaPKv-6CV9xT_niaq9JW1W3yjXMGwjJ4-H8kyjz2lQ2PIxDI/s1600/Belle-beauty-and-the-beast-118804_1024_730.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEieYTxauBNtnApOhi9cTG9YBGYj5FXP3PNMmH2PUNCvxqpqrqvEPanY-scfOd9ERcGg2p0BcD0DBRR3E1LmdI_7m02eErQSWaPKv-6CV9xT_niaq9JW1W3yjXMGwjJ4-H8kyjz2lQ2PIxDI/s320/Belle-beauty-and-the-beast-118804_1024_730.jpg" /></a></div><br />
The book liberally serves up psychological patients, famous quotes, and historical knowledge on every page. It is an arresting read; I have basically finished it in 5 days. I've learned that so many writers I grew up reading were certifiable crazies. I thought they were just alcoholics and drug addicts, but this isn't giving them their full due. I also have learned a lot about the brain, split-hemisphere surgery, and Flaherty's personal life, including the death of twin boys that led to her being hospitalized and doped up to the point of no creative return.<br />
<br />
The best thing about this book is that it doesn't FEEL like you're learning. This should be mandatory reading for any writing class. Flaherty's humor, anecdotes, and general composition make something as daunting as brain science not only digestible, but tasty as well.<br />
<br />
I also have learned a term for people who claim they have to write: Hypergraphics. Am I a hypergraphic? I wonder. I'm going to say probably. Look at this blog. My other blogs. My novels. My ten million projects. It seems as though my resting state occurs only in front of my computer with music pumping in my ears and words flowing out of me.<br />
<br />
Another big part of this book is figuring out WHY and HOW we write. Talk of the muse, of sadness and happiness, of hallucinations and a genuine human need to be heard and verified as actually existing. In reading, I have found myself thinking about this same big old "Why Do I Write?" question that most authors like to tackle at least once in their lives, usually during graduation speeches.<br />
<br />
Why do I write? Well, I don't quite know. It's not from pain or pleasure that my desire to write comes about. Rather, I feel, sometimes, like my brain is a free-roam, cage-less chicken coop. Inside, the birds flying around are ideas and words. Sitting down and writing is like I'm opening up the door and allowing whatever birds are quickest to escape. This probably also explains the level of crap I produce - some chickens have the capacity to lay bad eggs.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg7pnl1Or4XtqjgyZhJAfVkSbGQc6PVcaB8WwAmYzwFMD3DvFkqLuArXkP5m11YQ-CTd-0vPw-X5Dni5PovgnylerYMIxlMr5NopM1RMDyY8UGjNX4vcWbhYwnsL3rLsWceh9_gbNvQSPY2/s1600/Disney-Chicken-Little.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg7pnl1Or4XtqjgyZhJAfVkSbGQc6PVcaB8WwAmYzwFMD3DvFkqLuArXkP5m11YQ-CTd-0vPw-X5Dni5PovgnylerYMIxlMr5NopM1RMDyY8UGjNX4vcWbhYwnsL3rLsWceh9_gbNvQSPY2/s200/Disney-Chicken-Little.jpg" width="196" /></a></div><br />
But even writing this right now feels natural - putting fingers to keys and creating a direct pathway from the vague and non-committal commotion of my mind to the solid, cemented space of this (digital) page. Am I writing for me? I think so. But I'm also writing for others. When asked what my goal in life was, I said "to make others have a good time." And it's true. I'm at my happiest when I play a direct part in the enjoyment or entertainment of others. It is an ego boost - that I may be funny or smart in this particular situation. It is also a direct vampire-like suckjob of the happiness others are experiencing.<br />
<br />
Does writing hurt? For sure. Sometimes it burns like a mother. I've stared at the midway point of a chapter in a book I'm writing, feeling like I'm at the doctor and he's unsuccessfully trying to stab a vein in my arm with a needle. It's frustrating. Anonymous comments here and there from folks who tell me I have no voice, that my subject matter is pedestrian (or worse: offensive) also work wonders. When the voices outside of my head join in a raging chorus with the one inside to serenade me about my suckitude, well, it sucks.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhPCc2g8xz0uc-h9mpkKDyiy5YT2dQQ4nutrj4C4veo-r4m3bd6b24RBPZmGOzxFN8SKPSh_DkSO4ywFww5dY4w8F9Mx9clEu2KecxUGyOSiiKaDH6flGHWH9DrqZOzt7svKw98PK28Pjaq/s1600/loc-hemmingway-2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhPCc2g8xz0uc-h9mpkKDyiy5YT2dQQ4nutrj4C4veo-r4m3bd6b24RBPZmGOzxFN8SKPSh_DkSO4ywFww5dY4w8F9Mx9clEu2KecxUGyOSiiKaDH6flGHWH9DrqZOzt7svKw98PK28Pjaq/s320/loc-hemmingway-2.jpg" /></a></div><br />
But still, I write. Why? Because it's almost kind of like being a God. "It's like you're writing fan fiction for youself," my boy has said to me on a few occasions. And this, too, is true. My characters are financially well off, often with impeccable bodies and Abercrombie model faces. They live in the hottest neighborhoods and have adventures I'd never have on my own. For that reason, I write because I can create a better place and better situation on a blank page than I probably could with actual people and locations.<br />
<br />
And finally, I write for money. The prostitute excuse. I am putting my body of work on the chopping block and selling it to the highest bidder (or, has been the case for the past few years, to no bidders and posting it online and promoting the crap out of it.) So maybe I'm more of a whore than I am a prostitute. I need to improve my business plan. I would love to become a published writer who sells a few books for production in Hollywood, which then become chart topping blockbusters, which then get turned into Broadway musicals that then go on tour, inspiring more merchandise than is necessary. And the checks will keep rolling in. And I'll be able to tour the world, signing my books, sipping drinks and smoking with other writers as I pretend to know how it is I got to that level of fame and riches in the first place.<br />
<br />
I feel like there are many more reasons for why I write. But, I can comfortably say (at least for now) that the psychotic explanations mentioned in The Midnight Disease aren't them. Maybe someday I'll end up epileptic or bipolar or this or that. But right now, based on what I've read, I seem to have a normal functioning brain (which probably explains why I often have to wrestle with myself to come up with tasty metaphors and similes).<br />
<br />
Why do I write? I guess I could best sum up my answer as: because it really sucks when I'm not writing. It may not be much, but I guess it's all I've got!<br />
<br />
Write or Wrong,<br />
J.Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10996771273232767374noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6741858433334888054.post-10505898484987429162010-08-24T18:42:00.016-04:002010-08-25T15:02:21.398-04:00Fuck You For Being A Fuck.*<br /><br /><object width="640" height="385"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/CAV0XrbEwNc?fs=1&hl=en_US"></param><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"></param><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"></param><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/CAV0XrbEwNc?fs=1&hl=en_US" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowscriptaccess="always" allowfullscreen="true" width="640" height="385"></embed></object><br /><br />Chances are, you've seen someone post it on Facebook by now.<br /><br />Cee-Lo Green's new single "Fuck You" has been getting a lot of buzz since it's recent release, and on the one hand, I can see why. When it starts, it sounds a lot like the theme song to "The Golden Girls." It's totally innocuous and pleasant enough, until Cee-Lo let's fly a "fuck you." And they just keep on coming.<br /><br />Cee-Lo is hardly the first entertainer to capitalize on the F-bomb. There's Lily Allen's cheerful send off to a former United States president (whose name I won't mention because we've all worked really hard to forget about him). Or what about French Connection, who basically built an entire brand around switching two of those infamous four letters?<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj4H7DxEvlNb-lee91DWR71hvZgX3nQSEq4pvoRjMr2MAeYy6mf01fTBUP8DHPhciH33CYrTQeixLN8lRNVNjCbH_UIezbihPw0_mwOJ9txawi_xX1eVCK0TgejttJMKqFDWM-l1kcnrTs/s1600/CastA7.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 380px; height: 276px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj4H7DxEvlNb-lee91DWR71hvZgX3nQSEq4pvoRjMr2MAeYy6mf01fTBUP8DHPhciH33CYrTQeixLN8lRNVNjCbH_UIezbihPw0_mwOJ9txawi_xX1eVCK0TgejttJMKqFDWM-l1kcnrTs/s400/CastA7.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5509135237001294322" /></a>I can't speak for Cee-Lo, but I imagine he's going for some kind of irony with juxtaposition of the old-bitches-eating-cheesecake cheer of the music with the in-your-face profanity of the chorus. The song is called "Fuck You," after all. Not too subtle. But whereas Ms. Allen's "Fuck You" was directed at a particular individual and had a pretty clear message, Mssr. Green's is actually quite tame in comparison. From what I gather, Cee-Lo spots some guy driving around in a Ferrari with a woman he dated, who just so happens to be a gold-digger. And Cee-Lo is like, "Fuck you." And, "Fuck her too."<br /><br />That's pretty much it.<br /><br />So Cee-Lo is angry at a guy for having more money than him, and angry at the woman for being materialistic. His response? "Fuck you." Provocative. Never mind the question of why Cee-Lo is so hung up on this gold digger, and the guy who is chauffeuring her around for undisclosed reasons. Did Cee-Lo stop and think that this guy might just be a Good Samaritan who happens to own a fancy sports car? Is it so wrong to offer someone a ride? Should he be so condemned for buying Italian? <br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEggrpo3nhF1JdeSD1NWjao_vTM34ea4fsSa1S3GNiEfMshRii4lXdZjyq6inX75dApBJ-VjKWpzhdYLanhE1DvQxVFCIN1gSWXVHh1cSD0e8WwkLhFoLuwAeZ0tVrsq410HJRiECFYDGKM/s1600/fuck-ferrari-f1.jpg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 211px; height: 289px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEggrpo3nhF1JdeSD1NWjao_vTM34ea4fsSa1S3GNiEfMshRii4lXdZjyq6inX75dApBJ-VjKWpzhdYLanhE1DvQxVFCIN1gSWXVHh1cSD0e8WwkLhFoLuwAeZ0tVrsq410HJRiECFYDGKM/s320/fuck-ferrari-f1.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5509137045340107250" /></a>I'm also not clear as to <span style="font-style:italic;">why</span> Cee-Lo can't afford a Ferrari. I heard that song "Crazy" approximately 8 billion times for 2 years straight. I'm pretty sure they created new radio stations just to play that song over and over. If that isn't enough to buy a Ferrari, Cee-Lo, you better fire the attorney who let you sign that contract.<br /><br />If you ask me, this woman didn't break up with you because you're broke. She dumped you because you're whiny, you misdirect your anger, and you wouldn't stop singing that "Crazy" song.<br /><br />Now I know it's just a pop song and isn't meant to be held up to such scrutiny. I probably would have tuned the lyrics out completely if it weren't trying so desperately to get your attention with that title. It smacks of desperation, like a ten year old at recess trying to shock his friends. "Look at me! I'm so <span style="font-style:italic;">naughty</span>!" would have been a better title.<br /><br />Is "fuck you" shocking any more? Does it have <span style="font-style:italic;">any</span> meaning whatsoever? To locate the video, I merely typed "fuck you" into Google, because I wasn't sure how to spell "Cee-Lo." Did you know "Fuck" has its own Wikipedia page? Does this surprise you? The page pointlessly lays out all the different meanings of "fuck," as if even your unborn fetus hasn't already learned them all (and a few in foreign languages, too). Your unborn fetus is probably flipping you the bird right now. Because the womb might be the only place where "fuck you" is still edgy.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhNkGtMlkFelhxD7L3GBRKJQrm5dzXx9eKpYEKeHnptX300gynQljG1TDs3XwA-8OztIBzp_kanRl5MjMemFcUaQtOqnBuVVvo3GC7rZikiig8DHOaaQ5Fhn_3iaX_xobAhG1DvjiGC3AE/s1600/images-1.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 204px; height: 247px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhNkGtMlkFelhxD7L3GBRKJQrm5dzXx9eKpYEKeHnptX300gynQljG1TDs3XwA-8OztIBzp_kanRl5MjMemFcUaQtOqnBuVVvo3GC7rZikiig8DHOaaQ5Fhn_3iaX_xobAhG1DvjiGC3AE/s400/images-1.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5509135742668086642" /></a>Sure, it's still taboo to use the F-word in church, and kids probably still get sent to the principal's office if they say it to a teacher. Saying it more than a couple times in a movie will earn that film an R rating, and it's forbidden on network and cable TV shows. But it's gotten to the point where even that is almost perfunctory; "fuck" is so ubiquitous these days, even if "the" and "and" joined forces, they wouldn't stand a chance. I've never understood why swear words have their more benign counterparts, such as "fudge," "dang it," "heck," "screw you," and so forth. Is "friggin" really less offensive than "fucking?" What's the difference between "crap" and "shit" when it conjures the same imagery? Now, thanks to internet lingo and text messages, we also have acronyms such as "OMFG" and "WTF," which are pretty well socially acceptable. Even your pastor might text you an "OMFG" without really thinking about it - but spell it out, and you're a sinner.<br /><br />Bleeping out words on the radio is even more pointless. I mean, really, wow does this help? When the sentence is "I've got a big ol' BEEP and I'll stick it in your BEEP," even the youngest of minds will figure out that Lil Wayne is not about to stick his favorite Harry Potter book in Nicki Minaj's personal library. If we all know what the meaning is, why are we pretending? <br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiWPCsSMepdvEmpH4x1whRuHQoTPozNmwQEvSWe0992ZvTSfRx0aEtmBKg7PDLh1eK6-rU5HVEzegLjxoUSC0kQnIoF-5ewRj6zqZwRwTGA09m42pak17kJgF1cUwFiuUQ3yAyZIX8xKEI/s1600/images.jpg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 171px; height: 294px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiWPCsSMepdvEmpH4x1whRuHQoTPozNmwQEvSWe0992ZvTSfRx0aEtmBKg7PDLh1eK6-rU5HVEzegLjxoUSC0kQnIoF-5ewRj6zqZwRwTGA09m42pak17kJgF1cUwFiuUQ3yAyZIX8xKEI/s400/images.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5509135484455337986" /></a>There's no doubt Cee-Lo Green's "Fuck You" will be censored up the wazoo (that's PC for "asshole") to allow for maximum radio airplay. <span style="font-style:italic;">"I see you driving 'round town with the girl I love, and I'm like, Boo-hoo, and uh, boo her too!"</span> As for me, I am already getting sick of this song, and it was released less than a week ago. I'm dreading the next six months.<br /><br />So there you have it. Cee-Loo has released a mainstream hit with a title too edgy to be played on the radio. So it'll be changed to something <span style="font-style:italic;">slightly</span> less offensive that means the same flipping thing, but we'll all titter because secretly, we know what the song <span style="font-style:italic;">really</span> means, and it's just so freakin' <span style="font-style:italic;">offensive</span>! Is it just me, or is there something pretty screwed up about all this?<br /><br />To paraphrase another Cee-Lo song that became a self-fulfilling prophecy way too fast:<br /><br />That makes me effing <span style="font-style:italic;">crazy</span>.<br /><br /><object width="480" height="385"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/KiQzUEc_FmI?fs=1&hl=en_US"></param><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"></param><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"></param><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/KiQzUEc_FmI?fs=1&hl=en_US" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowscriptaccess="always" allowfullscreen="true" width="480" height="385"></embed></object><br /><br />And the horse you rode in on,<br /><br />X.X.http://www.blogger.com/profile/14845533891411766527noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6741858433334888054.post-60509645595961904052010-08-24T13:42:00.001-04:002010-08-24T13:49:07.917-04:00YouTube State of Mind<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj89epdc3HXXhjJFV1RSXR1Hz_f5mDYsC5Pe4Y4OifhWuWW8scg05RN3bLFhTshbqzRtMBhnjG5Q8IOzNXmkAl9hoqzZ9RELQA7HovyQgfdhb0Q1r6v_pWI0duPqge3tPJy-nAQ7HmemWgc/s1600/Screen+shot+2010-08-24+at+1.24.12+PM.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj89epdc3HXXhjJFV1RSXR1Hz_f5mDYsC5Pe4Y4OifhWuWW8scg05RN3bLFhTshbqzRtMBhnjG5Q8IOzNXmkAl9hoqzZ9RELQA7HovyQgfdhb0Q1r6v_pWI0duPqge3tPJy-nAQ7HmemWgc/s320/Screen+shot+2010-08-24+at+1.24.12+PM.png" /></a></div><br />
No matter where you are from, be it <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=kelUCEcdO8M">Los Angeles</a>, <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=acYdgERZSQE">Washington State</a>, <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=WFpYaGufiJY">Staten Island</a>, <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=FMxu76GmBfo&feature=player_embedded">South Florida</a>, or a <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=9WZGyzz5O-U">state of senile insanity</a> you probably have a comfortable feeling of belonging as you go about your life. Sure, you may have stressful situations, poor weather, high crime, or too much hair gel seeping into your township's water table, but it doesn't matter; each and every one of you has a YouTube parody of Katy Perry's "California Gurls" to call your own.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEimwOVPfoMvPrQpDtcZOupvEK6L93n6rdjddxTNEyylnAK-F5K8i8R8MiepbnIQpzZSWRbUL4oc6OcpofB7kOr_ZJOpoAlhyphenhyphenifVAYSdg326nMmHooNzMgDA5pyscwqJ3AwfGRPI3oSgHBBV/s1600/Screen+shot+2010-08-24+at+1.23.28+PM.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEimwOVPfoMvPrQpDtcZOupvEK6L93n6rdjddxTNEyylnAK-F5K8i8R8MiepbnIQpzZSWRbUL4oc6OcpofB7kOr_ZJOpoAlhyphenhyphenifVAYSdg326nMmHooNzMgDA5pyscwqJ3AwfGRPI3oSgHBBV/s320/Screen+shot+2010-08-24+at+1.23.28+PM.png" /></a></div><br />
And since Katy released the Song of the Summer which quickly became the Spoofmeat of the Summer, I have sat and watched from my office desk as these sometimes good, most times terrible parodies made the rounds. Each time, something inside of me died. Because where was New York in all of this? We get a thirteen second cameo in California Gayz, only to be hit by a vehicle.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<center><object height="385" width="640"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/kelUCEcdO8M?fs=1&hl=en_US"></param><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"></param><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"></param><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/kelUCEcdO8M?fs=1&hl=en_US" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowscriptaccess="always" allowfullscreen="true" width="640" height="385"></embed></object></center><br />
Allow me to add that I am still trying to figure out how the director accomplished this feat. I think maybe it's similar to how Regina George gets hit by a bus in Mean Girls.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<center><object height="385" width="480"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/DT7os-ymfW4?fs=1&hl=en_US"></param><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"></param><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"></param><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/DT7os-ymfW4?fs=1&hl=en_US" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowscriptaccess="always" allowfullscreen="true" width="480" height="385"></embed></object></center><br />
And, one more quick topic deviation. Please watch "Regina George hit by bus" spoof video. It deserves to be shared.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<center><object height="385" width="480"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/yBmQRn60lVc?fs=1&hl=en_US"></param><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"></param><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"></param><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/yBmQRn60lVc?fs=1&hl=en_US" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowscriptaccess="always" allowfullscreen="true" width="480" height="385"></embed></object></center><br />
<br />
Now, you might say: "But New York gets made fun of in everything! Isn't Staten Island Gurlz good enough?" <br />
<br />
Yes, it is true that I come from New York. But ask any New Yorker: we are a huge bag of stereotypes, not a single, convenient, insult-worthy one, but MANY unique insult-worthy ones. As evidenced by the previously mentioned Staten Island Gurls spoof. Staten Island claims their own sovereignty, which is fine, as I only use them to hold my trash while it composts, and allow me quick passage into Pennsylvania when I visit my old college.<br />
<br />
I'm not a New Yorker, that is too broad. I am a Long Islander. It's not something I am particularly proud of, but it is something I must admit when participating in lie detector tests. So to shovel me a standard "New York-centric" spoof of something is like calling a Puerto Rican hispanic. It's not true, and it borders on insulting.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhMz6AYvIdwHT-2RgRtdDUI5GC8-An3oqlzsnno5zgewVqSAIvyzZhexcVFdmwfMuIz_a-iFGJKl79kjiRXagPHrjlvB4mCRF4PN8aesLvbPvjeBkO27Bop0Ic9FEWAl8lPpP3MbmF7HXfc/s1600/Screen+shot+2010-08-24+at+1.23.39+PM.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhMz6AYvIdwHT-2RgRtdDUI5GC8-An3oqlzsnno5zgewVqSAIvyzZhexcVFdmwfMuIz_a-iFGJKl79kjiRXagPHrjlvB4mCRF4PN8aesLvbPvjeBkO27Bop0Ic9FEWAl8lPpP3MbmF7HXfc/s320/Screen+shot+2010-08-24+at+1.23.39+PM.png" /></a></div><br />
Furthermore, to even classify me as a "Long Islander" is a bit too broad. Long Island, as per its name, is a VERY Long Island. (Much like "Fire Island", as per its name, is a horrible place entirely engulfed in never-dying flames).<br />
<br />
Long Island has farms. Cows. Amusement parks. Hicks. (including an entire ville where they apparently live.) We have beaches and Montauk and everything in between. And even though I lived there most of my life, I never saw any of those things! It is because I am, to be technical, a Nassau County Long Islander. Which means a lot! It means we have no cows. It means we're near to the beach. It means we're less than an hour train ride from Manhattan. It means we're better than those Suffolk Folks, who could be considered hicks or out of touch with New York.<br />
<br />
I can certainly understand why, until now, there's been no spoof that speaks to me. Besides this famous Long Island mother kvetching about a Christmas Tree.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<center><object height="385" width="480"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/RTs5eKZ0i1E?fs=1&hl=en_US"></param><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"></param><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"></param><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/RTs5eKZ0i1E?fs=1&hl=en_US" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowscriptaccess="always" allowfullscreen="true" width="480" height="385"></embed></object></center><br />
But this was a sneaky video. It doesn't have "Long Island" or "Nassau County" written anywhere in its description. I defy you to ask any Nassau County lady or fellow you know: this drag queen is doing a better impression of our mothers than our fathers or stepfathers could ever do. And when this video hit the Tube, Nassau County citizens flocked to watch, tears in our eyes, that SOMEONE had finally made something just for us.<br />
<br />
Well, I am happy to report that, years after Christmas Tree Mom, a new Nassau County video has emerged into the mainstream. AND it makes me a part of the "pop spoof" club! Well, almost. The spoof I am referencing has been traveling through Facebook status updates over the past few days, earning a ton of plaudits, shameful head shakes, and drunken, fist-pumping cheers. It is called "Nassau County State of Mind."<br />
<br />
And while it's barely accurate in regards to my life and behaviors before I fled the Island for NYC, I can at least relate. Because the Jersey-Shore-esque douchebags singing about where to get a good bagel, and where the garlic knots are always plentiful are the same douchebags I grew up with.<br />
<br />
The gel. The muscles. The bad voices. The expensive backyard pools. It's all there.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjyh6L3XZxy16tJ_SXqe8zfI7LPvOLPWHZQaD7ovYwQKk3yfKi-f_qdqHHwP5NMbuetPV1GtZF36p6CSgZcHWBusQelR_afvSKfxWX6I11BjMVITgNMhHMdMWGbkJQwd4YisqZx5P-VV0uS/s1600/Screen+shot+2010-08-24+at+1.23.46+PM.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjyh6L3XZxy16tJ_SXqe8zfI7LPvOLPWHZQaD7ovYwQKk3yfKi-f_qdqHHwP5NMbuetPV1GtZF36p6CSgZcHWBusQelR_afvSKfxWX6I11BjMVITgNMhHMdMWGbkJQwd4YisqZx5P-VV0uS/s320/Screen+shot+2010-08-24+at+1.23.46+PM.png" /></a></div><br />
I am, of course, upset that it is not a "Nassau County Boyz" spoof. But I'll bet these guys think it's too gay to deal with anything performed by Katy Perry, even though most of them probably jack off into their ankle socks to her new album cover on a daily basis.<br />
<br />
It also explains a lot about Nassau County: these guys are probably still jamming out to this song regularly. While the rest of the pop world has moved on to new ditties, the dudes in Nassau County are bouncing their Hummers down the street to this gem, and probably still will for months to come. As an example, I'm pretty sure that reggae song "I'm in love with a man nearly twice my age" and "Mambo Number 5" are still played on quasi-heavy rotation on our radio stations. <br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhNX14GQJzBr0WH9qMHAZ0LxeiaW6Wr4n48dBmexg8aDyag_2IvTBXbDRfzisqFKBqv01Gf7bM-VgbI9LHxzNV6JbDenAlJGgYmggsKxYi_FJSAQtSbTU-dOcCm2kbAb4AH1DxpjyM8cmcb/s1600/Screen+shot+2010-08-24+at+1.24.05+PM.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhNX14GQJzBr0WH9qMHAZ0LxeiaW6Wr4n48dBmexg8aDyag_2IvTBXbDRfzisqFKBqv01Gf7bM-VgbI9LHxzNV6JbDenAlJGgYmggsKxYi_FJSAQtSbTU-dOcCm2kbAb4AH1DxpjyM8cmcb/s320/Screen+shot+2010-08-24+at+1.24.05+PM.png" /></a></div><br />
Again - let me be abundantly clear: I AM NOT ONE OF THESE GUYS. But man did I ever walk high school hallways and shopping center byways with them. Feel my pain. Understand why I ran here as fast as my Skechers would carry me.<br />
<br />
<b>I present to you, Nassau County State of Mind: </b><br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<center><object height="385" width="640"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/NMjpppudNkk?fs=1&hl=en_US"></param><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"></param><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"></param><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/NMjpppudNkk?fs=1&hl=en_US" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowscriptaccess="always" allowfullscreen="true" width="640" height="385"></embed></object></center><br />
<br />
Your brother in fist-pumping,<br />
J.Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10996771273232767374noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6741858433334888054.post-75506471088193687362010-08-23T12:36:00.018-04:002010-08-23T19:06:27.296-04:00Is That A Trenta, Or Are You Just Happy to See Me?*<br /><br />The Mayans predicted this. They were thinking asteroid, melting of the polar ice caps, earthquake...something along those lines. But nope. The earth will just spin off it's axis because we're all buzzing too hard, or maybe the earth will just sink out of orbit under our combined weight.<br /><br />Good to know Starbucks is doing its part to usher in 2012.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjlxF8BhDCVBWgrG1XyDuDD9fJLySKF0e2wxV6vnr39LVDBfxYl4IfiAlUpHnXkrUD71YA96kF-E9S2v7CKLtypxGZoZ4HOEFCqU4YVb9B_FI7BRg3K0pHYupRXUqPF_jrSiVizhaa3Df8/s1600/Giant-Coffee-Cup.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 300px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjlxF8BhDCVBWgrG1XyDuDD9fJLySKF0e2wxV6vnr39LVDBfxYl4IfiAlUpHnXkrUD71YA96kF-E9S2v7CKLtypxGZoZ4HOEFCqU4YVb9B_FI7BRg3K0pHYupRXUqPF_jrSiVizhaa3Df8/s400/Giant-Coffee-Cup.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5508734769948912578" /></a><br />I'm with J on the revolting antics of the fast food industry these days. Fast food took quite a licking from <span style="font-style:italic;">Super Size Me</span> and <span style="font-style:italic;">Fast Food Nation</span>, and quickly adjusted their practices to provide "healthy" alternatives - salads, wraps, and the like. To counterbalance this, within the last few years they've also started marketing in the other direction: as if individual unhealthy foods are not enough, they now seem determined to take two or more foods that are unhealthy enough on their own and combine them for no good reason. What's better than cheesecake? What's better than a baked potato? A cheesecake baked potato!<br /><br />Meanwhile, McDonald's has been striving to compete with Starbucks by offering thinly-veiled copies of their signature coffee beverages. Now Starbucks is trying desperately to keep up with McDonald's. That's a little bit tragic. Maybe Starbucks was never the Meryl Streep of coffee shops, but it was no Megan Fox, either. It was nice that they didn't advertise. It was nice that they offered basically only espresso-based drinks. It was nice that they didn't aim for the lowest common denominator. In my eyes, Starbucks was always about comfort - a place where you could drink a delicious coffee beverage and read, meet with friends, or just take a nice relaxing break.<br /><br />Now, it might be best known as the place homeless people go to take a shit.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiOPPPLPepSNx3K93VCEVnfvn159dolBKXVObOo_EGGMOhvrHALdlEKOlBuYbmksXT1MJcxhCO-O51OeH6R5s-PhoaGTyOsR6dAjqq2fcgbDXacnV04nrKQgZwmXVmbPePLSLyOQmk5v3o/s1600/images-2.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 271px; height: 186px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiOPPPLPepSNx3K93VCEVnfvn159dolBKXVObOo_EGGMOhvrHALdlEKOlBuYbmksXT1MJcxhCO-O51OeH6R5s-PhoaGTyOsR6dAjqq2fcgbDXacnV04nrKQgZwmXVmbPePLSLyOQmk5v3o/s320/images-2.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5508739241945258818" /></a>Let me preface this by putting it right out in the open: I am a shameless Starbucks junkie. Well, that's not entirely true - I do have some shame. When I go out to eat, I will almost always pick a one-off hole in the wall type place, or at least something you wouldn't find in your average suburban shopping mall. No Cheesecake Factory or Olive Garden for me. And I eat fast food only in the event of an emergency, such as being very hungry, it being very late, and finding myself in a location that gives me few other options. I live in New York City, after all. If I want to eat something unhealthy, I can do much better than Burger King! This city is crawling with great burger places, some of them aspiring to be healthy, and many of them I believe use actual beef. How novel.<br /><br />However, when it comes to coffee, I generally choose Starbucks. I love a cute local cafe as much as the next cute local cafe-loving guy, but considering my needs, Starbucks just <span style="font-style:italic;">works</span>. You can find me sitting at a Starbucks for five or more hours at a time, writing my latest masterpiece (or this blog). I do this because if I write in a coffee shop, there are fewer distractions. Sure, there are kids running around screaming, wannabe actresses squawking about their newfound veganism, portly middle-aged men in suits barking into cell phones, pervy old men looking at pornography, and schizophrenics shouting about how doomsday is hidden inside the reduced fat cinnamon swirl coffee cake, but I find all of this strangely comforting. It's home to me, and it allows me to concentrate. Short of renting a short bus full of special needs children and buying them each a drum kit and a very young chimpanzee, there is simply no way to recreate this soothing Starbucks environment at home.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg690yGc-2e2hq_QqKGl7Qi6ALgIwWM7yxkMPHMM2V0xCPArPDaAkAb00ItxVY_rj1n-uvL89PxQIyet2274_v2ZBU_Xu6Ce71svuSiTh_3AN2F6m_hBhVtbvm5vm9-9jKi5K9dvgwBATY/s1600/images-6.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 174px; height: 289px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg690yGc-2e2hq_QqKGl7Qi6ALgIwWM7yxkMPHMM2V0xCPArPDaAkAb00ItxVY_rj1n-uvL89PxQIyet2274_v2ZBU_Xu6Ce71svuSiTh_3AN2F6m_hBhVtbvm5vm9-9jKi5K9dvgwBATY/s320/images-6.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5508738016840627474" /></a><br />Now, keep in mind I am <span style="font-style:italic;">not</span> one of those people who sit there for hours and don't buy anything. <span style="font-style:italic;">Au contraire</span>! I spend a pretty penny. If I'm there for more than a couple hours, I usually get two beverages and often a snack as well. (I have a weird tic: I can't work unless I have a beverage on hand. Damn you, mermaid bitch!) It's safe to say I'm an <span style="font-style:italic;">aficionado</span> (that's Spanish for "addict").<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiqc_-yYZjWFuL7OUhq8F6CCtjVIBP11Xq7jwkE_Te6GN_QXD3RpTbmIXCYvHsMY9RkXRdaW_-omk1RDzaQcaMINEO3bXWcBprNpw1cYCREvbQxvfdlCUxW7fmQh_C6XWoxaWVqt0O9wnw/s1600/images-3.jpg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 194px; height: 259px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiqc_-yYZjWFuL7OUhq8F6CCtjVIBP11Xq7jwkE_Te6GN_QXD3RpTbmIXCYvHsMY9RkXRdaW_-omk1RDzaQcaMINEO3bXWcBprNpw1cYCREvbQxvfdlCUxW7fmQh_C6XWoxaWVqt0O9wnw/s400/images-3.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5508739377219503186" /></a>Yes, I love my coffee. If I could, I would be drinking coffee at all times, no joke. If I have just finished a coffee and you offer me more coffee, I will always say, "Yes, more coffee, please." I enjoy coffee-flavored treats such as ice cream and tiramisu; if they ever made a coffee burrito, I'd certainly give it the old college try. In fact, there are certain foods I would <span style="font-style:italic;">only</span> try if I was told they were dusted with coffee. <br /><br />Sometimes I leave one coffee shop only to meet someone at another coffee shop. Do I get tea this time? No. I get more coffee. I am drinking coffee right now. The great thing about coffee is you can drink all you want, and you won't get fat - all that'll happen is you'll get an ulcer and your heart will explode. Some people pour a bundle of sugar or cream/milk into their coffee, adding calories and diluting the inherent coffee goodness. Not me. I like my coffee like I like my men: bitter, dark, and not returning my text messages. Which only makes me crave it all the more.<br /><br />But lest you worry about my health, rest assured: I also consume a lot of alcohol to counterbalance it, so by the end of the night I'm at a nice even keel.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi6_lQmZI3piHVKgboS7WfQ6NM6DV_g0Ozabs6qvSV236zS2ipFvDaBVehioUCxdQntWIzeZTRGG4qfD_NVTfM9_z8tA4pf2PDQOGa3njUDSGoitxYgHsOIcHA84Q5X2pvEgiuxuoYc4-o/s1600/images-4.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 189px; height: 267px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi6_lQmZI3piHVKgboS7WfQ6NM6DV_g0Ozabs6qvSV236zS2ipFvDaBVehioUCxdQntWIzeZTRGG4qfD_NVTfM9_z8tA4pf2PDQOGa3njUDSGoitxYgHsOIcHA84Q5X2pvEgiuxuoYc4-o/s320/images-4.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5508738005399107426" /></a><br />On my average visit to Starbucks, I already consume more than a trenta's worth, so I'm not sure what this new size will mean for me personally. I'll admit, sometimes I go to Dunkin' Donuts specifically for their large iced coffee, which I usually take home in a wheelbarrow. (It's not as strong as Starbucks' iced coffee, though, catering more specifically to the milk-and-sugar demographic. When I tell them I want it black, they look at me as if I've asked them to top it off with wolf semen.) Two ventis is about right for me. Throwing a trenta into the mix is just confusing. Do I get a trenta and a tall? A trenta and a venti? Two trentas and a Valium? I don't know! I suck at math! Especially in Italian. I know there are people out there who will <span style="font-style:italic;">order</span> a trenta, but does anybody really <span style="font-style:italic;">need</span> one? And, more importantly, will we be able to lift the cup without pulling a muscle? <a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjOS9LDMbhnsiK8WZEwsN5b6q48XIGh2F82XjpQLmC9OJ4bymqjClbIWEC6BR-WVTqDgFulXyZvLTT-_W5LwSwsX9xVB-wMJ4wFfGng89ZjfMQRFFFocy3zCIbuNz-Wmu0J4BGUXGpvUhU/s1600/IASTAcup_tony.jpg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 279px; height: 251px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjOS9LDMbhnsiK8WZEwsN5b6q48XIGh2F82XjpQLmC9OJ4bymqjClbIWEC6BR-WVTqDgFulXyZvLTT-_W5LwSwsX9xVB-wMJ4wFfGng89ZjfMQRFFFocy3zCIbuNz-Wmu0J4BGUXGpvUhU/s400/IASTAcup_tony.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5508737221570486610" /></a><br /><br />While I was initially excited about the idea of a trenta iced coffee - the same way I'd be excited about, say, a pet rottweiler trained to maul anyone who's prettier than me - I quickly came to my senses. It's a simple case of "be careful what you wish for." Because once you get what you wished for, the only thing left to wish for is more. And more, and more, and more. There's a reason we don't fulfill every one of our fleeting desires, and that's because after trenta, there's always quaranta, then cinquanta, then...centinaio? Pretty soon, Starbucks will eliminate the need for tables: we can just sit <span style="font-style:italic;">on</span> our coffee cups, so long as they are placed near an electrical outlet. Is there where we, as a society, are headed? I mean, seriously, what's next? Free defibrillators if you upgrade to a coffee hot tub? <span style="font-style:italic;">Twelve</span> rottweilers trained to maul anyone who's prettier than me? See, you have to draw the line somewhere.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj8J9UTsAbqn7i8mzUiwkq61V9V6SLAIFjC6NZeoXrxQwdCZcpZuZNcNrJIq4HJ-oUecNK1hTkF8JVmIYxpQoSBWlO8qoytnPrzeZ8NJxi60iJoaT30q69-GyzCH_t5qHLeQq98AXJaqsU/s1600/157374303v2_225x225_Front.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 225px; height: 225px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj8J9UTsAbqn7i8mzUiwkq61V9V6SLAIFjC6NZeoXrxQwdCZcpZuZNcNrJIq4HJ-oUecNK1hTkF8JVmIYxpQoSBWlO8qoytnPrzeZ8NJxi60iJoaT30q69-GyzCH_t5qHLeQq98AXJaqsU/s400/157374303v2_225x225_Front.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5508736676743826386" /></a>I do feel as if Starbucks has taken its eye off the ball, and that saddens me. I used to be special; now I'm like a teen prostitute from the Ukraine who might <span style="font-style:italic;">like</span> to leave her abusive pimp if she weren't dependent on him for heroin (or in my case, an iced venti americano - but same difference). They offer free wireless to <span style="font-style:italic;">everyone</span> now, which means even <span style="font-style:italic;">more</span> pervy old men can take up table space and outlets looking at internet porn. As if Starbucks weren't already packed before. And you know what, Starbucks? I don't really <span style="font-style:italic;">want</span> to share you with the people who would otherwise be going to McDonald's. Sure, they buy each of their seventeen children a $6 Frappuccino, and are probably the main reason why you are still in business. But let McDonald's have them. You have <span style="font-style:italic;">me</span>. Remember me? Your loyal Gold Card-carrying customer? <br /><br />Think of all the thousands of hours we spent together, laughing or crying in front of my computer screen, making other customers wonder why the fuck I'm not on medication. You make my heart race faster. You give my leg the jitters. You provide multiple outlets for me to plug into, often for hours at a time, and you're fine with that. One day, you will probably be the death of me, and I'm perfectly fine with that. Because I'm not living without you. My love for you used to be venti. I didn't think I could possibly love you any more, but it turns out I can. Now I love you <span style="font-style:italic;">trenta</span>. <br /><br />But darling? You really need to do something about all those strays using the bathroom. <br /><br />It's just not attractive.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgxtP02NKmd4iXlLThVetkXtk3PELsnFhy98X1BW1XaxyfMNP83aBc4B0hYj4gSmZcPoL32sY_Vi-gj2hE8KBgowGBNFXl9JZYxvsj4HCm6ieP3V9YU6FMH7zJJl7wZOIaeJspNrbtek4w/s1600/images-5.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 194px; height: 260px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgxtP02NKmd4iXlLThVetkXtk3PELsnFhy98X1BW1XaxyfMNP83aBc4B0hYj4gSmZcPoL32sY_Vi-gj2hE8KBgowGBNFXl9JZYxvsj4HCm6ieP3V9YU6FMH7zJJl7wZOIaeJspNrbtek4w/s320/images-5.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5508738009557739474" /></a><br /><br />Seven ounces better,<br /><br />X.X.http://www.blogger.com/profile/14845533891411766527noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6741858433334888054.post-83295646592991695652010-08-23T12:22:00.001-04:002010-08-23T13:01:05.088-04:00My Other Car is a Cup of Coffee<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj0mUlrnBXK_iRL81obUd9GCpHV-OWaSjF1EmqecwXF8BjGWawE5gZld9EjnX2vQmIQVaJAOhgwQaRs0W77W_0hKGVM1-10FTiAWk256xTikeYErXjT8WFS0LyYa917wjXyyE7bNHdmkLPf/s1600/1277419533-friendlys-grilled-cheese-burger-melt348wy062310.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj0mUlrnBXK_iRL81obUd9GCpHV-OWaSjF1EmqecwXF8BjGWawE5gZld9EjnX2vQmIQVaJAOhgwQaRs0W77W_0hKGVM1-10FTiAWk256xTikeYErXjT8WFS0LyYa917wjXyyE7bNHdmkLPf/s320/1277419533-friendlys-grilled-cheese-burger-melt348wy062310.jpg" /></a></div>Bigger is better, right?<br />
<br />
Sure it is!<br />
<br />
Especially when it comes to food and beverages. In a world of KFC Double Downs, IHOP <a href="http://www2.tbo.com/content/2010/apr/29/sp-ihops-cheesecake-pancakes-fatten-the-menu/news-money/">Cheesecake Stuffed Pancakes</a>, Friendlys <a href="http://consumerist.com/2010/06/friendlys-grilled-cheese-burger-melt-is-coming-for-your-arteries.html">Super Duper Pooper Burgermelt</a>, or Burger King's <a href="http://www.pmq.com/news/news.php?id=14347">5-whopper-burger pizza burger</a>, Americans are delivering a crystal clear message to the food and beverage industry:<br />
<br />
Our asses aren't big enough. (stop.) Our pants aren't tight enough. (stop.) And our arteries aren't clogged enough. (stop.) Please send more butter! (dies of heart attack).<br />
<br />
And the food and beverage industry is saying: "Oh yeah? More? Sure! To the laboratory!" From this dialogue, the innovation passing our faces and noses everyday is practically inspirational. Buns being replaced with hamburgers. Bacon being wrapped in bacon. Cakes being deep fried and served with liquid cake dipping sauce. It's like the fast food folks have been waiting for an excuse to serve a double pizza sandwich since their founding days. <br />
<br />
As someone who has always struggled with his weight in the face of NORMAL unhealthy food, this recent sexification of absurd Franken-fat food has me appalled. It's almost as if the years of egg whites only, watch your transfats, mind your carbs, up your fiber, watch your sodium has finally backfired. And Americans, who probably never lost weight eating french fries made in vegetable oil versus standard oil have decided that clearly all this healthy talk is just plain nonsense - and are embracing burger patties that are bigger than their already huge thighs.<br />
<br />
And our blog culture is fanning these fanny flames. Whatever fast food restaurant comes up with the most horrifying concoction of the month is guaranteed a ton of articles, some reaching as high as respectable print publications and even television. From this fame comes greater penetration to everyday people who aren't particularly searching out this information. Those people then NEED to try the horrorfood, whatever it may be. Whether to be funny, or because six chicken breasts in the ass of a fried pig actually sounds tempting. <br />
<br />
And then there are beverages.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgX0z8yHl8tuvoR3tWh1HnM-9x9JQvNyGqbgwIHDP4cg34-hbXt5tPYEBigZVmcP42XczlF446cYYc79_mUUvAJa15f_fr0XXa1uQKj5Ni55iJW_o1RgyOlbhYbp-xmxnwyVyhqwY0VBhI7/s1600/1282575889.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgX0z8yHl8tuvoR3tWh1HnM-9x9JQvNyGqbgwIHDP4cg34-hbXt5tPYEBigZVmcP42XczlF446cYYc79_mUUvAJa15f_fr0XXa1uQKj5Ni55iJW_o1RgyOlbhYbp-xmxnwyVyhqwY0VBhI7/s320/1282575889.jpg" /></a></div>Large cups of soda are nothing new: 7-11 has been converting horse troughs into drink containers and running out of similes for "Big Gulp" as they go. If something is available in a large cup, you can be sure that an extra large cup is a negligible amount of change more. At movie theaters, they have underpriced their 64-ounce soda so much that it is an affront to your intellect and economic sense to get anything smaller than the "aquarium-sized" option.<br />
<br />
And then McDonalds went ahead and bought one of the largest billboards just off of Times Square to advertise their gigantic $1 sweet tea. And a note to all of you: it's not blown up for the sake of the billboard, it's actually 440,000 gallons of sweet tea for $1.<br />
<br />
Bigger apparently means better. But the key is that it also now means cheaper. If you want organic, healthy food to better your body, you're shit out of luck in the wallet department. The healthier it is for you, the more it costs. However, if you're in the mood for something fried, drowning in cheese, and filled with more cheese... well, that'll cost less than a pack of gum!<br />
<br />
It's sad. It's scary. And it's making people fatter by the day. <br />
<br />
But there has always been one safe harbor in the corporate Food and Beverage industry: Starbucks. They held themselves above the fray. When trends went in one direction, they gladly sat back and remained the consistent voice of class in chain businesses that are all over the fucking place. When other places went around selling flavored coffee beans, Starbucks threw up their siren hands and said "nope, that results in poor quality beans. Won't do it." (Please note, they now do that too.)<br />
<br />
In fact, maybe it's NOT so surprising that Starbucks has caved once again. Years ago, when I worked for them, they said they would NEVER advertise. They now advertise everywhere. They said they would never push the brand into odd categories (please see: Starbucks ice cream, liqueur, and caramel macchiato flavored condoms and dental dams.)<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjJ6F36famxvYmCa-GR7A4H1MiK6K2D0rYa1W5uun0SdMvgcP50LDT2jydsqM7XX3Zjyth72h68nnRcU29N0ExwcoDXNYZxpRxzN9mL_kHcCjRPmoM9nn1eFYYS-LO-1O3UkxvJgQVGTgVD/s1600/43964_cheesecake-pancake.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjJ6F36famxvYmCa-GR7A4H1MiK6K2D0rYa1W5uun0SdMvgcP50LDT2jydsqM7XX3Zjyth72h68nnRcU29N0ExwcoDXNYZxpRxzN9mL_kHcCjRPmoM9nn1eFYYS-LO-1O3UkxvJgQVGTgVD/s320/43964_cheesecake-pancake.jpg" /></a></div>Anyway, clearly you know where I'm going with this. Apparently the 20/24 hot/iced ounces of the Venti beverages at Starbucks just ain't enough any more. Fat America doesn't like riding their segways or waddling back to the coffee place for a second Frappuccino. They want more to drink, and they want it all at once.<br />
<br />
Presenting: the <a href="http://content.usatoday.com/communities/ondeadline/post/2010/03/starbucks-test-markets-the-31-ounce-trenta-for-iced-tea-or-coffee/1">Trenta</a>. <br />
<br />
Sure it's 31 tasty ounces of iced coffee or tea. For now. Watch them start squashing cinnamon buns into these larger cups the second they realize there's an audience for it. Why, if they could find a way to turn a cup into frappuccino, and then fill it with a different frappuccino, topped off with a straw made from a caramel macchiato biscotti... you can bet they'd be selling that as soon as the technology allowed.<br />
<br />
But wait. Let me give Starbucks this much credit: their conservative jump of 11 hot ounces and 7 iced ounces is really not that horrifying. In fact, in a world where restaurants are trying to figure out how to fry lettuce and inject full hamburgers into salad dressing, this increase is sort of an anorexic blip. It is also a classy weight gain, which I credit to Starbucks' odd quasi-italian quasi-hippy branding police. It's not the Wham Slam Monster Cup. It's not the SUPER SIP. It's the <i>Trenta</i>. Which sounds cute and unassuming. Like Venti's slightly heftier sister.<br />
<br />
While it's not the worst thing to happen, it still isn't good. How far will it go? What will happen when people demand Trenta frappuccinos? Or Trenta breve iced lattes? Or ask that two Trentas be placed top-to-top, creating a drum-like vessel of 62 ounces? Also - what would it be called?<br />
<br />
But these concerns may not be all that important. Because, at the rate (and quality) we're eating these days, we may not be around to see next year anyway.<br />
<br />
It's time for lunch!<br />
- J.Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10996771273232767374noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6741858433334888054.post-57202669291901590962010-08-20T15:33:00.017-04:002010-08-20T20:09:17.179-04:00The Orphanage.<i>Every Friday is <b>Improv Friday</b> at <a href="http://saidpanties.blogspot.com/">Said Panties</a>. On Facebook, X and J take a poll of their friends for a topic (any topic) to write on. The most popular, ridiculous, or random is selected, and both X. and J must write about it. This week's topic, <b>Emerging Adulthood</b>, comes from <a href="http://www.facebook.com/#%21/profile.php?id=3211486&ref=ts">Erin Badillo.</a></i><br />
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg_-UPG6pR6y-lI8TAxHfSH1GRLPzNtep4YGopTzo0b1ReCjzAyQoFQ5FXFI9X5VZznu4sBoO-8dhYOerilm724Ufs2Ynm5LDnBX1ZC808QOcbP2_VHn1XS6wTBhuozmwZFka06ohWc1Bk/s1600/cribs_-_babies_in_orphanage.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5507624513760354610" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg_-UPG6pR6y-lI8TAxHfSH1GRLPzNtep4YGopTzo0b1ReCjzAyQoFQ5FXFI9X5VZznu4sBoO-8dhYOerilm724Ufs2Ynm5LDnBX1ZC808QOcbP2_VHn1XS6wTBhuozmwZFka06ohWc1Bk/s320/cribs_-_babies_in_orphanage.jpg" style="cursor: pointer; display: block; height: 240px; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; width: 320px;" /></a><br />
<br />
Wow. Where to start?<br />
<br />
Though today is the first time I've heard the term "emerging adulthood," I've been writing on this topic for years. Especially lately. Another blog of mine chronicles my move to New York and the ensuing struggles of looking for work, love, or sometimes just a cocktail to take the edge off for awhile. I have also co-written a TV pilot, based partially on that blog, about twentysomethings in New York City dealing with the same questions posed in this article. I have yet to move back in with my parents, but it's certainly been a possibility at time, and I've had to ask them for financial assistance more often than I'd like. I even began writing a song called "Kid" on my flight the other night, about growing up slower than your peers. <span style="font-style: italic;">"I see my friends having babies, but aren't we still kids?" </span>it asks. So it's funny to see an article come out a few days later that puts a sociological spin on what, to me, were very personal and internalized feelings. Basically, this article could not be any <span style="font-style: italic;">more </span>about me. They might as well have put my picture in it. <br />
<br />
Paging Dr. Arnett: you just found your poster child.<br />
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjTO29NI0itw3Qtl4GWgM37f0r-wCVn307JfV_VaaX0oY7-ClA-XdDs0sJNsciUasIndY9M_fRBKeho6BmOFmd193ni_JQlMhLtSPCa7XejfyGIARKLpc9QStxVfqm4Ynt2hqJ_YnGW2UI/s1600/images-1.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5507624922627669554" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjTO29NI0itw3Qtl4GWgM37f0r-wCVn307JfV_VaaX0oY7-ClA-XdDs0sJNsciUasIndY9M_fRBKeho6BmOFmd193ni_JQlMhLtSPCa7XejfyGIARKLpc9QStxVfqm4Ynt2hqJ_YnGW2UI/s400/images-1.jpg" style="cursor: pointer; float: left; height: 225px; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; width: 225px;" /></a>Prior to reading, I certainly knew there were other people encountering struggles similar to mine, and I too thought of it as a widespread problem facing our generation. I was surprised to find that there were people studying to this degree, however, and that some were considering it a whole newly-created stage of life with its own term. "Emerging adulthood." This idea is a lot more appealing than the gnawing questions eating away at us, like, "What's wrong with me? Why is this happening? Am I fundamentally broken? Or am I just stubborn and/or lazy?" <br />
<br />
I've certainly asked myself these questions in relation to why I'm nowhere near where I thought I'd be at this age. I don't think I'm lazy. I just don't see a lot of possibilities out there for at the moment. I'm educated, intelligent, and pretty capable in most environments. You could probably stick me behind a desk at just about any company and I'd be able to catch on pretty quickly. The trouble is, this is true of just about everyone at my age with my experiences. We've been raised to want to excel and be at our best, to not only meet expectations but exceed them. And then we are asked to take jobs that utilize not even half of our abilities, that require little of us besides a modicum of competence, or sometimes merely our physical presence. Many of these jobs pay less than what it takes to live comfortably, particularly in New York City. They may or may not offer benefits. They may or may not lead anywhere in terms of promotion or other opportunities. Strapped for cash, a lot of companies are offering internships to fulfill what was once a paid position. That's well and good, I guess, but then on whose dime are they living?<br />
<br />
Is this temporary? Just a result of a poor economy? Will it reverse itself in a couple years? I doubt it. These problems existed before the recession and will probably continue long after. In fact, it may get even worse: so many twentysomethings are going back to school now in lieu of work. What happens when they <span style="font-style: italic;">all</span> graduate with a master's (and thousands of dollars in the hole)? Entry-level jobs are going to be as low-paying and unfulfilling as ever, aren't they? Will we ever be able to turn this system around?<br />
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhityhSfZdAiK8uMepQgEcRZedRD47EN-Ik4DdlqMu8gsYJ5YnXiSYHo4a46HV9k6IeqzW_xpRUwcN-bdrMowiiYJFxHiZxnnoSmlgsbUbxhsTpUpgZwhMYJAZS30MQsFJ-8j5bi5CR-9o/s1600/daniel-clowes-new-yorker.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5507625106189763138" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhityhSfZdAiK8uMepQgEcRZedRD47EN-Ik4DdlqMu8gsYJ5YnXiSYHo4a46HV9k6IeqzW_xpRUwcN-bdrMowiiYJFxHiZxnnoSmlgsbUbxhsTpUpgZwhMYJAZS30MQsFJ-8j5bi5CR-9o/s400/daniel-clowes-new-yorker.jpg" style="cursor: pointer; float: right; height: 400px; margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; width: 293px;" /></a>The "emerging adulthood" theory suggests that a post-college period of gestation before true adulthood might be healthy for twentysomethings. This could very well be. I've certainly had one, whether I needed it or not. Should society to be more accepting of twentysomethings who need to take time to "find" themselves? Or is coddling them in this way dangerous? The biggest issue here is not time, but money. Where I grew up, it was generally accepted that families financially support their children through high school and contribute toward paying for college, if not pay for it altogether. And after that, you're on your own. Being financially dependent on your parents after college is still very much frowned upon due to that old model with jobs being readily available to college graduates. But the rules have changed - so, should the model? Should we as a society build in a way for twentysomethings to live that is not necessarily dependent on a career that renders them financially secure? Should families prepare to extend their fiscal support beyond the college years?<br />
<br />
I don't know. What I <span style="font-style: italic;">do</span> know is that the current system is failing a lot of people right now. Certainly not just twentysomethings, but as the article states, this is the defining moment in our lives. I particularly enjoyed the line about "feeling a little sorry for the young people who had the misfortune to come of age in a recession," because I am not above being pitied. What the article doesn't specifically acknowledge is that the problem may not be that we're just not ready to take on adult responsibilities yet - a lot of us are trying, and just failing at it. The problem is not that I don't know what I want to do with my life. I know exactly. The problem is that this knowledge does not correspond with the current realities available to me.<br />
<br />
Society is still structured for people to get married young, start a family, and follow a traditional career path. How do I know this? Because the people I know who have done this are having a much easier time of it than the rest of us. Good for them.<br />
<br />
But this just isn't possible for everyone. Regardless of whether or not we'd even want it if it was. Not everyone meets the love of their life at 23. Not everyone feels responsible and stable enough to raise a child at 25. And with the job market what it is right now, it's hard to make a living doing <span style="font-style: italic;">anything</span>, let alone get in on your desired career path. What's the alternative? Get on a path you don't want to be on? If you do, will you ever be able to get off? Or is that just...<span style="font-style: italic;">it</span>?<br />
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjIjANwXADeNm8TJG5aDTxSHJi1icP8bpwpHT-tLJ96W-Zo04iNh80-yBOLHm4Pi5MYHvXFfrjZGZzP4a5RfhkrdrwUOEkjNY7Dc7IoqmaAyv6qIRrVFKqNbAso3G2wGsvj3kPaWpakVyU/s1600/money-bucket-toilet.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5507625822129480658" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjIjANwXADeNm8TJG5aDTxSHJi1icP8bpwpHT-tLJ96W-Zo04iNh80-yBOLHm4Pi5MYHvXFfrjZGZzP4a5RfhkrdrwUOEkjNY7Dc7IoqmaAyv6qIRrVFKqNbAso3G2wGsvj3kPaWpakVyU/s400/money-bucket-toilet.jpg" style="cursor: pointer; float: left; height: 250px; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; width: 187px;" /></a>It's awfully trendy to blame the economy for every little grievance, from understaffing to overcharging to a hangnail. But you could probably make logical arguments as to why just about everything <span style="font-style: italic;">is</span> the economy's fault. "I've been so nervous about the economy I've been biting my nails - and now I have this hangnail!" See? I don't feel personally responsible for the recession, so why should I be punished for it? Why do the poor choices of people I've never met affect me at arguably the most crucial moment in my life? What happens now affects the entirety of my future, so I resent feeling like I had no say in the matter. How can I, just one small person, contend with such a huge force?<br />
<br />
Of course, every generation has something to contend with. "It's not <span style="font-style: italic;">my</span> fault Hitler decided to take over the world, boo-hoo." At least I haven't been shipped off to Vietnam. (Vietnam War-era Vietnam, that is. A government-sponsored trip to Vietnam <span style="font-style: italic;">now</span> might be kind of nice.) Whining about the recession, or any other such obstacle, doesn't do anything to change the circumstances. The economy might just be a scapegoat - who's to say I wouldn't have the same problems anyway? Then again, who's to say I wouldn't be rolling around naked in a giant pile of money right now at my summer home in Tuscany, if not for that pesky recession?<br />
<br />
Like many of my peers, I was an academic rockstar at early age. I was always one of the brightest in my class. Teachers always took note of me and liked me, not only because I did my work on time and correctly, but because of my creativity. In junior high one year I was voted "Most Creative" in the class. This greatly surprised me - not because I didn't think I <span style="font-style: italic;">was</span> the most creative, but because I didn't think anyone but me and a few of my friends knew about it. It was nice to be acknowledged.<br />
<br />
At some point in high school I realized there was a certain stigma against overachievers and decided it might be fun to be a slacker instead. Of course, my version of being a "slacker" still included doing all my work getting A's, but by procrastinating and appearing not to be as smart or dedicated as I was. This continued into college, where I could have excelled but chose instead to get by. I didn't mind doing minimal effort and getting a couple B's and C's in boring required classes, figuring I'd rather spend time outside of class enjoying my social life - something I never had much of in high school when I was too busy being a good student. <br />
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiyJ1bgvVKbWVtLVxJyBsqPpqnB4Nay63HRSTazE56vosk6lRrW2VRJaaEbdXG9THJj_rpOA-Q5UYLKRKv-MrjDQCzInbnpMNIzOSQwmRGN7tqMaufpdco0tu38qud62jZjOPYg8fGtlfo/s1600/images.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5507626005604865186" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiyJ1bgvVKbWVtLVxJyBsqPpqnB4Nay63HRSTazE56vosk6lRrW2VRJaaEbdXG9THJj_rpOA-Q5UYLKRKv-MrjDQCzInbnpMNIzOSQwmRGN7tqMaufpdco0tu38qud62jZjOPYg8fGtlfo/s400/images.jpg" style="cursor: pointer; float: right; height: 284px; margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; width: 178px;" /></a>Throughout this, I was always told how smart and talented I was. Did I let this go to my head? Of course. I followed the plan that was set out for me and then expected that plan to actually <span style="font-style: italic;">work</span>. Silly me! Of course no one knew we'd be facing hard economic times when we were being raised. It was the Reagan era, for Christ's sake. Still, it feels a little unfair that we raised to believe something that, once we grew up, was no longer true anymore. "Get good grades, go to college, and you'll be able to get a job, make enough money to live on, and win at life!" It <span style="font-style: italic;">seemed</span> like a natural progression. Most of us succeeded at the "get good grades" and "go to college" part, but by the time an entire generation had been raised to accomplish the same goals, there were simply too many of us. A bachelor's degree doesn't do a whole lot for you anymore. <br />
<br />
Now most of us are too smart and qualified for the jobs that are actually available to us (if we are so lucky to have any). Most of us would probably be better at running companies than we are at answering phones or making copies or whatever they have us doing, because that's how we were trained to think. As leaders, not followers. As people who thrive, not those who just get by. Our parents are not really prepared to support us financially though these hard times, and even their emotional support can be limited. They're used to the old model; they, too, thought that if we just went to college, we'd turn out all right. In this way, coming out into adulthood right now feels a bit like being orphaned. We've been abandoned - if not by our parents, than by our government, our educational institutions...the system itself. A hard-knock life indeed. Where do we turn for help?<br />
<br />
Of course, there are plenty of exceptions. I know people who are happy and secure in their jobs, who are making enough money to live on, and who are reasonably happy with where they've landed. They haven't needed their "emerging adulthood" period. Maybe the difference between them and those who do is simply the opportunities available to us. <br />
<br />
Maybe that's when we're ready. When we meet the right person, we're ready to settle down. When we're offered the right job, we're ready to start our career. There's only a certain extent to which you can pursue these things, and after that, it's dumb luck.<br />
<br />
Though I do feel unfortunate to be where I am in the current economic climate, I am also grateful that I am still able to survive. I have family and friends to support me. I'm not homeless, dirty, and smoking crack on the subway, like the guy on the 6 train last night. I'm not just standing in the street shamelessly pissing in broad daylight, like the man I saw walking home today. <br />
<br />
<span style="font-style: italic;">These</span> are people with problems. I wonder if there's a term for it? Let's call it "receding adulthood."<br />
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj2oAQE1PmkJzWgMkWSXKWf7NUdBHxxDfLewF5BCzTjFEiXYK4KhVsV3BtqPjk7y8GDwVKzia9eor0bcvZuNDiYUCL9D1bpc-jpQBXH4zZ43J9C_KjwsmOkvb1jdnE7jJkuFQ10a02XCE8/s1600/images-2.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5507624706496703202" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj2oAQE1PmkJzWgMkWSXKWf7NUdBHxxDfLewF5BCzTjFEiXYK4KhVsV3BtqPjk7y8GDwVKzia9eor0bcvZuNDiYUCL9D1bpc-jpQBXH4zZ43J9C_KjwsmOkvb1jdnE7jJkuFQ10a02XCE8/s400/images-2.jpg" style="cursor: pointer; display: block; height: 275px; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; width: 183px;" /></a><br />
<br />
Kicked instead of kissed,<br />
<br />
X.X.http://www.blogger.com/profile/14845533891411766527noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6741858433334888054.post-20913687651989466382010-08-20T12:12:00.001-04:002010-08-20T20:09:05.282-04:00You Can ALWAYS Go Home<i>Every Friday is <b>Improv Friday</b> at <a href="http://saidpanties.blogspot.com/">Said Panties</a>. On Facebook, X and J take a poll of their friends for a topic (any topic) to write on. The most popular, ridiculous, or random is selected, and both X. and J must write about it. This week's topic, <b>Emerging Adulthood</b>, comes from <a href="http://www.facebook.com/#%21/profile.php?id=3211486&ref=ts">Erin Badillo.</a></i><br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiKDw5hnWLlLsPkV7MAWP_qKXaSoraa743d4ejZx687qm_xfuVAzPys6DUYJIrTAsK9cDXeGYMVtnp_vM5XXo1tpSDbD38cRja3xTdBKmS3agCcjZH27hFXYlGan5rnKIkjDclz0NTan_m4/s1600/american_idiot.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiKDw5hnWLlLsPkV7MAWP_qKXaSoraa743d4ejZx687qm_xfuVAzPys6DUYJIrTAsK9cDXeGYMVtnp_vM5XXo1tpSDbD38cRja3xTdBKmS3agCcjZH27hFXYlGan5rnKIkjDclz0NTan_m4/s320/american_idiot.jpg" /></a></div>When American Idiot hit Broadway earlier this year, it caused quite a stir. The 90-minute non-stop orgy of screeching metal and screeching pre-teens brought the crowds in droves, promising them nothing but anger, Green Day, and a long corridor of black-painted walls where you and your friends could inscribe your initials.<br />
<br />
<i><br />
</i><br />
This wasn't enough, apparently, for my boyfriend or many of his critical theater-loving friends. "They don't DO anything!" Joey complained. "The story, when you condense it, is a bunch of 20-somethings who sit around, impregnate their girlfriends, drive to another town, don't start a band, and almost end up dying from drug use."<br />
<br />
A slim plot, sure. But it also appears to be based on a large measure of truth. In this week's New York Times, an article <a href="http://www.nytimes.com/2010/08/22/magazine/22Adulthood-t.html?_r=3&hp=&pagewanted=all">gives voice to a generation that is yet to be recognized by the other generations surrounding it</a>. They're not quite kids, they're not quite adults, and they're not quite doing anything besides moving back home with their parents, working minimum wage jobs (if even that), and not getting married or having kids.<br />
<br />
The term for this could be considered "Malaise" which was elevated to popularity by President Carter, according to Wikipedia. I don't like this word, mostly because it sounds like "mayonnaise". It should be known that I like mayonnaise as a condiment, but I hate the word itself. It makes me nauseous. Either way, "Malaise" can mean stagnant. Which is what these not-quite-kids, not-quite-adults are often viewed as.<br />
<br />
The "old guard" (people who double-click the "send" button on their email) take great issue with these non-starting upstarts. Why, in their age, they had to walk uphill both ways to an uphill factory where they had to walk uphill all day, and they were paid in more hills they had to walk up. They were married at 21 and hating their spouses by 23. Since then, they have been divorced, or have silently snuggled into their simmering hatred of their significant others.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiJz2GO5TILpO1JKUDEpvEy0vf5pgL5XfS_DQegftt0IQoJD5YlQp8SOACAhq0K8_vgPcvhxOtWHe9LEGUapvTM-UDrw-8Yojc6twQ13B9L_JpoIsTYDhXKxDTXQOUAnfYPyd8eEsJsDxiN/s1600/old-couple.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiJz2GO5TILpO1JKUDEpvEy0vf5pgL5XfS_DQegftt0IQoJD5YlQp8SOACAhq0K8_vgPcvhxOtWHe9LEGUapvTM-UDrw-8Yojc6twQ13B9L_JpoIsTYDhXKxDTXQOUAnfYPyd8eEsJsDxiN/s320/old-couple.jpg" /></a></div><br />
Why, they must wonder, does this generation get to take their time? <br />
<br />
And this isn't even just our grandparents' generation. It's as recent as our parents'. The other week, my Mom reminded me that she had been married, divorced, and re-married by my age. Between the comparison, and realizing that Ma has been married three times in my life, it was a very cathartic day.<br />
<br />
I can't even imagine being married right now. And getting ready to have children and/or having them already? I can't even decide if I want to keep NetFlix when they ask me to renew at the end of the month. I break out in hives when people ask me if I want to take a trip to New Jersey in three weekends. <br />
<br />
What am I doing with myself? I wondered.<br />
<br />
Once upon a time, by my age, you were indeed married. With number-point-number something kids. You had a house. You had pets. And a job you would work in until you retired with a gold watch, or died and they sent your bereaved spouse a ham. But now? Well, it's not so cut and dry. People are getting married later. Having babies later. Getting jobs later. It's the Choose Your Own Adventure method of life: Hmm, maybe I'll change schools! This job sucks, I'll just quit and start my own company! Hmm, this guy I'm dating is great, but so is that guy... we ALL should date!<br />
<br />
But others, still, may view this as paralysis. As someone with a good job and a nice apartment in a good neighborhood, I cannot truly speak to this anomaly.<br />
<br />
My current life situation, of course, all goes back to my lovely mother. From the moment I emerged from her womb, Mom has kept me chugging on a steady diet of fear and worry about how my life will end up. And rightfully so! When my father left her with my brother and I to care for, she faced some of the hardest financial times one could possibly experience. A situation like that would damage anyone. But still, she was pretty generous with those spoonfuls of terror. <br />
<br />
According to my Mom's doomsayer prophecies, waiting for me on the other side of college were potential homelessness, death, poverty, and public shame. I couldn't only major in theater, I had to double it with something "practical". And, looking at myself at my creative/strategic communications-based job and remembering how I could care less about being in theater any longer, I thank her for this now. I needed to make sure to have a job. I needed to save money from the day I started making any. Or I would be poor and on the street, and dying from something.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjdrsb7TVJb-Iz1LzKLbXudJF2SRZtoAqn4rv1j_v7u_yVT-OizinsctlU0DF6MSj7Eljk_ydVLUW_LYBklK45fs-Y7juYBcwiL43tfHEmIoVd8jzT-ZH6YOk7NNoB7WUd7zAx8VwLC2ZEW/s1600/homeless.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjdrsb7TVJb-Iz1LzKLbXudJF2SRZtoAqn4rv1j_v7u_yVT-OizinsctlU0DF6MSj7Eljk_ydVLUW_LYBklK45fs-Y7juYBcwiL43tfHEmIoVd8jzT-ZH6YOk7NNoB7WUd7zAx8VwLC2ZEW/s320/homeless.jpg" /></a></div><br />
She also succeeded at putting me where I am with a nice dose of motherly force. When I moved home after college, Mom began to charge me rent. It was when I added up the monthly rent, as well as car insurance, monthly train-to-NYC tickets, gas and all of that that I realized moving to New York City would actually be friendlier on my wallet than staying put.<br />
<br />
I am thankful for this, of course. It's nice to feel like I am on a path, even though I have no interest in committing to said path, or even figuring out where the path leads in the coming years. <br />
<br />
As for this "new generation" of "loafers", to you I say "loaf on!" If you have the means to sit on that pot without shitting for a period of time, why, pick up a copy of the New York Times and read it from cover to cover. If you can have cake and eat the fuck out of it, then snack until you're bloated. But appreciate your fortune: be it a rent free basement, a steady source of cash you didn't earn, or whatever. And realize that it isn't eternal.<br />
<br />
From the Boulevard of Broken Dreams,<br />
J/BAnonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10996771273232767374noreply@blogger.com0