2008: Year Wrap-Up

As the candlelight dwindles from our menorahs, the soft glow of our christmas lights begin to fade, and the snow begins to slush and melt into a new year, let us reflect upon the things that brought us joy and anger.


1) The late '80's Cannes interview of John Lurie, subsumed in a post coke-binge morning haze, featured on the Criterion DVD of "Down By Law", with commentary.

I hate to start with something that is un-youtube-able, but it is so worth your time and effort that it deserves to be mentioned, despite not having an instantly gratifying clip available on the internet. In it, John Lurie delivers a bravura interview performance, ostensibly in the backyard of a yurt compound during the Cannes film festival in France. Cocaine is all but spilling out of his eye sockets and giving the off-camera interviewer a severe case of the uncomfortables. What makes the video particularly remarkable is the overlaid commentary, done by Lurie 20 years later, where he pontificates on his wild-eyed demeanor and self-aggrandizing statements. Utterly fascinating and hilarious.

2) My new favorite blog, everthingisterrible.com

If my internet were up to 2009 standard, it would understand how to embed videos, which as you can clearly see, is not my modus operandi. If it were, however, I would have embedded a hilarious video of magicians attempting to woo women through the powers of magic from everythingisterrible.com. The site, a blog of bargain-basement video tape segments shown sans context, however, manages to succeed in being up to speed with the latest online video technologies, so go check it out.

3) Finding money everywhere.

In my coat pockets! In my sock drawer! Underneath a frisbee! Where, o where, art thou, money? Everywhere, that's where. This truly was the year of finding cash when I expected it the least and needed it the most. Thank you, Money Jesus.

4) The movie In Bruges.

Woah, and this totally got nommed for a couple Golden Globes (although so did Mamma Mia, but I can't hate on ABBA!). It's really awesome and full of Collin Farrell acting hilariously fidgety and swearing a lot and has lot's of midget humor. Should easily win the Academy award for best Midget.

5) Getting platonic backrubs

Feels so good.

6) Snowgaddeon: Artic I-Death-arod and the return of Frostilicus.

Nothing was more fun than having an extended snow day for what seemed like an Alaskan winter. Nothing except for maybe the non-stop, boy-who-cried-wolf media hysteria and watching reporters freeze their asses off for the ratings bonanza. Top-shelf, Peabody germalism right there.

7) The economic collapse making me feel less like a factotum and more like a victim of society.

Over the last 2 years, I've gone through a lot of bunk jobs and career dead-ends. Before, I had nothing to blame but myself and a poor choice of college major. Now, with the economic avalanche befalling us, I have the perfect scapegoat other than my own lazy genetics.

8) Tea!

This was the year of falling in love with (noncaffienated) tea all over again (there's that phrase, yeesh). Be it the phonetic chutzpah of Pekoe or Oolong, the refreshing snap of mint, or whatever other flavors I can steal from my roommates, tea is the perfect beverage anytime of day (or night!). Just call me Mr. Tea.

FlyLo BBC essential mix

So apparently there's this shit at BBC called essential mixes by popular djs. They're pretty long, so you have to be prepared for the ride, but they're all pretty good. Only problem is ol' BBC's lawyers don't think they're archive-legit, so you kinda gotta scour the netz if you want to find 'em.

Flying Lotus did one that I think is particularly Ill. Where could you find it? Well. It's probably somewhere out there.

Pushing the shit

Sometimes I wonder who will carry the producer torch now that Timbaland has sorta lost the midas touch and slowed down on pushing every sound and beat 25 years into the future like quincy jones on acid (sorry, i just lost the capitalizing function on my keyboard, but, like they say, the post must go on!)

anyway, i think this shit iz titeeeeee. ron browz hasn't really entered my radar, but he is kinda taking that torch and running like a motherfucker with it.

check it.

Music: Best o' the Year

I figured since Uncut, Mojo, Paste, Blender, Q, and probably some obscure Balinesian monthly have already put up their top albums of the year, I should probably do it too, before someone accuses me of just copying Pitchfork or something like that.

Here.....dadadadadada.....itttttt....dadadadadada.....is!:

1) Vampire Weekend-S/T

Woah. It's like totally overhyped, but whatever. It still kicks a lot of ass; you can't go wrong with songs about idealized nostalgia and dormitory lawns. You just can't.

2) Starfucker- S/T

Yah Portland! You did it again, uh uh, you did it again. This CD will make you gaze at the stars and fall in love all over again, and maybe even make you want to eff them like the band.

3) Of Montreal- Skeletal Lamping

Who would have thought the follow up to pretty much the best album last year would be just as good and twice as sexual?

4) Sigur Rós- Með suð í eyrum við spilum endalaust

I think this album didn't get due props because of its weirdo title that looks like the default script when we fill in unknown text at the magazine (quorum delorum et tu brute, etc.). It's good and fun and kinda makes you fall in love with Sigur Ros all over again (I really like falling in love, especially again, okay?)

5) No Age- Nouns

I was really really into this album for a solid 2 weeks. I played it all day and night, and even slept with it playing on my laptop under my covers. It's drunkish and scuzzy and passionate and about as lo-fi as I can tolerate, but still, it's music to my eardrums.

6) Fuck Buttons- Street Horrsing

Damn, this shit is good too. At first it's like tribal drum beats and shit, and then BLAAMMMMMMM, it's like a WWIII air-assault of thick-ass distortion and screaming into a playschool recorder and, well, it pretty much rules when you're driving to your job you hate and you want to beat heavily on your steering wheel.

7) Dodos- Visiter

Drums and acoustic guitar. Sounds boring, but these lads make the texture of their sound sad and sweet without going overboard into melancholy emo territory. Reminds me of the direction Death Cab for Cutie should have taken.

8) M83- Saturday's=Youth

You gotta love the French. The gave us Daft Punk, Justice, Baguettes, Parcour, and the Enlightenment. If you like that country or the band Air, you should probably listen to this.

9) Fleet Foxes- S/T

I honestly haven't fully gotten into this album, but I know its really good and probably belongs on everyone's top ten lists. And they're from Seattle! Go NW!

10) TV on the Radio- Dear Science

Same with this one. It's really great, but I haven't been excited to listen to it over and over again. Does that make me a bad person? Oh well, you should all listen to it, if anything to hear how far their production has come since Cookie Mountain.



Well. Regardless of what I say on this list, or how lackadaisical it seems to have been thrown together, you really should listen to everything on here.

Bush is Cool again

Ice Cold

Bush has unveiled his list of presidential pardons before he bows out of an historic 8-year clusterfuck of lies, smarminess, and horribleness, and it's particularly noteworthy for not only being rather brief, but including a rapper.

The rapper in question is John Forte, who has done some collaboration with the Fugees among others. He was busted for cocaine and received some rather harsh sentencing under the current mandatory minimums that are being hotly contested right now, and now, thanks to Cool Daddy Bush, he is free.

I have no reasonable idea what was behind the decision for Bush to release him, other than maybe it makes him look Cool. I'm guessing he asked one of his Presidential Pages if they knew any Cool black people in jail for something stupid and quickly signed off on it. But what's even more Cool? He's not pardoning Scooter Libby, that one dude that was part of his circle and had a funny name and did something that was bad. Right now, Bush is so Cool, Steven King should retroactively add him to his "What's Cool" list.

Oh, I just found out this guy is much cooler.

The Wrestler

Merriam Webster's definition of Lug

Mickey Rourke may just be the ugliest most loveable but also despicable leading man in all of Hollywood. When appearing in a movie, he mostly looks like a living version of Nick Nolte's DUI mug shot, and when appearing in real life, he pretty much looks the same but occasionally wearing a suit. On top of his battered, craggy looks, he has a pretty long list of eff ups, from teenage arrests to spousal abuse to DUIs--a quintessential ciriculum vitae for any ex-bodybuilder/boxer cum movieman.

He's kinda good in some stuff, but mostly stellar when playing someone close to himself; you know, washed-up, damaged, slightly hung-over and fucking ugly. He did this to a TEE in Bukowski's roman a clef Barfly as Henry Chinaski and is probably going to pull out the performance of his life in this thing that you probably should watch right here.

So this movie, The Wrestler, is directed by Daron Aronofsky, who seems to be taking a big departure from paranoid mathematicians and fractured existential parables with floating trees to settle down with a good ol' fashioned underdog story. I can see why he may have been attracted to the idea of making it, since The Fountain kinda made everyone's brain melt a bit too much and got half-boournsed at Cannes: he needed to win us, and everyone else in the industry, back over again. I also think this is all so he can get everyone on his side one more time before he unveils some even weirder shit, like an entire movie that takes place inside the vocoder-chip of Steven Hawking and is shot using an infrared lens that warps on contact with sound waves.

Here's the trailer

A heartwarming tale of the apocalypse

For your book club

Brothers

It always interests me when you find out two people are siblings when you don't initially make the connection. For example, it wasn't until the end of high school I realized Emilio Estevez was brothers with Charlie Sheen; he had decided to not align himself with his brother's Hollywood surname, thus keeping himself nicely protected from being associated with his success, fame, and collection of STDs.

In the news today, Rahm Emanuel was named Barack Obama's Chief of Staff. Turns out this guy is brother of noted Hollywood superagent and inspiration for Entourage's Ari Gold, Ari Emanuel. As much as I am looking forward to a change in the White House, I'm a little weary of the linkage. I mean, Ari Emanuel represents Mark Wahlberg! Imagine what the Lincoln bedroom would look like. Boogie Nights every day, I tells ya.

Anyway, this whole post was just an excuse to list a few other siblings you might not be aware of:

Kanye West's DJ A-trak and the Chubby dude from Chromeo

The dude who played Hyde on That 70s Show and the dude who plays Francis on Malcolm in the Middle

Joaquin Phoenix (who is quitting acting and launching his music career. Woo hoo!) and River Phoenix who is brother to Summer Phoenix who is married to Casey Affleck who is brother to Ben Affleck who is married Jennifer Garner who is daughter to James Garner (psyche!)

The Pre-election Buzz

It's getting pretty exciting right now. I can't quite put my finger on it, but I think it has a lot to do with a real hope that the fucking United States and, in turn, the fucking world will change. I think a lot of us have been waiting for this moment for a long time and its quite surreal that it has finally arrived. I really can't say for certain how well whomever makes it into office is going to do, but I think we can all agree that it is an extreme relief that there will be some sort of dramatic shift in the next few years.

In less urgent news, Mr. David Duchony, my eternal doppleganger and Halloween costume this year, has hinted at plans to reconcile with his wife, Tea Leoni.

I ask: If a sex addict can reform his evil Hollywood ways, what better portent is there for the impending change that is to come?

New MacBooks

New MacBooks are up on the Apple site. I may be incredibly late with this one, but it interests me because I used to work at a Mac Store and stuff like this was pretty much all we talked about. Now I could kinda care less, but it still looks pretty spiffy. It's also good to know the one I currently have isn't completely trash-and-burn obsolete, since they are still selling them at a nominally discounted price.

Hello, I will turn you into a new person

Other than the larger track pad and the solid aluminium casing, it seems like the only major upgrades are 2 gigs of RAM in the base model and a slight hard drive bump.

Oh, and apparently it's the "Greenest" MacBook yet. I'm not sure if that means you can bury it in your compost heap once its screen goes out or if it's using signicantly less power, but it kinda makes me gag when every product from Tampons to Televisions claim to be "greener than ever".

Stoked for this one...

Beatles Rock Band game

So this is why Ringo won't sign his fan mail anymore: he's too busy weighing in to Harmonix on how to properly code his drum fills!

The Death Rattle of Old Media

So, in case you haven't heard, newspapers and magazines are dying. Most of this has to do with the internet (I'd like to think my blog may have had some small part in dismantling these titans), and some of it has to do with the managers of these institutions not quite catching up with this phenomenon and failing to harness its power and innovate enough. There are a few survivors of the news apocalypse, of course, like the Wall Street Journal, and maybe the AARP gazette, but for the most part if you're young and hip, information is about the last thing you can imagine shelling out money for and anyone that reports news you care about is not able to put food on its table because of that.

With budgetary and editorial slashes galore, the biggest fear circulating around is that the quality of good investigative journalism will take a depressing nose-dive, and the information that floats the internet will be nothing more than an unbridled clusterfuck of rumors and slander. The NY Times, also one of the big-boys claiming to be running on fumes, has a pretty okay article on the current state of print media here.

I think this is partially true and partially perpetuated by the same people who don't quite have a grasp on where we are headed with all of this. My roommate once put it very well when he said "I trust Google more than Government", a kind of nice alliterative axiom that sums up a lot of things. While I don't totally believe in the power of a search engine over expert opinion, its pretty clear the ability to verify information has become easier than ever. Unfortunately, with this ease of validation comes the fact the everybody on the internet may be citing the same faulty source; but, if you look at certain stats on the speed that a Wikipedia page gets scrubbed when something erroneous is reported, or the lightning quickness of the backwards B story being debunked, it gives you a certain pride in the power of peoples curiosity and desire for truth.

While I have a certain faith in this invisible hand, it is only to a certain extent. It seems to only work with pop culture and other certain ephemera, which doesn't cover things that truly matter like corruption, fraud, and political fuckery. These are the things investigative reporters thrived on and tenaciously pursued; partly out of the desire to uncover the truth and partly out of the idea that they would make a name for themselves and become the next Carl Bernstein and Bob Woodward. With the elimination of the resources for this type of reporting, it gives me the howling fantods that the 4th estate isn't watching the other three, and we may be in for a lot of unreported and unknown shady dealings in the future. Criminals will always adapt to societies shortcomings, and this is a huge one.

Anyway, if you want to get more depressed, watch The Wire creator David Simon interviewed on Charlie Rose and read his article he wrote on his days working at the Sun. It offers a fascinatingly grim assessment of how we got here and where we may go. Then, if you think you can still take it, watch Tom Wolfe explain what he thinks here.

Merry Pranksters to get the Van Sant Treatment

Okay, I know I update this thing about as frequently as I cook a dinner for myself where the primary ingredients aren't cheese and pasta, but I thought this was noteworthy (I'm putting a ban on the word blogworthy for now, and I hope everyone else will do the same).

It looks like Gus Van Sant has signed on to adapt Tom Wolfe's novel The Electric Koolaid Acid Test, which is something I'm very curious to see take shape. For those not hip to the Portland scene, it's little wonder Van Sant took this on; Wolfe's novel follows the exploits of local OSU alum and outsider Ken Kesey and his posse of goggy drugsters across America, and if there is anything Van Sant is drawn to, it's tales of woebegone misfits and the Oregon region.

For me, Van Sant has been hit or miss, with the hit category mostly comprised of well-accepted, uncontroversial entries: hated Drug Store Cowboy, loved Finding Forrester and Goodwill Hunting, hated Elephant, and kinda turned off on what I heard about Gerry, Last Days, and Paranoid Park (I'm not a fan of "wandering around" movies, movies that really try to subvert the biopic trope, and movies that think using an entire cast of non-actors is a good idea). Fortunately, the material is pretty insane and its about a period of history that I always romanticize as being one of the most exciting times to live in (even more exciting than the internet age, can you believe?)

Speaking of Gus Van Sant, his new flick Milk is coming out soon (or has already come out in various markets), which makes me want to track down the documentary The Times of Harvey Milk, which was recommended to me by a criminology professor at WWU mainly for the end (spoiler!) where the assassin of Milk claims what is now famously referred to as the "Twinkie Defense", or that the amount of sugar in his blood-stream was responsible for his violent act.

Finally, as a cap to this, you can check out Rolling Stone's pretty informative piece on the last days of David Foster Wallace, an incredibly talented writer who hanged himself recently. It gives a pretty good idea of what made him tick, and delves into his personal life and history a little more in depth than most other eulogies have done. Even if you haven't heard or read him, or if you have and have been inundated with enough retrospectives to fill a book with, give it a look.

Get swept up in The Bug mania

I don't know why, but I get excited every time a music video employs large speakers as weapons of pacifistic resistance. I also get very excited when sexy, militantly-dressed dancers are digitized and pixel-warped to dubstep beats. Look:

Radiohead: Auburn, Washington

Image Courtesy of Stephane

Radiohead are one of those artists that have achieved such a pinnacle of critical and commercial success, it is difficult to not attend their concerts without the highest of expectations. The atmosphere of the White River Ampitheater was thick with this expectation, as well, as this was their only appearance in the Northwest, and many attendees including myself had made quite a trek to see the diminuitive Thom Yorke and his merry band perform.

The opening act Liars, creators of my favorite album of 2006 Drum's Not Dead and the critically-acclaimed self-titled follow-up album, took the stage early with about a tenth of the venue's capacity filled. Despite the lack of audience present, they delivered a swift and energetic set, performing tracks mostly off of Drum and earlier albums. They closed out their set with a raucous version of "Plaster Casts of Everything", which amped up the slowly filling-in crowd for the headliners for the evening.

Radiohead took the stage around 9 p.m., just as the sun was fading over the horizon, backed by a hi-tech luminescent display of light-ropes and video monitors. As predicted by my friend, they launched with the opening track, 15 step, from In Rainbows, which immediately got the entire crowd to their feet. As the concert continued, they covered the entire Rainbows album, oddly with the exception of their latest single "House of Cards", and much of the rest of their pantheon. As the evening went on and people layered and zipped-up for intermittent rain, Yorke made subdued small-talk with the audience and, at one point, requested to shine a light on all of those huddled far out in lawn seating.

Even though it was a quintessential Northwest night, by no means were the performance or presentation chilly and gray. For those of us barely able to make out the bobble-headed Yorke, the light-and-video show were the real performers, certainly setting a very high standard for the future of concert visuals. Each song had a distinct tone and color-scheme, transitioning from warm oranges to icy blues to rich pinks. The large video displays flanking the stage and behind the band added a very exciting texture to the performance, as well; featuring a professional-appearing and intensly remixed visual medley of the livc show, it will be little surprise if what we saw on screen makes it into a live DVD or music video.

After coming out for a second encore, Radiohead left the stage with a droning analog signal and the word "Everything" rapidly scanning across the light-ropes. For most fans, this is an apt conclusion to a show by one of the biggest and best bands of the new century: a sense of foreboding and a call of responsibility to our generation.

Blog War: Cut-Offs

Cut-offs, despite having a slightly negative sounding name like these guys , are the greatest reusable fashion statement to come along since thrift-store clothing. Cut-offs can be sexy, natty, or casual, and completely alterable to any of these styles simply with the provision of a cutting object. Although, for some, creating them may seem like a complicated and stressful task, one can create a pair with little more than:

1) An unwanted pair of jeans (or slacks) in need of repurposing

2) Scissors (krinkle-kut for maximum style points)

Also helpful are a bottle of malt-liquor for the courage to eviscerate a pair of pants beyond repair; a surveyor's level to ensure maximum evenness; a slightly self-destructive sentiment; and a box of milk duds for chewing pleasure. With these possessions and the right amount of determination, one can create a work of denim art.

The beauty of cut-offs lie not only in their aesthetics, but in the pure creative control afforded to the wearer: you are the designer, tailor, and, ultimately, the consumer. Some people, however, may pooh-pooh cut-offs for these exact reasons; they are afraid of their own taste in fashion and do not have the self-confidence to take the risk and wish for someone else, like a big denim corporation, to tell them what the appropriate length and style is. It is understandable that these naysayers don't like cut-offs, however, because they are in all likelihood at a very difficult stage in their life where they are not sure whether to dress hip and sexy or aspire to the fashions of this chick.

At other times, you may encounter people who are so anti cut-offs they may request you change out of them because they have a frayed hemline, look unprofessional, and are scaring away customers from your computer store. A quick fix would be to simply roll-up or staple the cuffs of your cut-offs. But, an even quicker solution would be to altogether ignore the anti cut-off person and glaring customers, finish your online crossword, and give your 2-week-notice immediately. This way, you will not be selling out your values of reusability and sustainability, and you will be also have a reason to leave a job you secretly loathe.

Cut-offs are an affordable, fashionable, and creative way to express yourself in a pants-less style. Some may tell you capris or cargo shorts are the way to go for the summer; if only they knew the ease and satisfaction of creating a pair of cut-offs, we may one day live in a truly pants-free and fashion-sustainable society.

Blog War: Milk Duds

Ever since our nation developed an insatiable sweet-tooth, candy companies have been conjuring delectable confections to help ease the pain inflicted upon our taste buds by broccoli, vitamins, and fluoridated water. Noted chocolateer and midget-collector Willy Wonka put it best: We are the music makers, and we are the dreamers of the dreams. Looking back at American candy history, our collective dream was to create the most delicious food ever conceivable no matter what the cost. Simply put, the only thing stopping from achieving our candied-goals is our own imaginations. And, to a lesser extent, obesity, Type I diabetes and tooth-decay.

Which is why a dream was hatched in a small chocolating laboratory in 1928 which eschewed the notion of moderation and attempted to create the gooiest, chocolatiest, milkiest, most caramel-infused concoction to sell to the hungry public. Unfortunately, something went horribly awry in the process. This unexpected turn of events led to a most serendipitous discovery, and out came what later would be known as a "Milk Dud"--a slightly lop-sided chocolate piece filled with a creamy, caramel center.

Despite having a self-deprecating name, Milk Dud's are known for their delicious, chewy quality, addictive aftertaste, and the ability for movie patrons to absentmindedly devour an entire Jumbo box before the previews have rolled. While some complain of the occasional difficulty chewing through the complexly sweet texture, most able-bodied and normally-jawed diners find no trouble in navigating the sweet, tongue-rolling journey that awaits ahead of them. Since their acquisition by Leaf and subsequent buyout by Hershey's, Milk Dud's have seen virtually no advertising campaign-- word of mouth and their inherently scrumptious qualities are all that have carried Milk Duds through times of war, economic uncertainty, and slanderous public health campaigns. Hardly the same can be said for other name-brand candies.

Although some like to badmouth Milk Duds, perhaps their naysaying masks a deep-seeded fear of trying such new, challenging and exciting things; maybe eating grass and pizza all day as a child has had such a dizzying effect on the palate that genuinely good food tastes bad to them? Until further scientific and empirical inquiry is made into their psychological profile, past eating habits, and aversion to and fear of excitement, it is best to ignore their critical assessment and wait until they mature into responsible, candy-loving connoisseurs like the rest of us.

Do yourself a favor: try a Milk Dud. Savor its buttery richness. Let its full-bodied flavor develop in your mouth before chewing. Allow its milky-cocoa bodice plunge down your throat into your happy tummy. The try another, you wont regret it.


Addenda: It is not recommended feeding Milk Duds to animals, as they are prone to want nothing more for their supper than a delicious, crystalline bowl filled to the brim. Also, If you wish to purchase Milk Duds from Amazon.com, let it be noted that they are found in the "Gourmet" section of the site. Let it further be noted that if you do an online image search for Milk Duds and children are present that it is also a euphemism for a females mammaries, which will return many inappropriate/unfunny pictures either a)juxtaposing a buxom young woman next to a box or b)simply pointing at breasts and calling them milk duds. Milk Duds, the Leaf Corporation, the Hershey's Corporation, and F. Hoffman & Co., the originator of the Duds, do not endorse the use of their product in such facile and prurient ways, nor do they endorse the facts or history presented by this writing.

As the audience settles into their seats at the great World Wide Developers Conference in Cupertino, CA, the air is palpating with excitement. The lights grow dim and an opaque partition slowly rises to reveal a gigantic digital screen above the stage. The audience cant their torsos a little closer, imperceptibly, in their chairs and hang on with clamped breath and pinched buttocks for Apple's CEO and pitchman wunderkind Steve Jobs to take stage. Everyone has been scouring the blogs, starting office pools, and chattering non-stop about the potential announcements at this year's event. Not surprisingly, Jobs enters the stage in his usual attire--mock turtleneck, jeans, and sneakers. A hush befalls the eager crowd as Jobs begins his proselytization:

I want to thank David Pogue for that marvelous lead-in. David Pogue of the New York Times, everyone! (Audience applauds. Jobs takes a sip of bottled water) First I want to say 6 million iPhones and counting. Wow! That's just incredible. (Whoops, Hollers. Audience giggling with excitement for the big announcement) Now I bet you're wondering what's next. I know. I DO have the internet (Holds up running 2G iPhone with Macrumors blog displayed. Polite, nerdy laughter emanates from the seats).

A while ago I thought to myself 'I wonder how we can keep Apple as a major player in the market over the next 5 years?'. Technology is increasing at an exponential pace. Consumer demand and desire is becoming harder to predict. What will be the next big thing, the next must-have toy for the businessman, the student, the teenager? Well I have the answer, and the answer is 3G.

Thats right, Apple's next big product is the 3Gigabyte iPod shuffle.

Featuring a new sleek, portable design, multiple colors for maximum style, and extended battery life, the 3Gig Shuffle is set to revolutionize the way we listen to music, and all in a compact package for a low price. Featuring an additional gigabyte of storage space over the 2 gig shuffle, 30 extra minutes of battery life, and an adjustable lanyard dongle, the new shuffle is slated to be Apple's most talked about product of all time (begins slide-show)

After conducting multiple double-blind research tests on consumer groups, we've souped up this puppy with some of today's hottest colors. Off-white (slide). Taupe (slide). Ochre (slide). Brackish (slide). And finally Grape (slide).

While the 3G shuff still does not feature a screen or a touch-wheel, nor does it allow you to select the songs you wish to listen to, we put some of our top-tech guys working round the clock on some cool new features that are going to blow you away. Lets see what they came up with.

First, we decided to do away with the skip-song feature on the front in order to make room for a new button: the iTap (slide). What does the iTap do? Well, it provides you with a seamlessly integrated metronomic scale function with realtime audiowave synthesis. In other words, this little guy tells you the beats per minute of the song you are listening to.

If that doesn't rock your world, this next feature will.

An all-new proprietary headphone jack (slide).

That's right. After much hard work and deliberation, we realized that only the best and truly soundworthy headphones that exist in the world right now are the Apple earbuds. Which is why we soldered on an additional ring around the headphone jack to ensure that those buds are the ONLY headphones you use to listen to your music at the optimal level. We wouldn't want music fans to hear their tunes purchased through the iTunes store any other way.

Oh yeah, and to ensure that listeners are receiving top-notch audio quality, we made the sure that new 3gig shuffle only plays authorized, DRM-encrypted music purchased from the iTunes store.



The Zune Killer, Unveiled



Finally, we've added a .0000000005 megapixel camera to the outside of the shuffle (slide). This gadget is a "snap" for taking great pics on the go. Simply point the shuffle, guesstimate if anything is in the frame at all, click a complex sequence of buttons, connect to your Mac with a special firewire cable (sold seperately), download the latest version of iLife '08 and separate drivers for the shuffle, import your photo, re-expand the compressed file via a 3rd-party expander, drag and drop the file into iPhoto, blow up the file to a viewable size, and presto, you've got a picture, hopefully, of something or someone, possibly. It's a great, compact solution for wonderful pictures and I've been using it at family gatherings for a while now.

You guys, this product is great. Go to your nearest Apple store and pick one up. They're only $299 with a 3 year .Mac account contract. Speaking of .Mac, guess what!

(continues on...)

Things Indie Bands Like #2: Unnecessary Band Members

A lot of the times you'll go to an indie show and look on stage and wonder "why hasn't that guy/girl done anything for 20 minutes?" While this statement said aloud may get you stares--as indie music fans generally don't like talking, let alone movement, at their shows--you may have fully pointed out the largest, pinkest elephant in the indie music scene: the unnecessary band member.

The origin of the unnecessary band member can be traced to indie music's roots; that is, the fact that at one point or another, the band's roadie/manager/girlfriend got tired of watching from behind the off-stage and wished to join in on the fun or else they would quit/leave/break-up with the band. The tracing of the foundations of this phenomena strangely parallels the popularization of this instrument.

The epitome, and paradoxically the exception to the rule, of unnecessary indie band members is Joel Gion, who you may remember as the guy on the cover of the movie Dig, a documentary about The Brian Jonestown Massacre. Joel pretty much stood on stage and caught Anton Newcombe whenever he passed out in the middle of an angry diatribe or coked-out guitar solo, so, although the euphemism is often reserved for the drummer, one could say Joel was literally and metaphorically the backbone of the band. He also had cool shades and could dance really well, which elevated his status from unofficial band manager to full-time band member.

Other examples of this are: the cute girl that hits the xylophone for 3 whole-notes every fourth song; the extended family of backup singers in strange garb who are off-key and being paid in beer; the guy who runs around stage and throws out merch; hip-hop "posses"; the skanking guy from The Mighty Mighty Bosstones; DJ's there to add some crazy "scratch effects"; Cello players; anyone that has to physically be on stage to press the spacebar on their macbook; Sid Vicious.

Things Indie Bands Like: #1) Costumes

This new section of Distracted by Words is about Things Indie Bands like. No it is not a rip-off of Stuff White People like, you goof! Indie bands are filled with a variety of ideas and embrace a diverse tapestry of fashion and culture, and are very difficult to pigeonhole like white people are. Fortunately, there are a few universal truths to the Indie Aesthetic which are ripe for the pickin'. And thats why I'm here to judge. Let us begin:



If there was one thing that Indie Bands and the sexual subculture of Furries have in common, its that their love of symbolizing alienation via costumes.

An Indie Band hoping you are giving out king-sized Snickers this year

Although Indie Bands may not have sex with one another while dressed like Fox McCloud or an Easter Bunny, they certainly have no problem conveying emotional disconnect to their fans in this fashion. Glance at some of the popular (but not too popular) music videos on Youtube, and you are bound to find either a flaxen-haired chanteuse or bestubbled lothario of the Indie-ilk either singing to or dressing up as someone in a costume.

Most of this has to do with budgetary limitations, more than anything, as Indie Bands tend to blow all of their promotional advance on vintage synthesizers on eBay, leaving them little recourse other than to dress up their roadie in a banana-suit and have him walk down skid row. This type of video, known in the Indie Music video world as a "24 hour shoot-and-boot", is best for bands that have run out of ideas and need to send something to their labels before the higher-ups completely forget that they signed them. It is also a nice touch to anthropomorphize the costume so the viewers can relate to its googly-eyed emotions.

The Jelly Donut that made Lady Sovereign cry

Also, a fun thing to do as an Indie music enthusiast is go to concerts in costume. This has a doubly positive effect, as it one ups yourself over even the most ridiculously dressed hipster and it shows your allegiance to the group by opting to remain sweat-drenched for 2 hours in a virtual hell-suit instead of wearing sensible, breathable clothing. You most likely will receive accolades from your surrounding peers and, if you're lucky, be asked to appear in the next Animal Collective music video. And if your costume fails to work, maybe there's a Furry convention going on right now in the lobby of the downtown Ramada. Just remember to cut your own holes beforehand.

Hayden Christensen: The Worst Living Actor in America

Pull this string and he talks

Its probably not that controversial of a statement, yet it is one I feel so deeply passionate about, I had to write about it. Go ahead. Scour the internet. Watch all of your old movies you got at the Hollywood Video 5 for $20 sale. Take exit polls of 2nd run movie theaters. I dare you to find a worse headlining actor than Hayden Christensen.

This opinion didn't come to full fruition until the other night when I watched the movie Factory Girl, a so-so flick with Sienna Miller as Edie Sedgewick, Guy Pierce gaying it up as Andy Warhol, and Mena Suvari as some psuedo-lesbian that comes in every once in a while to inject dexadrine into Edie's ass. All well and good, until Mr. Skywalker comes in portraying this guy.

Thats Bob Dylan by the way, in case you though it was maybe Gary Oldman in the new secret Harry Potter movie. Anyway, Christensen does such a horrible Dylan impression its a surprise he wasn't asked to be in I'm Not There. It seriously appears as if he's never seen or heard Bob Dylan in his life; he mumbles a bit, tries to look profoundly through hazy eyes, but other than that, just comes off like his character in Shattered Glass but hungover. It is a staggeringly inaccurate performance and was so cringe-worthy I almost felt compelled to fast-forward to the scenes where Andy Warhol is masturbating to pictures of shirtless men.

Even worse was that I picked up the "Unrated, Uncut, Totally Sexy" edit of this movie, which usually means a few more boobs, possibly ones you don't wish to see, and maybe a visual gag involving semen. Little did I know it would mean one of the least sexy, most excruciatingly long love scenes involving the Worst Living Actor in America in what can only be described as Robert Goulet's Love Den.

The sheepskin rug that roughed it through multiple takes of Christensen's adolescent thrusting

The scene was very difficult on my boner, as it had a very hot Sienna Miller and then a very awkward and confused teenager with a faux-pompadour pretending like he knew how to take a bra off. Anyway, watch this movie and you'll really have to struggle not to agree with me. I'm surprised hes gotten such large roles, considering he should be in Uli Lommel films. Well, lets maybe not go that far.


Okay, lets go through the checklist. Make readers throw-up. Check. Establish Hayden Christensen as horrible. Check. Hmmm... sideswipe I'm Not There. Yep. There's gotta be one other thing. Oh yeah, I know. Tease my next blog. Here's a hint; see if you can guess what it is going to be about!

No, its not about ugly basketball players, but close!

The Greatest Job I Ever Had

Welcome to my inaugural Positive Blog, where I only blog about things that make me happy, and give the reader, you, a warm, fuzzy feeling in that dark pit of despair during these gloomy, troubled times. This blog is about the greatest job I ever had. The reason for this topic? Because its topical. And why is it topical? Because I held it yesterday. But only for one day.

Nope, but close.

As reconciliation for not getting any love on Valentine's day, God (or Job. I hear he's in the bible...God of Employment?) gave me a wonderful present: a promotional job at a ski-resort. And what did I have to do for the entire, glorious, sun-soaked day? That's right. Snowboard and do tricks off of jumps.

Clocking in for a hard-day's worth of work

I basically snowboarded up and down the mountain representing (or representin') Emergen-C vitamin C drink. I wore a large, bright-blue backpack, occasionally handed out the packets like your favorite neighborhood drug-dealer, and busted gnarly tricks off of sick-ass jumps. Oh, and I got to ride for free, plus another free lift ticket. And I got paid a lot. And, the icing on the cake: I won a free pair of socks. 

Socks: the black sheep of the cake-icing-metaphor industry

So, in honor of this being the first annual Positive Blog, I'd like to get a little Positive Feedback from those who read this blog. What is the best job you, the reader, have ever held? And, what cool stuff, if any, did you end up stealing/walking away with accidentally/handed and told "this is yours to keep, for free" at the job?

Please comment! I need to generate enough ad-revenue to pay for all of these copyrighted photos I keep stealing.

Blog War: The Black Dahlia

An epic duel between two bloggers regarding the scandalous frock-line of Lady Guinevere

Welcome to my first, and quite possibly last, installment of Blog Wars. In this episode, I go tete-a-tete against the formidable Lady Nordeen AKA Heather the Chaste, a seasoned veteran in the blog game. The topic: the 2006 movie Black Dahlia. No no no, not THE Black Dahlia, the critically panned Brian De Palma flick starring Scarlett Johansson, dummy! I would never spend 3.99 of my hard-earned cash at my local mom-and-pop Blockbuster for a movie that got 34% on Rottentomatoes.com. We got the Ulli Lommel classic Black Dahlia, which, at the time, had NO critical ratings ANYWHERE, thus we knew we were in for a diamond-in-the-rough, cinematic treat. Or a steaming, fetid pile of dog-shit that no one would touch with a 10-foot hazmat pole.

Anyway! Here is my submission into the fray. Let the Blog War begin!

ULLI LOMMEL'S The Black Dahlia

Over the course of my life I have witnessed all sorts of Bad. Camp Bad. Ironic Bad. Bad Bad. Revolting Bad. Bad the Creeps up on You. Bad that hurts your Forehead. Bad the leaves a Bad-Hangover for a Week. Even Bad that leaves Bad-Bugs rabidly crawling over your skin from a particularly atrocious Bad-Binge. The best kind of Bad movies are the kind that you can hunker down with a friend, throw a bunch of peanut gallery comments at, and WALK AWAY from with a feeling of superiority and minimal amount of residual discomfort. The worst kind of bad, on the other hand, are those that make you question Existence, re-evaluate your feeling of living in America, and worst of all, who you are friends with. It is with much chagrin that I have to say, Ulli Lommel's Black Dahlia, in short, is the absolute worst movie I have ever seen in my entire life. And the reason I am filled with such sorrow, is that my good friend, Christopher Woolsey, was kidnapped by Ulli and his gang and forced at rubber knife-point to star in this horrible, horrible movie.

Christopher Woolsey AKA Sutton Christopher. Photo taken shortly before disappearing.

Before I launch into this movie, I want to make this clear: Chris is my friend and I would never slam him; I think he is a very fine and capable actor that desperately needed money and was lucky enough to get paid movie work down in LA. That being said, it is unfortunate that he ended up in this incomprehensible pile of garbage. 

Black Dahlia capitalizes on the torture-porn craze sweeping the multiplexes by essentially being a sequence of shots of young ingenues being systematically murdered at a "casting call". There really isn't much else to it, really. Interspersed is a pathetic detective "back-story" involving the cold case of the Black Dahlia--a notorious real-life case of a young starlet who was gruesomely murdered in the late 40's--and a shit-load of additive-dissolve bursts and ambient whispering. Thats REALLY it. You could read this whole paragraph and probably take away more from it than watching the actual movie.

My genuine hope for this movie is that it be revitalized 20 years later a la Troll 2 and shown at midnight screenings, though its so revoltingly bad I'm not sure people would be able to muster the energy to lob insults and/or food at the screen.

Lady Nordeen, additional thoughts?

lbk

Juno: Stop the Madness

Though it will never, ever happen, the 9 most feared words in the human language right now are And the Academy Award for Best Picture Goes to Juno. And not because it is wrong, or it proves once and for all the Oscars are entirely irrelevant, or because having to read that off of a script without laughing breaks WGA code, but because of the horror, oh the horror, that will ensue once the studios realize not only does indie over-preciousness equal box-office gold, but it can be sweet gold statue-bait as well. And this means, oh yes, this means my friends, year-round, factory-assembled hipster garbage will be pumped out at the same rate of J-horror remakes and Tyler Perry films. Which is to say, we will be literally buried in twee. 

So why didn't I like Juno? It has a lot of things going for it, thats for sure. I love Michael Cera and Jason Bateman. I enjoy the movies of Judd Apatow, even though he had absolutely nothing to do with Juno. Oh, and I do love strippers, especially when they can turn the tables they occasionally stand on and go from being exploited to doing the exploiting (in this case, the commercialization of indie culture).

Cody Diablo, wondering whether to use MLA or Chicago-Style editing

Then what did put me off? Juno starts out with an indie-by-numbers approach to filmmaking. Main character has established, albeit superficial, quirk? Check. Title sequence done over a handmade looking animation sequence? Double check. Does the main song have a whimsical, earnest quality that evokes feelings of childhood and/or sounds like it could possibly be a song originally intended for children? Check and Mate.

All is forgiven for a movie like this, though, if a script has a good, natural flow and quality dialogue. Diablo's method of screenwriting appears to be coin as many catchphrases and deliver enough quips to satisfy an hour-and-a-half long prime-time sitcom. Its good to have clever dialogue in a movie, but having every other line work-in some sort of pop-culture reference ("honest to blog", which may become this blog's new header, is one that seems to gather the most hatred from critics) or witty retort can easily make once was an aspiring movie look like a bad episode of Gilmore Girls.

Although the tidal wave of cutesy, quippy lines of dialogue tend to annoy, the final weight that sank the SS Juno for me was the sappy and contrived placement of lightweight indie music within the film. Although the soundtrack stands alone pretty well for containing some great Belle and Sebastian and Belle and Sebastian-ish tracks, their forceful entry into the movie is almost laughably ludicrous. Its the equivalent to being repeatedly smashed over the head with a twee-pop hammer, and it has the same, disorienting and derailing effect.

And because of its success, it is only certain now that the dawn of Juno copy-cats is upon us now. Like moths to the light, Hollywood execs are scrambling to assemble the next adorably hip, Movie-Of-Our-Generation, and probably hoping an ex-Circe du Soleil acrobat will have written it so every single entertainment rag, newspaper, and blog will write about it. In fact, the dawn of this age seems to already have come upon us (although I don't think, unfortunately, this one was written by anyone from a french-clown background).

Did punch-up for No Country for Old Men

So if Juno does get the accolades it so-much-doesn't-deserve (there's a decent chance Diablo's rags-to-riches backstory may sway the Academy to give her best original screenplay), we have nothing to look forward to but jugs of Sunny D and orange tic-tacs in our horizons, ill-placed children's sing-a-longs, and the tendency to emphasize quirk over character-development in our horizons. So do us all a favor, and if you want to see the movie, and still don't trust me, watch it illegally on the internet. Then maybe there will only be 10 of these things tops this year.

We Formed a Blog

Right now my throat is heavily breaded, much like a fish-stick, with a sooty coat of smoke from ye' olde emphysema-ridden establishment, The Horse Brass. Less than one year from now, patrons and bar employees alike should be enjoying a collective gasp of fresh air, as Oregon will follow suit of most of the States and adopt a smoking-ban, effectively keeping your hair and clothes from smelling like the basement of hell when you return home. I, for one, am giddy with anticipatory excitement. I no longer will have to be concerned about my laundry cycles, nor will I any longer will I be forced to wear ugly "bar clothes" when I go out. I will sadly miss you, though, generic gray shirt.

Getting laid success-rate: 0.00078%. 

So, as I sit here in bed, recovering from a night of second-hand smoke and hard cider, I will wistfully recall those smoke-free Washingtonian days of yesteryear by inaugurating this blog as the Best Of Blog. Within it you shall find delicious old morsels of writing from my Northern days in Bellingham, nuggets of wisdom from my fleeting moments in Vancouver, and all things in between. I'll even throw in a few free steak-knives in the form of Portland blogging and, of course, the ubiquitous "more-to-come".

So what's first up? My about my watered-down indictment of Costco, a pretty tame screed considering I wrote it as a employee with a slowly forming hernia:

Casket 2-Pack Sale!

Originally Posted June 21, 2005



Many people think Costco was an invention of California. It wasn't. Costco was born and raised right here in the verdant NW, corporately masterminded in Issaquah. The first one sprouted up in the environs of Seattle almost a quarter of a century ago. Costco, a wholesale retail outlet that typically settles in remote locations to keep real-estate overhead at minimal levels, became embroiled in a heated battle with Priceclub in the mid 80s, winning out and buying out the rival company, skyrocketing Costco as the dominant membership based warehouse-seller in the US economy. It's no-frills, cement and re-bar environment paved the way for a new era of consumerism-- one that focuses less on flashy displays and superfluous marketing techniques and settles on the nitty-gritty: selling high-volume with rapid-turnover in addition to procuring membership fees in order to pass on staggering savings to the customer.

Costco has becoming synomous with exogenous perceptions of American culture: big, bulk, and uniform. Nothing at Costco comes "Le Petit". You don't go to Costco to buy a few items, or an impulsive pack of gum: you leave with more than you feel like you can digest. Costco is one of the only retailers where flatbed-carts are offered as a reasonable alternative adjacent to normal-sized shopping carts. It is based on the same subliminal and nebulous marketing technique known as "upsizing", where the consumer typically leaves with more material than he/she intended to leave with, at an inversely exponential fraction of savings. The lure of this indelible practice in our culture for retailers is as obvious as the gaudy displays of marketing grandiosity. Get the consumer in for a taste, then offer the whole pie for a little bit more. It preys on American's inability to eschew greed for moderation, and it works great.

When I was in Europe, I never saw any mega-stores quite like Costco. Sure there were markets that carried a bevy of goods, but none that held the sheer volume and selection of a Walmart or Target. Everything was localized. Most items were purchased at specialty stores, patissaries, boulangeries, brasseries, or open flea markets. European's last bastion of national individuality is held in this informal decree. When someone talks of the non-stop barrage of globalization, "Americanization", or "Mconaldization", they aren't specifically referring to the employment of 11-year-old Laotian amputees in sweatshops, but the growing tide of encroachment on these slowing drowning beacons of culture. The sad fact is, however, the economy is pretty much unstoppable. French people will begin to realize they would rather pay 11 cents for a baguette instead of 1euro40, and these monolithic superstores will begin sweeping into the historical outposts of civilization. Costco's tentacles only sinew up into the UK and Japan right now, and I doubt that it will spill into any of the EU for a a long time.


Neoclassical economics aside, and cultural morals aside, there's something I love about these stores other than the rock-bottom prices, the quality-control of the goods, and our AMAZING level of customer service in America (If there is one thing we take for granted in this country, its how respected the phrase "Can i see your manager?" is). It's the well-lubricated efficiency, the briskness of a management based structure, and all of it being a throwback to the heyday of the Rockafellers and Morgans and Pullmans (minus the employee-abuse).

Easiest way to smuggle-out 5 pallets of Kirkland Bottled Water

The other week Costco announced they would be teaming up with a California based funeral-services company to sell coffins. All obvious jokes aside, Costco has become an organization that is a microcosm of the country. You could live there and have all of your worldly needs attended to, from life to death.

5 Actors Who Could Never Play Convincing Normal Dudes

Originally posted January 10th, 2008.

Well, with my last blog landing in far more esoteric realms, I decided this week I would make it simple: a list of actors with some acute and witty observations about their amazing talent and complete lack of ability to play normal people. These are all actors in the peak of their histrionic prowess that possess certain features, physical or eerily subliminal, that disallow them from playing the average Joe Shlub in the latest shitty comedy. Some of them "could" hypothetically summon all of their dramatic energy and channel it into being best buds with Adam Sandler, but it'd still leave us with an unsettling feeling afterwards. Here's the list:


1) Cillian Murphy




Most of you know him as Dr. Crane AKA the Scarecrow in Batman Begins. I know him as "The Eyes". Even if you see him telling someone he loves them, or is petting a kitten, be warned: some horrible shit is about to go down. You know just by looking into those bulbous, infinite blue orbs that whatever he does is going to be followed by slicing your throat with a penknife and unleashing locusts in your parents house.

2) Ben Foster



Most notable for playing characters that are absolutely, positively fucking nuts, you probably know Ben Foster best as Russell, Claire's mercurial, bi-sexual, sometimes-boyfriend in 6 Feet Under. From there he graduated to playing a self-loathing Jewish Skinhead that makes Edward Norton's American History X neo-nazi look like Hello Kitty. He's also played an Archangel of Death, a blood-thirsty vampire, and a nihilistic murderer. So no, he's probably not going to be in the next Hollywood heart-warmer anytime soon.

3) Seamus Davey-Fitzpatrick



The fat guy on the right is looking calm, but right after this photo was taken, Seamus Davey-Fitzpatrick AKA Damien turned towards him and said "You promised to take me to Baskin and Robbins before this. We didn't go to Baskin and Robbins" before releasing a pustule of blood-soaked larvae and fire-ants from his forehead. There is an obvious reason why this kid was cast in the newest incarnation of The Omen. It's because he IS the child of Satan. Sheesh, when are they gonna start hiring actors instead of reciting incantations at casting calls and conjuring up the spawn of Beezelbub?

4) Christian Bale



I'll admit, Christian Bale has played normal guys before. Hell, he was even a Newsie! But that doesn't mean he can convincing pull down the Everyman schtick like, say, Tom Hanks. Want proof? Try to find evidence of him telling a joke in any of the movies he's ever been in. Do you get the creepy feeling that he's about to stab whoever he's joking with? If not, maybe you have a sick, sick sense of humor or you're somehow missing the perpetual maniacal glow in his eyes (the same glow that allows him to lose 200 pounds for a low-budget indie film like it was no big deal).

5) Jeremy Davies



Jeremy Davies will always be a slimeball. Or a sleaze-bucket. Or someone with 1001 ticks, idiosyncracies, and obsessive-compulsive neuroses. But he will never, ever, ever be the guy you trust to diffuse the bomb and save the city in the nick of time. Davies has played a lot of great characters over the years, from a small part as a Press Corps member in Saving Private Ryan to an emaciated, Mansonish character in the new Werner Herzog film Rescue Dawn, and he's definitely an underrated and underused actor. Just don't expect him to be Aquaman.

The Bucket List

Originally posted December 28th, 2007. The start of my "writing reviews without seeing the actual thing" thread.

So I decided instead of actually waiting for a movie to be released and then reviewing it, I would submit a movie review sheerly based on watching half of a trailer, online hearsay, and whatever gaps my mind filled in for the rest.

The movie I've decided to review is "The Bucket List", a movie about to be unleashed upon the age-ed, decrepit, movie-going masses; in other words, those that don't illegally download movies and who are wooed in by Morgan Freeman's authoritative baritone and the come-hithering, arched-buttresses of Jack Nicolson's eye-brows.

The title "The Bucket List" derives from the age-old trope of the list of the 10, or 20, or, hell, even 100 things one should do before they die. The Acropolis, Skydiving, Same-Sex Experience; What sort of things would you do if you all of a sudden woke up and realized "Hey, I share the same hospital room as the narrator from every Frank Darabont movie and we're both going to be gone soon?".

So you wake up, put on your slippers, kick aside your academy awards, step-around your Harley that was a gift from Peter Fonda, stick the keys to your Crown Victoria in the ignition, and meet with the director of "This is Spinal Tap" and "Kate and Leopold" and talk about the great watermark-leaving opus you want to make before you die. You both discuss the details of the movie: Will there be an initial salty dis-ease between the two hard-veneered leads? Will they get into sticky situations with high-potential for comic pratfalls unbecoming of men their age? And will they, oh for the love of god will they, uncover the true meaning of Christmas (hint: it lies in the doe-like eyes of a adorably naive 6-year-old)?

You decide on the demographic of your picture: septuagenarians with adopted Chinese children who aren't yet old enough to know good from crap. Should there be a hi-larious scene where the two lads attempt to ride motorcycles? Would a PG-13 rated scene of sexual-misunderstanding and naughty euphemisms be too much for the adopted Chinese child? Will Annette Benning be willing to phone-in a scene with a burned Thanksgiving turkey?

And while wistfully looking back and reminiscing about the movies you've made, you decide you've created the perfect denouement to your solid-gold careers. The Bucket List has been completed. You can go home now.

And no, this man is not in it:

Struggles

Originally Posted Jan. 19th, 2008. In case you are wondering what this is all about, it is a parody of http://everystudent.com/wires/jenniferm.html which was run as a Facebook ad for a while.



One student writes about his struggles with internet pornography addiction, and how god intervened and set his path straight.


I was 18 and living on a houseboat in an abusive foster family. My foster father used to toss his cigarettes into the water and make me jump into the lake in sub-freezing temperatures and retrieve them for him with my mouth, just like a dog. If only I would have been fed as well as one, I wouldn't have complained. If I didn't allow any of the cigarettes to get wet, he would occasionally let me smoke one, even though I had acute asthma and a weak lung. Suffice to say, these were some of my good memories of my teenage years.

When I moved away to college a year later on a student loan, I felt as astray and rudderless as the buoys that sometimes kept our houseboat afloat during those tumultuous times. In order to satiate the yearning void of loneliness, I turned to the only natural avenue of escape available in an alcohol-free dorm: Internet Pornography. In stead of checking my grades, I'd check on the nakedness status of my cam-whore subscriptions. Any idle moment available became an opportunity to scan the latest updates at bigtitsroundasses.com. I'd sometimes stay up till dawn surfing the web until my eyelids were chapped with the crust of the new day and my fingers were but mere sacs of blistery fluid.

I didn't realize it at the time, but I was addicted to internet porn, big time. And even worse, I didn't realize it had anything to do with my abusive foster father and his mongrelization of me, thus I didn't have any way to figure out how to right myself. It wasn't until one late Spring afternoon when I stumbled upon a campus Christian potato-sack race that I found Christ and steadied my wayward skiff.

I was searching for the ResTek offices, since the internet had been down for an hour and I was starting to get pangs of withdrawal-related nausea, when literally "tripped" upon this glorious beacon of hope in the stormy sea of my amorality. "Look Out!" screamed a girl, but it was too late. Just like the Holy Spirit, she knocked into me like a force of nature. Seeing how this was my first physical contact with a real human girl since I had matriculated, I was so befuddled by the interaction I tried clicking on her breasts with an invisible mouse.

Luckily, like all of god's children, she was forgiving of my prurient ways and settled on teaching me how to sack-race. Before I had the chance to make an off-color joke like I would normally do on a comment page, I was off and running with the flock, and being slowly but surely saved by the invisible, indiscriminate hand of god in the process.

As it says in Matthew 3:29 "...And he shall no longer looketh at the anointed cup, nor the 2 comely young virgins supplicating over the receptacle, or he shall bring shame unto himself and other onlookers", and in Luke 30:15 "...avert thine eyes from thy boobie".

I feel lucky to be saved.

My Mom and Walter Powell

Originally Posted Oct. 26th, 2007.

After returning from an extended stay-over in Europe and Asia, my mother returned to Portland nearly penniless but instilled with the vim and vigor traveling abroad puts in one’s world-view. She was strolling downtown Portland one afternoon and came across a tiny bookstore. Yes, it was Powell’s, but not the monolithic mega-store it has become today, but a modest, intimate building several blocks away from the current location. Inside, she found a wonderful coffee-table book about hiking destinations in the area, filled with lush photography.

Since her stint in Europe, my mother had become a shrewd bargainer, and was still teeming with the same confidence she left behind at the Spanish marketplaces and Parisian vendors. She inquired to the older gentleman running the store what it would take to get the book at a discounted price, hoping to talk him down to slightly above wholesale cost.

“I’ll tell you what” said the man, “I’m a little short-staffed today, and the shelves are a mess. If you help me for a few hours, the book is yours.”

My mother, having already mastered the vagaries of the dewey decimal system as a part-time librarian in the university library, felt as if she would be up to the task. She accepted his offer and had the shelves ship-shape in no time.

Years later, after beginning to see this man more prominently in the press, she would realize that this man was the store owner, Walter Powell, which leads me to wonder if I unconsciously lied in the job interview that I am indeed related to a Powell’s employee.

Emily Powell; Depending on what happened during those 3 hours, may also be my cousin

I love and heart you, internet

Originally Posted May 18th, 2006. This is one of my favorite, infamously exhausting rants on the eroding standards of the world.

I used to take the time to correct my spelling in IM, even sometimes carefully taking the time to insert "commas" (haha, remember those wastes of space?), apostraphes in contractions (I'm lovin' it!), and using a painful assortment of words to describe difficult moments in my life instead of using the emoticon with the X through its mouth (yeah, that one). I used to even DESCRIBE to people where I was going, giving them a reasonable time-frame of expected return, and then informing them when I was returning with an affixed apology in postscript.

Wait, hold on a sec...BRB. Ok, I'm B.

HAHA!!! What a n00b I was.

But the real question is, with the encroaching dumbening down of language: what is life going to be like, etymologically, linguistically, culturally, etc... 10 years from now?

Here's a GLIMPSE INTO THE FUTURE FROM A FAKE TIME TRAVELLER WHO DIDN'T HAVE ANYTHING BETTER TO DO THAN BLOG HIS EXPERIENCES RATHER THAN BET ON THE SUPERBOWL AND THE TRIPLE CROWN!!!!

I should probably try to make SOME money to make payments on my DeLorean, though

10 years from now communication is solely going to based on Napolean Dynamite quotes, extremely long acronyms (IWOTAMPMRNWAPP: I'm waiting outside the AM/PM right now with a pizza pocket), and the phrase "oh, just read about it in my blog". All other forms of communication, especially amongst the exiled "literati" (the non-philistines who read "outside of the blogosphere"), will be punishable via reintegration into the sub-comminicae by being forced to read a 14 year old girl's myspace "likes and dislikes" page until their eyelids attempt to fully devour your eyeballs.

Saying phrases like "I appreciate Rousseau, but I think his earlier works were a tad defeatist", "Wasn't Jesus really Black?" and "I actually read the preface AND the epilogue!" will all be punishable by death. All foreign films with subtitles shall be banned, for people do not wish to "read" when they go to the movie theaters. In fact, movie theaters will no longer be allowed to display any words, including on the marquee, advertising, and confusing movie times, for they remind patrons of books too much. All books will be adaptations of existing movies, and even then, they will always be far worse than their cinematic counterparts so no one will buy them.

Your summer-reading assignment

"Ulysses", "Gravity's Rainbow", and "The Old Man and the Sea" will all be downloadable in text messaging format, with the main characters thoughts and feelings expressed with an animated cartoon owl in place of rich and descriptive prose. By this time, text messaging will be so obsolete that barely anyone will do this, thus leading libraries to replace physical tomes with text message transcripts. People will still read the inside liners to write their book reports.

Unfortunately, book reports will be banned several months later because they drive down standardized test scores too much. Speaking of standardized test scores, thankfully they will have not left ANY CHILD BEHIND...except the poor kids, the minorities, the males in writing and reading comprehension, the females in mathamatics and science (okay, far fewer than in that category than the males in the other category), and the teachers' inner children. But thankfully, well-endowed, predominantly-white schools and their children will not be left behind...they will be WELL-COMPENSATED for keeping ahead of the pack while having started 3-laps ahead.

They will all be given complimentary text-messaged copies of the book "Superfudge" by Judy Bloom.


TO BE CONTINUED>>>>>>

December Wishes

Originally Posted Christmas Eve, 2003.

PRESENTING! The most cliche, sentimental, and pretentious christmas post ever!

Remember when you used to wake-up in the middle of the night a hear your dad trip over the space-heater, and think Santa Claus and his Reindeer had finally arrived? 

Remember setting those cookies and carrots out and waking up the next morning to find them half-eaten with your mothers shade of lipstick on them and a note written in her hand-writing on the table, but being too naive to notice?

Remember tearing through presents christmas morning, skipping over the softer wrapped gifts for the harder and bigger ones?

I remember when I was really young I peeped out of my room and thought Santa had brought me a spaceship (which was really a particle board puppet theater assembled by my father). I couldn't get any sleep, fancying all of the distant galaxies and nebulas I would visit in my newly acquired spaceship that night. The excitement and anticipation of waking up the next morning, feigning surprise, and learning how to operate the nodes, dials, and buttons in order to pilot my way to Cignus 5 to visit our extraterrestrial brethern while my parents opened up relatives gifts of pottery and candles, was excruciating. I turned on my hummel-like christmas house-lamp and read through every one of my magazines, even "National Geographic Kids" and "Highlights", in order to fall asleep. No such luck was had, so I tried the tired and true method of counting sheep jumping over fences in the back of my mind. Still a bust. I eventually fell asleep around 4am, with visions of ET and guitar-picked shaped space aliens flashing me the "live long and prosper sign" then heralding their outer-planetary visitor as their honorary emperor. 

The dissapointment of finding out I wouldn't be cruising to the Andromeda galaxy the next day was crushing, but I learned to love my puppet theater. I created short little Shakespearean tragedies with paper-mache puppets, typically which involved bashing the King and the Friar puppet violently together, and then doing the same with the King and the Queen to indicate they were making out. My whimsical plays never quite evolved out of this childish template, however, they just seemed to involve more and more puppets as I soon figured out how to manipulated several on one hand. 

What amounted to a grotesque orgy of flannel and terry-cloth, I soon gave up my puppeteering racket and retired the theater to the fabled annals of the geodesic shed, the graveyard of all flash-in-the-pan presents and failed knickknacks. Out there also lies am Olympic diving trophy which I'm pretty sure my dad never won, a Tweety Bird mask from halloween that accidental merged with surgical tubing and a caulking gun, creating the most macabre looking looney tune since Daffy Duck got shot in the face by Elmer Fudd, fireworks long past expiration, and I'm almost positive at least one dead transient. 

Well, on the delightful notion of me harboring a dead hobo in my shed, I bid everyone a Merry Christmas! I hope everyone gets their spaceships and ponies and dirtbikes and Redrider bee bee guns and Nintendos and Teddy Ruxpins (and if you dont know who that is, you obviously were not a child byproduct of the 80's). 

Remember, if you didn't get what you wanted, there's always receipts, and if the receipts are MIA, then there's always the black market and the potential for smashing stuff.