Friday, November 30, 2007

No Offense to Deaf People # 4

The fact that I enjoy odd shit like this is reason # 5,268 that I will die penniless, alone, and known only for contracting a rare strain of VD :


Speaking of crazy, I think Pitchfork and countless bloggers had it right when referring to Brian Wilson's horribly hapless attempt at late 80s/early 90s hip hop with a unanimous "WTF?" Either way, for Wilsonites it's amusing watercooler fodder in between your monotonous debates over whether or not "Pet Sounds" is better than the Ten Commandments. (It is. But just barely =)

Now onto more music:

I was slow to warm to the U.S. incarnation of "the Office," as many of my fellow diehard Gervais breathren would attest to being (la dame included), but it did grow on me and the crazy homocidal/homeless/kleptomaniac/real-life former rocker Creed Bratton is a delightful member of the cast. Though his official NBC blog, "Creed Thoughts" is mediocre at best. (Only further proof that this strike desperately needs to end)

Anyway, a long while back, while I was updating my iTunes (as I am privy to do, meticulously ensuring have the correct album artwork for every piece of music I have uploaded, including that horrific foray into Russian hip hop) I stumbled upon the pop/rock group the Grass Roots, which iTunes repeated mislabeled my "Best of the Roots" compilation mixtape as being associated with. (Fucking iTunes. The Black Keys are NOT the Black Crowes! But I digress).

Long story short, the Office's Creed was/is actually a member of this Grass Roots outfit, and I short of enjoy their brand of stereotypically catchy fare from this time period: (Creed's in the striped shirt and note the lame 'gardener' pun by the presenter. Ah, the 60s those were the great socially ignorant days)


Back in 2000, for some inexplicable reason, I was enamored with the hip hop group the Spooks and their debut "S.I.O.S.I.S." (Spooks Is On Some Other Shit; yeah, I know thought provoking shit, no?)

Their lyrics weren't exactly tight, on point, nor did they flow particularly well or carry any semblance of social consciousness. Their hooks were at times contrived, the poor use of Lawrence Fishbourne support and skits didn't help either.Yet I couldn't stop playing this fucking album for the life of me.

With members names like Booker T, Hypno, Joe Davis, Ming Xia (their Hispanic songstress) and Water Water (who apparently died before their recent mediocre release) how could they lose? Or better yet, how could group with above average beats and a catchy song like "Things I've Seen" not be bigger than it was?

Eitherway, R.I.P. Water Water (who I hope devised a better name in the afterlife) and enjoy their one sort-kinda-not-really-hit :

And for good measure their minor European hit, "Sweet Revenge":


Much props to my beloved hip hop music site-turn-insightful-all-encompassing-blog OKAYPLAYER for broadening their horizons even further than your prototypical hip hop site.

Speaking of which...did everyone notice Pharoahe Monch's return?

All of maybe five of us might've copped "Desire," the majority of 'heads too busy awaiting the lackluster 50/Kanye matchup, and disappointed by the unusually safe Kweli/Common releases need to really give Monch a second glance.

It may lack the club bangin bite of his breakthrough "Simon Says"

but cuts like the title track show a nice growth and progression in Monch's lyrical ability and a finely tuned ear to well placed soul samples never hurts (i.e. Jay's "American Gangster")


The Coup are fun. They actually do justify the designation of "funkafied" hip hop not readily grouped with Dre's 'G Funk'...and their lyrics are actually fun and smarter than your average bear or G Unit member.

From the early 90s:


Now for a new installment of "Horrible Album/Artist/Single/piece of plastic worth less than the money that was spent on purchasing it
" :

Tamar- "Tamar"...self titled debut by Toni Braxton's sister, Tamar. How on earth did I rationalize spending $9.99 on an album I had to yet to hear, from a performer whose main claim to fame is being another famous singer's sister (who I didn't even like)?

Teenage hormones + a wallet = a dangerously shameful combination


Thursday, November 29, 2007

Mabuhay My Ass

Cultural pride be damned. When the only notable contribution to pop culture your people have made is a glorified Ivana Trump wannabe with a pathetic shoe addiction paid for by millions of dollars that were supposed to be allocated to your poverty stricken third world country population, you might be jealous of other cultures too.

Now for a rundown of random contributions my abysmally mediocre people have provided:

Cheryl Burke of "Dancing with the Stars":
-Sadly, a large portion of the Filipino American population turned out in droves and voted vehemently primarily because Burke was Filipino. No other reason. So Drew Lachey and Emmitt Smith can thank my people for mobilizing in full force, wanting to see their beloved Burke shake her ass to one badly covered song after another.

Thank God the sleazy Ian Ziering and the illustriously orange Wayne Newton put her back-to-back run to bed. (I don't watch the show outside of staying informed as a means of communicating with my mother, but big ups to Helio Castroneves, who last I heard ended his engagement to hit that his barely legal-Mormon-back-to-back-winner-ass)

Weng Weng:
-Were it not for the wonders of YouTube, whole generations would have missed out on the wonder that is Weng Weng, the dashingly diminutive 2'9 Filipino best known for his ridiculous action/comedy homages to James Bond popular in the Philippines in the 70s and 80s. Now I actually don't mind his celebrity as much; the peculiar hilarity of his image and films deserved to be skewered by today's viral video lovers. That being said, it ain't exactly flattering to have many people readily associating Flips with goofy looking midgets.

Filipino prison inmates rehearsing the routine for Michael Jackson's "Thriller":
I don't know if there is anything worth commenting on aside from saying," Psshhhhhh......Sighhhh." (Smacks head and procedes to violently slam it against desk till blood begins dripping down forehead.)

How the fuck this has been viewed 20 million times, mentioned in every year-end viral video best of list, and referenced in Time Magazine is beyond me.

Desperate Housewives boycott:
Feeling slighted once again by the "Man" Filipinos are apparently uniting to boycott the popular ABC dramedy because of a supposedly racially insensitive remark. Now I'm all about fighting for social equality, and hate ethnic ignorance as much as the next guy, but as a Filipino myself, I gotta say, this is some frivolous bullshit.

Much like the stupid ban on Claire Danes it just feels like another lame attempt at getting sympathy from the world community, a community that knows shit about your vaguely indistinctive culture because you're too busy trying to emulate everyone else's culture instead of developing something uniquely your own.


In the realm of relevant news:

Another botched coup attempt occurred, as civil unrest, widespread violence, and social and political chaos continue to prevail....

Ah, fuck it. How bout we watch the new Desperate Housewives and throw on that Weng Weng music video one more time?


Mmmm...Your Personality is Like Really Hot

When you're unemployed and bordering on suicidal tendencies based solely on how well your cup of coffee tastes that day, the best way to feel good about yourself is being a judgmental asshole. And to sharpen that prickly skill, the fine art of mocking personal ads and dating sites can be a great thing to master, or at least use as a means of compensating for you inadequacies with emotional and physical intimacy.

While mocking my favorite Jorge Garcia-look-alike from Bayonne, NJ, I stumbled upon an article entitled, "When She's Hot But He's Not", a certifiably banal, inept exploration of the phenomena of romantic mismatches.

Now I don't mean to rashly dismiss Ms. Allison's point completely, but mismatches are what they are. From the outside looking in (especially in celebrity instances) we're going to scrutinize and destroy relationships regardless of their merit, because that's what makes us feel good.

Sure uglies bump hotties all the time, whether is be for $$$, social status, $$$, familial obligation, and $$$. Hot women are presumed to be the object of all and any men, regardless of age, physicality, or girth because of generations of mainstream conditioning. The elderstateman protagonist gets the girl even if she happens to be out of his sexual league and old enough to be his granddaughter.

We may complain of the inequity of ugly girl/hot guy representations in the media, but the reality is inherently clear: Guys, good looking or otherwise, just are more superficial than women are. And I'm not trying to make a grandiose generalization regarding women, cause, uh, yeah, no shit women are fucking superficial as fuck. But not on the same level or scale.

Let's compare the median of hottie-ness:

For many women, Brad Pitt is the culmination of that all is good and beautiful about the male body. Yet on the same level, as evidenced by the annual "Sexiest Man Alive" lists, slightly less obvious choices like Stephen Colbert and T.R. Knight are grouped into similar circles of sexiness. All three men couldn't be more different (obviously one is homosexual, but that is besides the point) yet for a wide ranging, yet ultimately mainstream section of female society, they represent a universally agreed upon embodiment of sexiness.

Now down to the doldrums of mainstream men: our countless numbers of lad mags, college hottie webcam shows, and multitude of porn sites that cater to our beckon call reflect the obvious: our mainstream standard is mediocre as fuck. While women may regale a man's propensity for sexiness vise-en-vise the way he makes me laugh, in the mainstream man's world, women aren't supposed to make us laugh, and if they do, they're not supposed to be hot. So Tina Fey, though widely heralded and definitely in my top 3, does not crack the surface of the mainstream male fantasyscape.
Jessica Tandy...mmmhmmm.

Give us Jessica Biel, Jessica Simpson, Jessica Alba, fuck, anyone named Jessica who can make us come, and most definitely does not make us think. (Please don't come at me with that, 'She's a good actress' or 'I like her music' bullshit. Please. Emily Watson, or hell, Laura Linney is a good actress, but I don't see you jacking off to "You Can Count on Me.")

Women find Elijah Wood cute, cause he's quirky and funny, and interesting. Quirk in a mainstream man's world? Uh, that chick married to Paul Rudd in "Knocked Up" was kinda quirky in a hot way right? Nah, whatever, I'ma just jack to that chick from "Grey's Anatomy" and not the Chinese or whatever she is, one. She scares me.

So yes, the standard for attraction is so much more limited for men than it is for women, which is why those of us with standards or any semblance of regard for personality fall into the margins. You can take your Scarlett's, Halle's, and Angelina's; we'll be busy enjoying our Fey's, Cummings's, and Scott's, thank you very much.


Random Thoughts From a Random Guy # 1: Why Women Are Like Wide Receivers

Did I see that correctly? No, it couldn’t have been. Wait! Indeed my eyes did not deceive me. That was Dwayne Jarrett on the field dropping that pass that could easily have been a thirty yard completion for a first down, and cemented his position as a legit possession receiver. Oh well…back to the bench.

Why do I care so much you ask? I have Jarrett on my fantasy team, he takes up a valuable receiver spot- and did I mention all the shit I take from the rest of the league who think I’m keeping him because I’m unaware that he is not even third on the depth chart? I’m not surprised that I’m keeping him- it’s my pattern. I can’t let something go because I’m scared of what it may become and how much I’ll miss it if it becomes what I think it is capable of becoming.

To really get what I mean I must mention that I have a girlfriend named Monica. She's pretty! I mean she's better looking than I am.

We both have an affinity for overpriced clothing and thoroughbred racehorses. She seems perfect doesn’t she? She isn’t. She's flirtatious, pretentious and has absolutely no sense of humor.

Just last week we went out to dinner with my cousin and a couple of his friends. Everything was going great until my cousin told me his friend loves “fat chicks like I love malt liquor.” To this I replied, “Then I better hide my girl.”

She was not amused. I don’t think she said more than two words to me the whole night. A normal girl would’ve realized that it was just a joke, and that I was trying to make conversation. Even if it was offensive, it’s not like she has never made fun of me. How does this all relate back to a somewhat slow possession receiver you ask?

I should get rid of Jarrett. He’s only owned in 7.5% of ESPN leagues. That is usually a good indicator of how good someone is. For example, fellow Carolina Panther wideout Steve Smith is owned in 100% of ESPN leagues. Getting rid of Jarrett seems like the obvious move, but what if he somehow finds his way into the starting lineup? If that happens he will be in single coverage all day (Steve Smith is just that good). This means that he can score upwards of twelve fantasy points per game. I can’t let him do that. At least not for anybody else’s team.

Now, let’s look at Monica. She's almost the perfect girlfriend; except for the fact that she’s a ticking time bomb that can blow at any moment. If I dump her and some other guy gets this irascible philly to calm herself, he’ll have an amazing girlfriend, and I’ll want to kill myself. Maybe I can hold on to both of them for a couple of more weeks.

Fantasy football, like life, is a fickle mistress.


Monday, November 26, 2007

Even Grandma Needs Some Lovin...No, No She Doesn't

My Thanksgiving was marred by the favorite annual past times, the awkward interaction with relatives I want nothing to do with, the ill fated attempts at guessing the respective ages of my cousins, and finally being subjected to an embarassing, impromptu prayer service I apparently was supposed to be leading for this group of 50+ people. Family; you've gotta love to not love 'em.

Penniless, poor, with poverity stricken prospects (as my various relatives have been adept at reminding me of) I indulged myself in the last refuge of an already dwindling existence : the annual free preview premium channel weekend. HBO, Showtime, TMC, Starz, and Skinimax at my beckon call, all for a four day period; ah, it's moments like these that make the death of my social life almost bearable.

At the top of my viewing list was the much-talked about Tell Me You Love Me, everyone's favorite borderline pornographic fall drama. As early reviews have indicated, "Tell Me" is exactly as advertised, showcasing some of the most realistic simulations of sex on mainstream television or even film to date. That being said, the fairly long scenes of intimacy work within the tone and pace of the show, the long drawn out moments of physicality balanced out by the intricate complexity of detailing each line of dialogue, movement, and look like a dance.

It's definitely not fast paced, nor even completely sexy for that matter. But haunting honesty of each couple's exchanges, the frank discussions that aren't so much shocking as painful, and the tragically comic ebb and flow of each scene works beautifully, as if the subtlety of each episode working as a small partion of a bigger art film-like whole.

Inadequate intimacies of middle age, frenetic insanity of youthful lust, and the belaboured agony of child rearing are all on full display, sans a melodramatic soundtrack or urgent editing choices.

Like a a perfectly constructed Agnes Varda film, it's about the power of the long take, and the immediacy of silence we're often too scared to face, or worried about enjoying too much.


Next on the list of shows I desperately needed to view before my free preview ended was "Weeds," the best dramedy about a pasty-skinned, pot dealing mother from White Land, USA.

Season Three, more so than both of the previous seasons, has definitely taken a full dive into the deep end of the crazy Kool-Aid pool, from full blown gang warfare to season's worth of gratuitous sex that would make Adrian Lynne almost proud. The somewhat fearfully leveled Nancy Botwin of prior seasons has let lose the inner MILF, sometimes to over the top, though somehow still satisfying results.

The addition of Mary Kate Olsen felt at times like a bit of a casting non-sequitor, but all in all, creator Jenji Kohan has done just enough to keep me wanting more. (Though the gimmicky "Let's get a random indie/world/pop artist to cover 'Little Boxes' routine" has gotten a little old.)


Californication, hmmm let's make this quick:

David Duchovny is a self destructed writer sleeps with lots of naked women, who have a habit of beating, vomiting, squirting, blackmailing him. Oh yeah, and he pathetically lusts after his newly engaged ex-wife.

Uh...oh yeah, and his best friend/agent is a closet perv who loses his wife to his assistant who doubles as a Suicide Girl/wannabe agent.

And Duchovny's daughter Becca, is fucking adorable and I want my unborn Isadora to be just like her.

Nuff said.

After several seasons of hilarious, though at times half hearted comedy,Curb Your Enthusiasm has enjoyed a revitalization of sorts, with David's misanthropic comedic genius putting his personal life right in the cross hairs.

Mocking his real life divorce from hardcore environmentalist Laurie has been nice subject of fodder for David, and coupled with great moments involving the erectile "5second rule," Steve Coogan and John McEnroe, forcing reconciliation due to dating laziness, and the occasional borderline-racist stereotype, "Curb" appears to be back in full swing, and that's pretty, pretty, pretty, pretty good.


Thursday, November 22, 2007

Ungrateful Shit

The holiday season is arguably the most interesting time of the year. Extended families gathering, justifications for obesity climbing, and suicide rates at an all time yearly high; holidays always hit the spot.

Sarcasm I aside, I admit my overwhelming pessimism makes me incapable of feeling, emoting, or reciprocating any semblance of love (real or otherwise) and thus, the season of giving thanks is all but lost on me. I completely understand it, hell, at times I feel like I'm a sucker for a good old fashioned Jimmy Stewartification of my seemingly pointless existence. Then I remember to breathe, turn on the light, and look in the mirror...and well...yeah...

Random musings....

I have yet to catch last night's episode of "Project Runway" (or "ProRun" as my illustrious colleague refers to it) but I did get a gander at part of it, something about Manolo FootFace being a fashion icon or some shit...either way, that fat gay dude (whose name I'll soon learn, remember, and eventually faind charming) is hilarious.

Other note: I do not like Heidi Klum. CORRECTION: I DID not like Heidi Klum. She's a fake blonde, big boobed German supermodel whose interviews have been far from illuminating, interesting, nor sexy in that mysterious-I'm-an-angry-bitch-who-is-using-my-career-in-being-good-looking-as-a-means-of-getting-back-at-people-and-my-dad. I was more in Tyra when I was younger (though holy shit, who saw that truck pulling a big fucking 180), Laetitia Casta, cause she seemed to have this pretentious French air that was condescendingly alluring, and Josie Moran, who simply put, was just a hot, psycho bitch, which is always extra hotter.

Anyway, so yeah, Klum always has been just a symbol of bimbo-ery for as long as I've known of her...until the emergence of "ProRun." Her shitty flirtatious fake blonde bombshell turn on talk shows, shameless promotion of her Seal-approved utopian relationship, and her inability to have anything interesting to actually say should make me hate her, irregardless of whether or not she happens to host a catty reality show I secretly enjoy.

But I can't.

Something about her on the show, her presence, her inability to give any imput that hasn't already been echoed by someone else on the judges panel, her ability to look fucking hot while pregnant almost every season make her?

My inner elitist intellectual struggles with this attraction, an empty, wanton desire that has no logic or reason in my makeshift pretentious world.

I actually like dumb airheaded bitches who go on national television campaigns playing with their cans as if they were guns and firing them into the camera as means of selling underwear as well as reminding young girls what they will never be, no matter how much vomiting or surgery they go through.

Kill me now.

Oh yeah, and Happy Thanksgiving.


Sunday, November 18, 2007

Gratuitously Tasteful

I am a heterosexual, alpha-male, sports loving male pig.

Okay, now that I got that out of the way...

Nudity has maintained a disturbingly prominent influence in my relatively young life. At five, I was exposed to my first "porn" film vise-en-vise my uncle's subscription to the Playboy Channel. (V-chips were invented because of curious kids like me)

At six I happened upon my father masturbating to an issue of Playboy in the bathroom, my unexpected intrusion with the intent of alerting him to a phone call, met with shame but also a disturbing sense of detachment.

"Dad...Dad, the phone's..." (door open, head tilted to the side in not so much shock, but maybe wonderment?)

"Close the door! Close the door! (Relatively takes his time covering himself and placing the magazine on the adjacent bathroom counter) Leave the phone outside, I'll pick it up when I'm finished! (Once again staking his claim for Father of the Year)

Uncertain of what was the aforementioned act, I trudged on into age seven, experiencing what I would only later learn to be the closest thing to personal happiness a young man would ever experience before actual coitus or the sight of seeing one's beloved sports franchise win it all. (Sadly I believe the latter would supplant the former any day.)

Orgasm. Whoa. Orgasm. Did it again.

Michelle Pfeiffer in "Batman Returns"? Pure orgasmic evil. And at age seven, an age when many of my contemporaries were too preoccupied with getting the new Batmobile, or dressing up as said character for Halloween, I was stricken with confusion.

Orgasm? Really? At age seven? Even the "Joy of Sex" and the "Guide to Getting It On" failed to mention such a euphoric experience at such an age.

Anyway, by age ten, I was well versed in the ways of sex, knowing the geographical location of my favorite Marvel superheroes as well as the location of the clitoris, labia, and other lady parts I would only later disseminate to later contemporaries.

Literary intellectualism aside, boobies were awesome. In all their shapes, forms, and regions of cultural origin (this is debatable; age has a way of skewing one's physiological optimism)

Gratuitous nudity, accidental nudity, nudity for the sake of nudity; coming at the advent of the internet age, nudity equaled awesomeness and at any age, male magnetism towards all things 'boobie' oriented meant that there is no such thing as unnecessary female nudity, right?

Outside the unwelcome advances of a Kathy Bates in "About Schmidt" (sorry feminists), every godfaring, young, vibrant, fit woman, should flaunt it, yes? Or is it possible to actually...gasp...make nudity meaningless?! (the added exclamation point wasn't needed, I know, but I had to go there)

Which finally (sorry longwinded true believers) to Before the Devil Knows You're Dead, a crime drama from Sidney Lumet that's beautifully executed, powerfully acted, and...uh, uses "tastefully artistic nudity" as a means of furthering the cinematic narrative?

Okay it doesn't. But (I like Marisa Tomei) the storyline is well-crafted, the manipulation of time elements (I love Marisa Tomei) is perfectly orchestrated, and the casting was (I wanna sleep with Marisa Tomei, but God damn it was excellent, but did it really need all that nudity?

I am not a prude. I am a New York born-bred Catholic which makes me just as sexually abhorrent as the next guy. And don't get me wrong, at 42, Tomei is straight banging.

But opening with Philly Hoffman hitting it from the back and then interspersing unnecessary T & A shots throughout the film kind of detracted from the main plot line. Unlike Halle Berry's "Monster's Ball" (which even perverts agree made some artistic, thematically symbolic attempt), Tomei's scenes have very little to do with the surprisingly engrossing storyline of Hoffman and Hawke.

Which brings me back to my initial point...(which at this point must be lost on most of you, as it is on me) can it be possible for a completely sexist male perverted porn purveyor like myself to actually be turned off by a beautiful naked woman because she's essentially wasting valuable screen time that could be better served by more engaging dialogue?

Is my art/film/music geek over powering my inherent sexist tendencies?

Am I just a victim of a wanton souless society bent on merely capitalist gains all in the pursuit of further widening the gap between the sexes, thus destroying any hope for true gender equality?

Oh wait, no.

But "Before the Devil Knows You're Dead" is thus far my favorite film of the year, outdistancing itself from "Great World of Music" by a bit.

Go see it, not cause of the boobies, but cause of the great acting, directing, and all that overhyped hub-bub.

And cause of boobies.


Saturday, November 17, 2007

a lady's response to the last three posts.

Everything Mr. Administrator writes gives me something muse on and so here is my take on the last three posts.

The Awe Inspiring Jeff Van Gundy.

There was a time when his reign of masculinity over the Knicks was a weekly fixture at my house. I would be forced into watching a basketball game with the father and the only thing that kept me awake (baseball might be "my" sport.... or curling.. haven't decided which yet) was a small man whose last name I would say in the same manner Seinfeld and gang would say, "Heeelllloooooo." It amused me to no end. Everytime his bird-like face would appear on screen I would mock his last name and watch intently for him to do something worthy of my affection. He always did and I never forgot him.
Cheers, Van Gundy, cheers.

Lackluster Episode One Of Project Runway Season 4

I love fashion reality shows. I eat them up with a spoon. America's Next Top Model, What Not To Wear, Project Runway, The Shot, and many more are like my favorite drug. That being said I can recognize shit when I see it. The first episode of ProRun (I've decided to call it that from now on... deal with my insanity, please?) was an example of how a very successful show can lose its thunder. Having a formula is fine, its worked for countless Next Top Model series, but there comes a point where one has to wonder about how far that formula is going. Like Mr. Admin said Tim Gunn's presence was usually a nice break from all the sewing, smoking, and shit talking. His little reminders that this really is about the fashion was welcomed. In this new episode Tim Gunn's catch phrases were met with applause from the contestants and I immediately wanted all of them to sew right through their hand. Though I may have recognized the first episode of crap I will continue to watch it like my life depends on it and will try my hardest to like one female designer this year. I'm more of a root for the fashionable young gay boys type of gal but I'm going to make an effort.

And if I don't connect with any of this year's characters I can always fall back on my latest YouTube discovery, Project Runway...CANADA!

Lucian is my favorite because his clothes are intricately beautiful.... and he's cute with a hot accent.

My Love of Saul Williams Contradicts My Love of Crap Pop Music

After Radiohead decided to release In Rainbows for nearly nothing I have searched the internet in hopes of finding similiar deals. The first one I discovered was that of the magazine named Paste which was allowing readers to pay as much as they wanted for a full year subscription. I paid $1 (the least allowed) and was content. Then I read on some music website that Saul Williams put out a new record and it was available on his website for the same deal. I was elated. I'm a fan of Saul Williams. I saw him open for Mars Volta awhile back and was bored to tears but grew to love him, his words, and the music his words are set to now. So I went to his site and got the album. I'm in the processing stage of my record review mindset and cannot give a 100% clear answer to the question, "Do you like the new Saul Williams album?" I can, however, say that my initial reaction was one of complete bliss. "Tr(n)igger" comes to mind as a track I told myself to listen to again with my full attention directed toward it. I can leave my lovefest rant with one observation: You can really hear Trent Reznor's influence on this album. The music, the tone of Saul's singing, etc... is heavily influenced by Mr. Reznor. Decide for yourself if that's a good thing.

So I like conscience rap-poets and I have a fondness for vapid pop music like Britney Spears. Does this make me a bad person? No, I like to think it makes me well rounded. Despite the fact that Ms. Spears is a complete life fuck up (we can smell our own,) her new album is complete pop heaven. It is extremely catchy and fun. It pains me to say that it's entirely enjoyable. Her one "slow" song, "Why Should I Be Sad", was either written, produced, or both by the Neptunes (Pharrell is all over that shit) and it can get stuck in your head for days. I'm going to recommend the song, "Toy Soldier," because I'm currently in love with how much of a Gwen Stefani rip off it is. It's one of those songs that you can listen to and just hear other pop "stars" singing. Any of Top 40's female chanteuses could have recorded this song and I spent countless hours imagining what it would sound like if Fergie or Rihanna had recorded it. In my head it wasn't very different but then again it isn't Spears singing, its ProTools. Chances are if you're sitting there reading this and pre-mocking me then you won't enjoy it at all but if you go into listening to this album with an open mind thats ready for fun, well, you'll be good to go.

Final Thoughts
I had a dream about Zombies and my friend, Jay, the other night. It was quite vivid and I might make a short film of it. Only reason I'm mentioning this is to accurately describe to you that I have too much time on my hands and not enough hobbies.


Thursday, November 15, 2007

People I Actually Love # 1

When I was ten years old, basketball was the center of my universe. Michael Jordan was king, Charles Barkley was in shape and didn't talk as much, Space Jam was the greatest movie ever made (Bill Murray and Muggsy Bogues together?!), Charles Oakley was my hero and I dreamed that one day, I would be the first Pacific Islander drafted into the NBA.

This never happened (nor did my dream to be the fifth member of Boyz II Men) but I grew to love the lovable loserness of my Knicks. They played hard D, they had a former grocery store stock boy blow their best opportunity for a title in over thirty years, and yet somehow everything in the world was still okay.

Then a miracle happened. No, not just a miracle; 'miracle' is too simple a word to use in this instance, more like "euphoric metaphysical transformation into complete and utter awesomeness." And his name was Jeff Van Gundy.

Van Gundy never won any titles, never brought the Knicks any closer than a lopsided defeat in the '99 Finals to a dynastic-pre-Longoria-San Antonio Spurs squad, but he had with him something that the current era of blue and orange ballers have yet to account for:cf balls. Big, bountiful, bruised and battered, but bleeding blue and orange balls.

Someone with the balls to actually ditch an Ivy League school to go to a shittier lower level college just for more playing time.

Need someone to run into an on-court altercation among overpaid gargantuan athletes? He's you're man.

Someone needs to get accidentally punched by their own starting center by getting caught in another prissy sideline bitch slap? Any takers? Oh too late, JVG just beat you to it.

Want someone to smile and be delightfully encouraging and positive? Eh... JVG's only one man now. Oh wait...

With all this current flood of apathy that continues to metastisize and permeate everything and anything involving the Knicks, it's good to look back on their last period of glory. Okay, so we didn't win championships, a slick haired Armani suit clad coach, a historic team of Hall of Famers with prospective Presidential candidates...but JVG brought with him balls. Big ones.

Big ups to my all-time favorite coach, NBA personality and all around decent human being.


Free Form Funkafied Fashionista Jam

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"Who Are You Polly Maggoo is a fun movie I found myself watching on Sundance the other night, reminding me of an "acquaintance" I once spent time with who was fascinated with anything/everything French. I even tried learning some French while I was with her. God...was she a mistake. A hot, sexy, incredibly overrated sexy-cause-she-says-she's-a-writer-but-I-never-bothered-to-read-her-shitty-work-sexy. Ah...high school, how I don't miss thee.

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Season Four of the glorious guilty pleasure known as "Project Runway" has just come underway, coming out the box with a...well, a whimper. I know it's only the first episode, and I know the show will eventually devise some hilariously over the top story arc to make me love/hate contestant X or Y, but it feels as if the life has finally been completely drained out of the show.

Drawing a sad parallel to another once fun reality show, "Runway" somewhat mirrors the trajectory of the "Real World" franchise, initially starting out with all the usual follies of strangers forced to live and work togeher, yet grounded in a fun reality of competition and conflict ( the RW had people coming into as naive guinea pigs, Runway had gleeful designers who genuinely relied on talent).

Yet now, as evidenced by last night's premiere, "Runway" has fallen into the same pitfall as many a "Real World" cast has; merely going through the motions and emulating past character archetypes as a means to gaining celebrity, not forwarding the initial show premise. Whereas, the appearance of Tim Gunn and his patriarchal guidance once bolstered a nice scene in the competition, now it feels, strained, forced, if not outright boring. Unlike prior casts, this one seems more self-aware than ever, as if hitting the usual points of hearing Gunn say "Make it work" was an obligatory episdoe design, not a part of a charming persona's character. (The fact that Gunn's "Guide to Style" is atrocious as fuck doesn't help either; didn't anyone take notes as to what made "Queer Eye" peter out so badly?)

Maybe I'll change my tune, maybe I'll find myself falling in love with the show and a quirky cast member, but my gut feeling says the end in imminent. (And I have one big perceptively large gut).

And as a stereotypically boarish heterosexual male, I'm sort of glad. Now maybe I won't have to watch show I badly want to run home late at night to catch the reruns of, while completely and totally ashamed for watching. The fact that this cast lacks any semblance of an attractive cast members puts the odds in my favor. (Oh Nora, Allison, and hell even Santino, how I miss thee.)

Now for a gratuitous video of Heidi Klum to help me reassert my overbearing massive heterosexual male man musk:


Wednesday, November 14, 2007

No Offense to Deaf People #3

It's been a long, long time since I've really been engrossed in new music, whether it simple disillusionment towards disappointing releases or merely indifference. But the fall's releases have given me some semblance of hope that maybe that inner 11 year-old who once fell in love with Illadelph Halflife still exists.

Momentary musings:

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I used to be a slam poet. Seriously. Spent Monday nights at louderArts Bar 13, Wednesday nights at the Bowery Poetry Club, and ofcourse Friday nights at the New York mecca of "slam" poetry, the Nuyorican Poets Cafe. Hell, I even spent my senior year of high school being allowed to cut class to teach the correlation between jazz/soul history to modern-day hip-hop/slam.

So yeah, I know my shit, and no self respecting slam geek could go through life without giving props to our most visible figure, the illustrious Saul Williams.
I liked "Amethyst Rockstar," loved his self-titled Fader release, and with his thank-thee-for-free "the Inevitable Rise and Liberation of Niggy Tardust!" I can't help root for the guy. He's pushing boundaries, inciting thought, and just straight doing it fresh.

I'm still letting "Niggy Tardust" simmer internally for a bit, but here's a flashback to early Saul in "Slam."

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A few years ago I went on a "date" of sorts with an amorous young lady...and it was pretty, uh, yeah...fucking bad. Except for Battles, they were pretty fucking sweet. (She thought they were "cool, just kinda, too loud for me, you know?" Once again another reason for our empty evening)

Either way, their album "Mirrored has finally dropped, and I'm not one for outrageous hyperbole, but...this album is fucking beautiful...Powerful, engaging, funny, just everything I've been wanting out of an album in a long time. (Okay minus lyrics, but maybe the lack of words made it that much better)

Anyway here's what I believe to be their first single, " Atlas" (note the sweet Wizard of Oz sample):

I have yet to hear all of the Most Serene Republic's new album Population but I'm liking what I've heard so far, and their video for "The Men Who Live Upstairs" :


Monday, November 5, 2007

a small post

...this is fantastic.

I would just like to point out that I would join Devendra's freak folk parade anytime.

[more from the merry cohort soon]


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