An Unlikely Place For Art

I normally hate TV commercials. Except stuff like Sportcenter commercials. Otherwise, the stuff people claim is "cute," "amusing," or "artistic" just doesn't seem any of those things to me.

One commercial has totally gripped me recently, however. I'm almost ashamed to admit that I love the Levi's Go Forth commercial featuring a recording of Walt Whitman reading his poem, Pioneers! O Pioneers!.

The imagery isn't much. It certainly doesn't inspire me to buy Levi's. And it melts into a rapid-fire series of shots of vapid Ck-esque nudity. I think there's even an obigatory shot of homosexuality (see? Levi's is H-I-P hip. How insulting to the gay community).

But somehow, likely because the images move too quickly, and certainly because his voice is absolutely mesmerizing, Whitman's words overpower the visual input. All I can hear is him, appealing to his audience with an aged sense of urgency. And the residue of the video - the vauge impression that perhaps the Pioneers are the youth, carving something out of the wilderness of their lives. Damn, it just kicks me in the face.

I'd be angry with a commercial for moving me emotionally, if it weren't really Walt Whitman doing so. All the same, kudos to the whizzes at Wieden & Kennedy Portland for framing ol' Walt so beautifully.

Sucks To Be This Guy

Thanks to Bill McG for filling in on the news searching while I got lost in the whirlpool hell of work in the past few weeks. Otherwise, I may have missed the most recent ninja story.

Now, serioulsy, how long is it going to take you people to realize I am speaking truth? Ninjas are everywhere. And in this economy, they're out of work. In such rough times, they get a little rusty. While out exercizing their aweseome set of lethal and stealthy skills, mistakes get made, and a few of them end up impaled on fences:





When will the secret mega-conglomorates of evil abandon their tiny lazer-shooting robots and save those who are most in need? They're out of work! Technology cannot replace the perfection of the most effective henchman armies in history (except in the 80's, where whole mobs of our ninja friends were decimated in oh so many crappy films). Take the ninjas back, evil empires! Save your stealthy friends before it's too late!

For Realz

I've never used this excuse before. I don't believe in it. But I swear it's true. I've actually not been posting because I've been busy with work.

I'm still trying to figure out how that one happened, too.

Be back next week, God willing.

Whaaa?

Recently, I was drinking with some friends, and we flipped through the TV, only to find the strangest shit EVER right after Robot Chicken on Cartoon Network's Adut Swim - Superjail! (The exclamation point is theirs, not mine.)

At the time, I had thought that perhaps too much Belgian beer mixed with very old scotch had just made it all seem totally insane, but no, it really was the uber-violent bizarre cartoon on TV that completely freaked me the hell out.

So, allow me to share the freakshow that is Superjail! If you have an additiction to psychedelic drugs that you're trying to kick, use this to satisfy your cravings:

This Is Why I Try Not To Go Out In Public

I'm going to try to be fair about this. I do not want to make myself sound like I'm in the right and this person was in the wrong. If I do this right, I'll tell it accurately, and the result will present itself.

I was out in The People's Republic of Northern Virginia (NoVA) on Friday night, at one of my favorite bars in the DC Metropolitan Area - Galaxy Hut. It has a great atmosphere, great music, friendly staff, and usually a much nicer crowd than the standard NoVA Yuppie Fuckers you get at many other bars along the Orange Line.

But Friday night was a bit of a disappointment. It all happened when I went to use the restroom. In Galaxy Hut, there's a single for each gender. No one was in line. I checked the men's room, and it was locked. So I stood waiting. Then, a young woman did the same with the ladies' room, with the same result. So we found ourselves standing in line, just the two of us, and the following conversation ensued:

Her: Are you in line for the restroom?

Me: Yup.

Her: It's weird that the line is longer for the men's room than the ladies'. I've never seen that.

Me: Yeah, this bar is the one place I see that happen on a regular basis. I say, with just these two little restrooms, they shouldn't separate them by gender.

Her: You might have a point.

At this time, another girl walked up.

Other Girl: Is this the line for the bathroom?

Her & Me: Yup.

At this time, a guy came out of the bathroom and I went in, and then I heard the following conversation between Her and the Other Girl:

Other Girl: Are you with that guy?

Her: No, I was just standing here and he was talking all randomly at me, saying some crap about the bathroom line. I don't even know why he was talking to me.

Other Girl: That's weird.

Her: Yeah, he was weird.

What the jumping fuck is with that? What a skank. I think the objective analysis of this situation shows that I merely followed along with perfectly pleasant small talk, and she revealed herself to be a total asshole.

Honestly, I think this young woman fits into the Pantheon of Douchebaggery in a slightly more reprehensible position than the Bull Charge Guy. It's not like I was hitting on her. With that face, it's not like I even would hit on her. But there she was, talking shit about my completely ordinary small talk.

This cocky little suburbanite needs the back of someone's hand. I don't believe in smacking women around, but she does make me want to believe in smacking dipshits around.

A Lyrical Epiphany

Lately, I've been listening to a lot of the band The National. If you don't know of them, you should - they have a sound that just smacks with earnestness and rhythms you just can't help but hum to yourself for the rest of the day.

Even more, I love The National because their lead singer, Matt Berninger, is one of the most brilliant lyricists I've come across in the past few years. His lyrics are pure poetry. And you know how much I'm into song lyrics.

I've long been a fan of the song "Available" by The National, off of their album Sad Songs for Dirty Lovers. I had thought it was about a guy telling his woman she'd screwed up so badly in that their relationship was over. Thus, the main line of the chorus, "You just made yourself available" was, to me, the ultimate breakup line. Hooray righteous fury!

But, I was reading the lyrics the other day, and I realize I'm completely wrong. It makes sense, I guess - Berninger's lyrics are NEVER about the righteous position in a relationship. They're about the damage and insecurities.

Which is how I came to my new realization about "Available" - it's about a girl constantly making herself available for sex with a guy. That guy, on the other hand, will always accept the sex, but never give anything more, no matter how desparately she wants him. The lyrics are his disgusted comments to her about how pathetic she is. "You just made yourself available." As in, "You did this knowing full well it would end badly for you."

So intense. Take that breakup shit and shove it. This scenario is so much more brilliant. Love it!

Have a listen and follow along:



The National - Available

Did you clean yourself
for me last night
put the water out and donned a marigold
in your hair to bring me here
and tie one on you

did you dress me down and liquor me up
to make me last for the minute
when the red comes over you
like it does when you're filled with love
or whatever you call it

do you feel alone when I'm in my head
while you wait for me
to take my breath
do you still feel clean
when the only dirt is the dirt I left
how can you blame yourself
when I did everything I wanted to

you just made yourself available
you just made yourself available

why did you dress me down
and liquor me up?

Back Again

It's been a rough few months, with a lot going on. At first, I kind of said goodbye to the blog. A dead medium. A waste of time. A vanity for myself. Nonetheless, I'm drawn back to it.

I think it's because of the reason I started this in the first place - to exorcise demons, in a sense. Note my blog's title, and read Matthew 12:43 to 12:45, describing how the wrong methods of dealing with evil spirits just bring seven times as many, in the end. A point that has always meant a lot to me, irrespective of any religious view.

I never thought I'd want to write so much, but I actually love it. Even when it's little blurbs about music and booze. In between there's some stuff of substance, and I hope someone finds it entertaining. If not, I guess it's all the same to me; like I said, I just like to write.

The Perfect Pina Colada?

Everyone loves a good cold summerftime drink. I've just been given this recipe for the supposedly PERFECT pina colada. I'm going to try it out in a couple of days. Do the same, and let me know what you think.

1 small can of pineapple juice
1/2 can of Goya cream of coconut (or whatever's closest to that name)
1/2 of a banana
1 cup of white rum

Or quadruple it in a blender with ice to make a pitcher - you know the pitcher is the preferred delivery device for any deliciously sweet summertime alcoholic drink.

Heir to the Throne

A good friend recently hypothesized that Jack White is the "Heir to the Throne." I'd never really thought about it before, but I think she's right.

Redundancy

Here's what I've been reduced to, every night:

5:45 pm - Arrive home from work, let dog into yard to pee. Drink an entire beer. Change clothes.

6:00 pm - Pour another beer into awesome Nalgene flask the girlfriend bought me and take the dog for a walk.

7:00 pm - Realize there's no more beer on person, walk home.

7:15 pm - Open more beer, feed dog.

7:30 pm to 9:00ish - Continue drinking beer while simultaneoulsy fending off the dog's constant neediness. Maybe play with dog while drinking more beer.

9:00 pm - Realize I had plans to accomplish X, Y, Z simple tasks this evening. Realize I'm too bored and booze-tired to bother. Eat leftovers.

10:00 pm - Play with dog more - she won't allow otherwise. Shower.

10:45 pm - Climb into bed thinking I'm going to read multiple chapters of this novel and finally relax.

10:52 pm - Tumble into another night of fitful, restless sleep.

Ugh.

C Is For Give Me My Damned Samoas!

I had a bizarre dream last night. I was roaming a high school during a lunch period. At a table in the corner of the cafeteria, two people I knew were selling Girl Scout Cookies. One was my old boss, who I will call Hank, and the other was a fellow intern from that job/internship, who I will call Beth.

Hank was standing in front of the table hawking the Girl Scout Cookies like a 1930's carny, and Beth was sitting behind the table taking the cash and handing out the products.

Like anyone with a soul, I love Samoas. They're fabulous. This is important to the story.

So, I walked up and Hank said "Buy some Girl Scout Cookies, man. They're awesome."

Happy to oblige and get my annual Samoas fix, I prepared myself to purchase two wonderful boxes thereof. However, upon inspection of the table, I found no boxes of cookies. Instead, there were only piles of plastic tubes, with a display of sample bowls of each flavor of cookie in front of them.

I asked Beth what was going on with the Girl Scout Cookies, and she explained that the company had decided to reformat this year, to be a bit more "hip" in its selection of snack foods. As such, all the Girl Scout Cookies were now "nibble-sized." In each of the sample bowls was a pile of different Girl Scout Cookies, mashed to crumbs.

I did not want that filth. I wanted Samoas, and I told her so in no uncertain terms.

But then, Beth and Hank started pushing the crumb piles on me like mean teenagers in an after-school special. They were full of "C'mon, everyone's doing it," and "What are you, chicken?" They pressed me so hard that I even considered just buying the junk, until I noticed that there were none in Samoa flavor. Not even Samoa crumbs!!!

I had had enough. I stormed to the other side of the cafeteria, where my brother was sitting at a table. I told him all about Hank and Beth being mean to me, and I described their sub-standard Girl Scout Cookie selection. Like me, my brother is very particular about his food, so I knew he would understand. But in response, he merely slid a bowl of Tagalong crumbs across the table toward me. Seeming to stare straight through me, he said in a detached and emotionless voice, "Just try them, man. They're really good. You don't need any Samoas."

Completely defeated and despondent, I just shook my head and sighed.

Animation Anticipation

I'm excited as hell about the upcoming release of Coraline, which I'm sure you can't miss, since it's being advertised everywhere this week.

But, looking a little further to this coming September, I'm also pumped for Shane Acker and Tim Burton's 9. The first animated action film? I can't think of any other. This looks badassed.

Open To Interpretation - Round 2

I've found a new song with super cool lyrics that I love, and unlike Hold Onto Yourself by Nick Cave, I have no idea what these mean.

The song is called Havoc In Heaven, by Jesca Hoop, the super-talented young lady who I saw open for Elbow at the 6th &I Synagogue in D.C. this March. Her debut album, Kismet, is fantastic, and worth picking up.

So, help me out here - drop some comments and tell me what you think this song is about.

Havoc In Heaven

red ribbon on which we ride
carry us over horizon as the sun setting
night puts on a phantom cloak
sing violet light and evoke
the protection that violet evokes

fasten your focus on your soul
cause is your fruit and flowers on red ribbon
swift justice comes delivery white bone demon

ohhhh ohhhh begun the havoc in heaven
ohhhh ohhhh begun the havoc in heaven

deep deep in the green sea
there is a weapon for me
a pin that is fixing the sea
a pillar of gold shiny and if i can pull it free
the cudgel is coming with me

fasten heave ho pillar of gold
runs through the deepest darkest stone
cudgel undone weighing one ton
bring on your force white bone demon

ohhhh ohhhh begun the havoc in heaven
ohhhh ohhhh begun the havoc in heaven

don't believe your eyes
when the maiden does arrive
you fool she is the enemy
and do not trust the guise of a woman old and wise
for truly she is the white bone demon

dance macaques round the fire
warrior drum, banshee cryer
call to them visions of her pyre
fuelled by the demons throne
we shall subdue her to bone
and ashes to ashes her home

fasten your focus on your soul
cause is your fruit and flowers home
and in one blow
i smite down my foe
and ashes to ashes welcome home

ohhhh ohhhh begun the havoc in heaven
ohhhh ohhhh begun the havoc in heaven...

What I Learned - Or Hypothesized - This Holiday Season

This holiday season, as the merriment of Christmas approached, I took a couple of hours for the annual December viewing of what may be my favorite movie EVER; Scrooged.

Why do I love Scrooged? The reasons vary from viewing to viewing, but one that remains a constant is its wealth of hilarious quips and retorts from Bill Murray's character, Frank Cross.

Much like DanAkroyd's Roman Craig character in The Great Outdoors, Frank Cross is a complete asshole despite enromous pressure to become the good person we all know he'll become in the end. Half the treat, I think, is seeing just how unabashedly obnoxious he can be.

Along the way, we laugh as Frank crumples up a picture on his assistant's wall, drawn by her son, calling it crap because Mrs. Claus has 11 fingers.

We chuckle as Frank responds "Oh yeah, name one!" to the Ghost of Chritmas Past's assertion that garden slug have gotten more out of life than him.

And we don't even know just how to laugh as he barks at his ex-girlfriend Claire that if she needs turkeys, she could call the A&P, which she can look up in the phone book: "Look it up under A, and if it's not there, look it up under P!"

In one of the most unforgettable exchanges of the film, he tells Claire to fire her employees. When she tells him they're volunteers, he barks, "That is because they are incomptent; no one will pay them." Ever the warm heart, Claire attempts to sooth Frank with a reminder that it is Christmas. Nonplussed, Frank continues his tirade, "They are like this every day of the year, I guarantee it!"

Speaking of tirades, I'll get off of mine about how good the movie is - you've likely seen it, and if you haven't, this will hardly inspire you. However, whether you have seen it or not, I encourage you to watch it soon, because I have noticed something interesting about Scrooged.

I believe that the writers of this cheesy 80's feel-good Christmas comedy laced the film with an interesting subtext - that perhaps Frank Cross becomes a better person by experiencing a series of alcohol-induced hallucinations.

Think about it. Frank Cross experiences this film over the course of about 36 hours, during the entirety of which he is drinking heavily.

First, Frank has a meeting with his staff where he runs the "Manson Family Christmas Special" Scrooge promo. At the end of the meeting, he downs a glass of liquor as his boss approaches his office. Later that evening, Frank is again seen drinking vodka when he has a run-in with the ghost of his old boss. At the end of that run-in, however, Frank's office returns from destroyed shambles to pristine condition.

The next morning, Frank is seen taking breakfast in his office, where the drink was all-too-likely spiked from his bar, mere feet away. He then heads to lunch with his boss, where he orders a highball (Whiskey and carbonated water). While he never quite gets the highball down, perhaps his psyche triggered at that drink, whereupon Frank once again began hallucinating, seeing a waiter in flames and then encountering the Ghost of Christmas Past.

It is here important to note that upon Frank's later reappearance in reality seems to spark no great surprise to those around him, even though he seems to materialze in the middle of a crowded soundstage. Likely, this is because he walked in while still delusional.

As the movie wears on and reaches its climax, Frank is seen confined to his office and mixing a Stoli with 3 drops of Tab, clearly after a large number of drinks before it. It is then that he experiences his most intense and terrifying vision - with the Ghost of Christmas Future, where he imagines his own cremation while alive in his casket.

Perhaps it's far-fetched, and maybe I've just seen it too many times, but Scrooged can definitely be interpreted as a metaphor for alcohol induced delerium. Don't get me wrong, though - such a deep view of this shallow movie doesn't make it any more artistically redeeming, but it also doesn't make it any less hilarious.

Hope yours was a great Christmas/Hanukah, and hope you're enjoying your New Year.