Also, trust this one for a minute; I was worried too, but it will win you over.
Wednesday, August 31, 2011
How Many Great Madeon "Pop Culture" Videos Can There Be?
I don't know, but AT LEAST ONE MORE.
Also, trust this one for a minute; I was worried too, but it will win you over.
Also, trust this one for a minute; I was worried too, but it will win you over.
Tuesday, August 30, 2011
It Can Be Summer Forever
You guys, the Summer never has to end; if we all decide that it will never end, then it will never end. So, look, if it, against all indications and in spite of all the efforts being made, ends, I'm blaming YOU.
Monday, August 29, 2011
Believe Everything
Finished Neil Gaiman's charming book American Gods a couple of nights ago.
It's going to be the next big HBO show apparently and that was enough to finally get me to pull it down from the shelf where it has been sitting for some time and give it a read.
So; thumbnail synopsis, thumbnail review:
All of the gods and folk heroes and mythological creatures are real and they all of them live in America, where they have been forgotten, have withered from a lack of worship, and now haunt the truckstops and diners and motels and roadside attractions of the bleakest portions of the Midwest.
Our protagonist, a man called Shadow, gets out of jail, finds out his wife has died (well, she has sort of died) and promptly gets a job offer from Mr. Wednesday (get it? get it? it's all about as obscure as that) to work as a kind of personal assistant while he prepares for a war between the old diminished gods and the new gods of technology and consumerism.
Mostly the book is a roadtrip book. Really, what other narrative shape could a novel about America take? Anyway, on this roadtrip we get introduced to scores of different gods, some famous, others obscure. All are a bit down on their heels and threadbare and all have the stink of desperation on them. Their war against modernity and its idols seems doomed.
And really that's the long and the short of it. It's a very winning sort of decay and stagnation presented with the patina of mythic import. And It's a breeze of a read and you can't help but feel that it is an obvious candidate for the HBO treatment.
I liked it very much; I shouldn't have put it off as long as I did. Neither should you.
Saturday, August 27, 2011
Stetson Kennedy, R.I.P.
Saw today that Stetson Kennedy died. He was just shy of 95 years old, so you know. He was something else, of course: he was straight AWESOME.
First off, he was awesome because he was a pioneering folklorist who traveled the south with Zora Neale Hurston for the WPA, even though Jim Crow laws forbade them from going in the same car, staying at the same place overnight, and even taking meals together. He and Zora chronicled the folk life of America that would have been lost forever had someone not taken the time to write it down, to record it, to acknowledge its existence.
Second, he was buddies with Woody Guthrie.
Third, he was kept out of World War II because of a bum back and so instead of fighting racist fucktards over in Europe, he decide to fight them closer to home.
He infiltrated the KKK in Georgia and would pass on their plans to the authorities whenever they were going to do something dastardly. But almost better still, he reported on their ridiculous ceremonies, handshakes, and beliefs to the papers and then became a consultant on the Superman radio program, where he got them exposed to the masses and held up for ridicule as Superman kicked the asses of fictionalized Klan members.
In his book, The Klan Unmasked, he details the tense and exciting project that he and at least one other infiltrator undertook and the ways in which their work dealt almost the killing blow to the legitimacy of the KKK in the American South after World War II.
Dude lived with death threats the rest of his life. But we know who won.
The ancient Greeks used to find their folk heroes in the stars, where the Gods had placed them to be remembered. America has to make some room in its mythic heavens. You can put Stetson right up there with John Henry and Johnny Appleseed and Pecos Bill and Paul Bunyan in my book.
First off, he was awesome because he was a pioneering folklorist who traveled the south with Zora Neale Hurston for the WPA, even though Jim Crow laws forbade them from going in the same car, staying at the same place overnight, and even taking meals together. He and Zora chronicled the folk life of America that would have been lost forever had someone not taken the time to write it down, to record it, to acknowledge its existence.
Second, he was buddies with Woody Guthrie.
Third, he was kept out of World War II because of a bum back and so instead of fighting racist fucktards over in Europe, he decide to fight them closer to home.
He infiltrated the KKK in Georgia and would pass on their plans to the authorities whenever they were going to do something dastardly. But almost better still, he reported on their ridiculous ceremonies, handshakes, and beliefs to the papers and then became a consultant on the Superman radio program, where he got them exposed to the masses and held up for ridicule as Superman kicked the asses of fictionalized Klan members.
In his book, The Klan Unmasked, he details the tense and exciting project that he and at least one other infiltrator undertook and the ways in which their work dealt almost the killing blow to the legitimacy of the KKK in the American South after World War II.
Dude lived with death threats the rest of his life. But we know who won.
The ancient Greeks used to find their folk heroes in the stars, where the Gods had placed them to be remembered. America has to make some room in its mythic heavens. You can put Stetson right up there with John Henry and Johnny Appleseed and Pecos Bill and Paul Bunyan in my book.
Friday, August 26, 2011
Wednesday, August 24, 2011
Dragons, Yes, Dancing, Less So
So, I can summarize this review in one sentence:
"You go straight to hell, George R. R. Martin!"
But I can unpack that some, too:
Look, This is one of those book series I got myself pot committed to a while back and, while it escapes so many of the clichés that plague other books in this genre, it suffers from perhaps the worst one of all. To wit: It almost completely refuses to go anywhere.
I maintain steadfastly that no story ever told needs more than three books to tell. None. Not One. If you need more than three books of average length to tell your story then your problem is not that you have an epic tale to tell, it is that you don't know how to edit.
These books are so weighted down by point of view characters and plod along so slowly that it seems impossible to believe that any resolution of the narrative is forthcoming in the promised two remaining books. And, let's not forget, there was originally just going to be one more.
Ironically, what George R. R. Martin has become best known for - his cavalier willingness to kill off major characters - doesn't seem to exempt him from falling in love with every minor character introduced such that we have to follow that character all over the place while he or she dawdles through the plot. Indeed, even his character deaths are beginning to feel less like courageous genre-busting surprises and more like a rather macabre version of the "and it was all a dream" cop out. Whole story arcs that we are dragged through end so abruptly that one wonders why they were necessary to the plot. And if they weren't necessary to the plot, then why are we bogging down this already overlong story with them? Life may be like this, but stories, sir, are not. When people repeatedly run off on unrelated tangents while relating a happening, we don't call them raconteurs or mythshapers, we call them bad storytellers.
But look, that's all rather gripey and harsh and I only mean it partly anyway. In fact, I really enjoyed this book and, for all my bitching, waaaaaaaaaaay more happens in this one than in the preceding book, A Feast For Crows. Moreover, the impeccable timing of releasing this book just as the solid HBO series Game Of Thrones wrapped up for the season managed to scratch an itch I didn't know I had and I did leave the novel reinvigorated for the story itself.
That said, it does end on a couple of seriously dickish cliffhangers and deaths that seem cruel when you're dealing with an author who can take half a decade or more to finish a book.
Oh, and apparently the Daenerys storyline is just moving in circles?
You know how it is, though; if you read the other books in the series, you'll read this one too. probably, you will even like it better than one or two of the others, but I can't shake the sensation that nothing in the story has any purpose, and that dimmed my enjoyment of it significantly.
Monday, August 22, 2011
Jerry Leiber, R.I.P.
Together with Mike Stoller, Jerry Leiber wrote some of the most iconic songs of the Rock and Roll era. I might post some later, but there are just SO MANY.
Anyway, he was pretty old, I guess, so, you know. But DAMN did he write songs.
Anyway, he was pretty old, I guess, so, you know. But DAMN did he write songs.
Friday, August 19, 2011
Thursday, August 18, 2011
Wednesday, August 17, 2011
Tuesday, August 16, 2011
Invited To The White Party
Chiara: What am I going to wear?
Me: Well, you have those white skinny jeans and I guess you must have a white top of some kind, right?
Chiara: Yeah, but I don't want to look like someone who sells ice cream.
Me: Well, you have those white skinny jeans and I guess you must have a white top of some kind, right?
Chiara: Yeah, but I don't want to look like someone who sells ice cream.
Monday, August 15, 2011
If I Had That Magic Angela Lansbury Bedknob, I Would Have It Take Me To This Bar
Traguna Macoides Tracorum Satis Di!
Sunday, August 14, 2011
Saturday, August 13, 2011
Friday, August 12, 2011
Owls Can Be Creepy AND Cute
Look, the world is a complicated place. Things can simultaneously be a thing and that thing's opposite.
For example, owls are creepy. Owls are definitely waiting outside your home for you to die just so they can be the last thing you ever see. Owls get off on shit like that. Owls are creepy dicks.
On the other hand, this little barn owl is adorable and I want it RIGHT NOW.
Even if I am sure that it would eat my soul if it had half a chance.
Thursday, August 11, 2011
It Takes A Lot Of Awesome To Be This Awesome
Dolly Parton is a charm-based atom bomb in a dress. and that tone! this is the greatest cheesy thing of all time.
Wednesday, August 10, 2011
Breaking: Lobsters Less Poor, Stupid Than Originally Imagined (But Still Equally Delicious, The Poor Things)
Apparently, it was all a joke! Good joke!
Poor Lobsters. Poor Stupid Lobsters. Poor Stupid Delicious Lobsters.
This is clearly a metaphor for the human condition, no?
Tuesday, August 9, 2011
The 12 Different Dipping Sauces
My friend Lara is in West Virginia for the summer and she emailed to tell me about the preposterous restaurants she finds there.
One of them offers breaded and fried macaroni and cheese bites.
(!)
There is a sign at this place that advertises "12 Different Dipping Sauces" and they have this touchscreen monitor from which you select the sauces you would like with your order.
(eww)
In any event, I have discovered that I cannot seem to think of 12 different dipping sauces. I don't know if I am just inexperienced or if I am not trying hard enough or what, but I cannot seem to get past seven or eight plausible dipping sauces.
Therefore, a contest:
I have asked several of my friends to send me their very best guesses at the 12 different dipping sauces and, after all responses are in, I will post them here. Then, Lara will let us know who had the most accurate list and she will buy that person a t-shirt from a West Virginia gas station that reads "COAL" in big white letters on the front.
So.
One of them offers breaded and fried macaroni and cheese bites.
(!)
There is a sign at this place that advertises "12 Different Dipping Sauces" and they have this touchscreen monitor from which you select the sauces you would like with your order.
(eww)
In any event, I have discovered that I cannot seem to think of 12 different dipping sauces. I don't know if I am just inexperienced or if I am not trying hard enough or what, but I cannot seem to get past seven or eight plausible dipping sauces.
Therefore, a contest:
I have asked several of my friends to send me their very best guesses at the 12 different dipping sauces and, after all responses are in, I will post them here. Then, Lara will let us know who had the most accurate list and she will buy that person a t-shirt from a West Virginia gas station that reads "COAL" in big white letters on the front.
So.
Looking For Gold
Looking for Gold | William Stafford
A flavor like wild honey begins
when you cross the river. On a sandbar
sunlight stretches out its limbs, or is it
a sycamore, so brazen, so clean and so bold?
You forget about gold. You stare—and a flavor
is rising all the time from the trees.
Back from the river, over by a thick
forest, you feel the tide of wild honey
flooding your plans, flooding the hours
till they waver forward looking back. They can’t
return; that river divides more than
two sides of your life. The only way
is farther, breathing that country, becoming
wise in its flavor, a native of the sun
A flavor like wild honey begins
when you cross the river. On a sandbar
sunlight stretches out its limbs, or is it
a sycamore, so brazen, so clean and so bold?
You forget about gold. You stare—and a flavor
is rising all the time from the trees.
Back from the river, over by a thick
forest, you feel the tide of wild honey
flooding your plans, flooding the hours
till they waver forward looking back. They can’t
return; that river divides more than
two sides of your life. The only way
is farther, breathing that country, becoming
wise in its flavor, a native of the sun
Monday, August 8, 2011
Who The Hell Let That Guy In Here?
Said by a much more salt-of-the-earth fellow than myself as I passed by him on my way in to the Kamas Rodeo.
One of us was wearing skinny jeans and a sportcoat and flip flops and aviator glasses. The other of us was him.
Made me feel like a hundred damned dollars, frankly.
One of us was wearing skinny jeans and a sportcoat and flip flops and aviator glasses. The other of us was him.
Made me feel like a hundred damned dollars, frankly.
Saturday, August 6, 2011
Friday, August 5, 2011
Thursday, August 4, 2011
Wednesday, August 3, 2011
Tuesday, August 2, 2011
Monday, August 1, 2011
Lúnasa 2011
So, if you believe in the idea that holidays ought to be evenly dispersed throughout the year, as I do, and you think the pagans knew how to party, then the holiday after Midsummer is supposed to be on August 1st.
August is a month that seems to resist holidays. They just slip right off of it, like a child on a slip n' slide. Maybe it is because it has this feeling of being an entire monthlong holiday already; kids are out of school, Europeans take the entire month off and go to the beach; it is hot and the days are long.
In any event, many many cultures, past and present, celebrate the first of August. It has a bunch of different names: The Irish call it Lúnasa, the ancient Irish called it Lughnasadh, Catholics call it Lammastide or Lammas. It's a transitional holiday, moving from Summer to Autumn and it traditionally corresponds with a blessing of the fields and crops and celebration of the first harvest of the season.
The holiday was, for the Celts, related to the god Lugh, who is often thought of as the Celtic version of Odin, who is often though of as the Norse version of Mercury, who is often though of as the Roman version of Hermes, who is often thought of as the Greek version of Egyptian Thoth. And all those dudes are cool; gods of secrecy, of knowledge, of poetry, of travel and journeys. I dunno, make a loaf of bread in the shape of a caduceus or something.
People eat bread ("Lammas" is a contraction of "Loaf Mass") and have bonfires and the usual sort of thing, I guess. But, for me - maybe because I live somewhere were, on August 1st, it is so hot that it is like living inside a hairdryer turned on to high - it is hard to conceptualize having a harvest festival. What I'd prefer is a Neptunalia, with terribly wasteful amounts of water dumped, sprayed, thrown, and poured on me.
But the main thing is to think about Lúnasa or Lammas as the official holiday for the high summer. It is hot and it won't last much longer and you should probably have a party.
And if that party mainly consists of sitting on the lawn in a lawnchair, sipping a gin and tonic (with a splash of Campari, please), while the sprinklers are on and soaking you, know that that is called "Sussudioing" and is the sport of kings.
August is a month that seems to resist holidays. They just slip right off of it, like a child on a slip n' slide. Maybe it is because it has this feeling of being an entire monthlong holiday already; kids are out of school, Europeans take the entire month off and go to the beach; it is hot and the days are long.
In any event, many many cultures, past and present, celebrate the first of August. It has a bunch of different names: The Irish call it Lúnasa, the ancient Irish called it Lughnasadh, Catholics call it Lammastide or Lammas. It's a transitional holiday, moving from Summer to Autumn and it traditionally corresponds with a blessing of the fields and crops and celebration of the first harvest of the season.
The holiday was, for the Celts, related to the god Lugh, who is often thought of as the Celtic version of Odin, who is often though of as the Norse version of Mercury, who is often though of as the Roman version of Hermes, who is often thought of as the Greek version of Egyptian Thoth. And all those dudes are cool; gods of secrecy, of knowledge, of poetry, of travel and journeys. I dunno, make a loaf of bread in the shape of a caduceus or something.
People eat bread ("Lammas" is a contraction of "Loaf Mass") and have bonfires and the usual sort of thing, I guess. But, for me - maybe because I live somewhere were, on August 1st, it is so hot that it is like living inside a hairdryer turned on to high - it is hard to conceptualize having a harvest festival. What I'd prefer is a Neptunalia, with terribly wasteful amounts of water dumped, sprayed, thrown, and poured on me.
But the main thing is to think about Lúnasa or Lammas as the official holiday for the high summer. It is hot and it won't last much longer and you should probably have a party.
And if that party mainly consists of sitting on the lawn in a lawnchair, sipping a gin and tonic (with a splash of Campari, please), while the sprinklers are on and soaking you, know that that is called "Sussudioing" and is the sport of kings.
 |
| These guys could definitely go for some Sussudioing. |
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