$49 ticket comes with note saying 'your parents are stupid'
The extended hiatus of Chappelle's Show is starting to weigh on my karma. One could even say that Dave verged on the bitchass tip by taking so long with Season 3. And what ever happened to the Judge Paul Mooney gig? I only have about a year left in the prime demographic, dudes. Y'all need to make my Comedy Central viewing count. ('Cuz I know you have a little Nielsen gnome somewhere in the living room. I can hear him laughing when I watch Skinemax.) I think Mooney was at Caroline's last week; Chappelle comes back to the airwaves May 31. That's about two months too late, if my opinion matters. And that schitt better be funny. (I do recall saying on Easter that "I don't care how long it takes him. I'm willing to wait." Ha. The leniency is over, holmes.)
SIDE NOTE: People might be like, "but you have a wife, yo, why are you watching Skinemax?" The macho response would be, "That's exactly why they made Skinemax, my friend." But that wouldn't be true for me, specifically. The real answer would be: "When's the last time you kept flipping the channel after coming across one o' them fake-boobie-fests?"
Spike Lee's "25th Hour" -- I've never thought of Lee as an actor's director before, but here he seems to let the talent do the talking -- even a tarted-up Anna Paquin. Edward Norton has been sharper and more believable, but he still turns in a B+ effort that is strong enough to honor the work done by Barry Pepper, Philip Seymour Hoffman and Rosario Dawson. Pepper, full of '80s-slick on-the-Street swagger, and Hoffman, delicately treading a line somewhere between his usual weirdoness and true vulnerability, have the best scene: Overlooking Ground Zero (a motif that Lee couldn't avoid, but perhaps should've spilled into a side project), two longtime friends ponder the fate of their prison-bound buddy. Hoffman and Pepper nail the feeling that happens when you've known somebody forever, platonically: Depending on the genesis of the friendship, it can be easy to be ugly in ways that you wouldn't be with other people. At this point in the relationship, nothing is at stake, because you've been marking your territory and your identity forever, and the other person has no choice but to be honest about things. It's a deep form of trust. And trust ends up being the crux of the film, in more obvious ways (Norton/Dawson, Hoffman/Paquin), but that moment overlooking Manhattan's big gray sore -- shot in one long take, with both actors in the frame -- says as much as anything else. The socko moment at the end of the flick would be nothing without it.
The best stretch of "Straight Outta Compton (Explicit Content Only Version)" is the last few seconds of "Parental Discretion Iz Advised" into the first few seconds of "8 Ball," and it confirms that Eazy E probably was the greatest hip-hop cusser of all time. (See MikeD's reflections in the comments area of the "YES" post below.) It's all in the style and inflection. And I quote, with my own punctuation added:
From "Parental Discretion"
Fuck bitches dick. Fuck. Dick.
From "8 Ball"
Dick motherfucker balls ... Shit; ass. Bitch.
I spell all of this out because it should be noted that Eazy E probably used the word "dick" better than anyone else before him or since. It came out of his mouth like a crossbow bolt.
I hate stealing stuff from BB or MeFi, but the "Explicit Content Only" version of "Straight Outta Compton" available at ni9e has been an instant ticket to laughter for me for about 24 hours. You probably won't be disappointed. For now, "Gangsta Gangsta" (mp3) gets my vote, because it seems like the complete package, and it generally stays on the beat. But every other one has its moments.
Sooner or later, the Bob Vila aesthetic will meet the long-forgotten subjects of MTV's car show. Coming in 2035: "This Old Pimped Ride," featuring a bearded, flannel-shirted Xzibit gettin' all excited to redo the whips that "Pimp My Ride" handled the first time around. Sample quote: "We took that old-ass Playstation out of the trunk and made room for your golf clubs, holmes."
Got the garden started on Saturday. I realize this is neither heroic nor humorous. But it makes me feel manly. The setup so far:
Not planted yet: Italian basil, bell peppers, hot peppers, cucumbers.
Won't be planting: carrots, radishes, onions, etc. The soil seems a little rough for root vegetables.
Got any suggestions, other than "opium poppies" or "weed"?
A local newscast in your vicinity will probably tell you about this year's Tax Freedom Day. They have time to fill. They know you're probably eating a muffin or throwing socks in the dryer. But at what point does a man hit Beer Commercial Freedom Age? A jokey 30-second spot arrives. One jackass across the barroom laughs. Suddenly everyone older than 35 (spiritually, metaphorically or physically) is forced to wonder, "are my testosterone levels too low?" Shed those shackles, XY-chromo beasts! Get out, get out, get out. There are plenty of boobs on the Internet.
1. Kid Dynamite — Kid Dynamite
It's perfectly cool, it's perfectly sunny, you have a portable music player and you walk around town to this. You want to grab fellow pedestrians by their collars and scream, "I'M LISTENING TO INFECTIOUS THROWBACK HARDCORE," because there's a possibility that such information might be valuable to them. Dogs look at you because they can hear the high-volume music sneaking out of your earbuds. You are one of the Kids on Coffee.
TOTALLY UNRELATED BONUS CONTENT: A riff on Ulrich Schnauss.
According to DCist, Borf has made his way to San Francisco. SFers, you will definitely be amused and/or annoyed by "his" prodigious stenciling if "he" gains any traction out there. My gut tells me he won't, unless he's more than one person. All of this makes sense, though. He was due for a new franchise, because just about every available piece of mundane public infrastructure in D.C. bears the touch. A little rerun for ya: Borf (and others) in my hood.
Near the end of this NYT article about "Survivor," reporter Kate Aurthur notes that host and co-producer Jeff Probst, "despite his position on the show, has always been an honest, often harsh critic of 'Survivor.'" Upon reading that, my brain was like, "bingo," not because it's a new insight about Probst, but because it reminds me of exactly what has been great about the Phillies announcing team over the years, especially when it was Harry/Richie/Andy/Wheels: They never hide their distaste for the franchise's bad moves. Mellow-master Richie (may the smoke of Jah be with him in heaven) was the king of "wow, Harry, I'm not so sure I agree with this." Compared with other big-market broadcast teams that I've heard regularly (Yankees, Mets, Braves, Cubs, etc.), the Phils' team is downright honest. And compared with D.C.'s posers and suckups, they seem like a center of moral authority.
You got down with the conkglaive. Now I suggest this: If the conclavers with pope-like qualities are known as "papabili," and if they gathered to make rebellious hayseed music, would it be known as papabilly? One could argue that psychobilly and cowpunk have needed a new relative for some time now. Perhaps the Whisky Rebellion could rethink its flow, and get a gig at the new papa's inauguration ball.
The word "manatee" came up in conversation today. I suppose this happens more frequently in Florida. Every time I hear it, I think of a guy I worked with at a summer job during college. We'll call him Dennis. He was stocky, with a round body, short legs, a big head, a flat face, and nostrils that pointed more out than down. Nice guy. A little nerdy and shy, though. This made him a minor target for the stoners. I roughly remember this piece on-the-job dialogue, which happened while Dennis wasn't around:
STONER 1: What does Dennis look like? He looks like something.
STONER 2: Like a cow, kind of.
STONER 1: (realizing that it was a poor comparison) Nah, it's not that. It's like one of those big things they have in Florida.
STONER 2: Yeah, what are those things called?
STONER 1: Like a sea cow, right?
ME: (laughing at the accuracy) A manatee.
STONER 1: Holy crap, Dennis is a manatee.
STONER 2: (taking a drag off a cigarette) That's awesome.
While riding out a mild case of insomnia, I stumbled across a late-night paid promotional program featuring these guys. First thought: Whoa. Second thought: I bet they get so laid. Third thought: Crap, I'm still awake.
All apologies if I'm late to the party on this one.
The race to get good seats to watch the new local beisbol club is like Redskins II: Jackass Boogaloo. These guys are IMPORTANT, for cryin' out loud. Now that it has been confirmed that RFK will be crawling with self-righteous aging white men, I wonder if the stadium will be chock full o' billboards for dentures, diapers, craft-o-matic beds and remedies for heartburn, hemorrhoids, pattern baldness and erectile dysfunction. Honey, I love the ballpark. It's just like the 6 o'clock news!
The street in front of my house was shut down today because they were shooting a video for Raheem Devaughn around the corner. I had to go to work, so I wasn't able to stick around to watch the process. The only flashy thing in the vicinity was a chromed-out Hummer. A few folks in designer streetwear also were hanging around, along with your typical film-crew types.
Every time I hear the word "conclave," I think "conk glaive," as in:
"the hair-straightening technique used by African-Americans and mentioned prominently in The Autobiography of Malcolm X, as well as the use of the word to denote the hairdo achieved by using the technique"
"the ornate five-bladed, starfish-like weapon used by the hero in the fantasy film Krull"
And thus I think of militant hairpieces that can be removed and used like ninja throwing stars. If everyone in the conclave had a conkglaive, maybe we'd have a new pope a lot sooner.
Bought a couple of plain-front pairs of Haggar's cheapo Cool 18 model slacks to wear to work during Sweat Season in D.C. The black jointz fit fine, sexily even. Damn, I look good. But the khaki pair fits all sketchily & shit. Same model, same waist, same inseam, same everything. One looks good, one doesn't. Nice quality control, guys.
SHOWDOWN WITH THE PROGRAMMING DEPARTMENT OF MTV
Stunts, pranks, makeovers
Perhaps these shows reflect your
BARRY BONDS HEARS FROM TY COBB
Ruth waits, oh Giant
But be warned, milestone-grubber:
I'M the biggest dick.
ON USING 'BUNKER-BUSTER' AS A LOVEMAKING METAPHOR
Lack proper flair; instead try
STOLEN MOMENTS ON PUBLIC TRANSPORTATION
No, ma'am, that object
Is no bomb; it's a beer can
You are no hero
AN ACTUAL SEMI-MYSTICAL REFLECTION ON THE BEAUTY OF NATURE
Street gum underfoot
Chicle-chowing germs at work
But not fast enough
Show 1: Is it just me, or is this season of "24" all about mistakes, missed opportunities, snow jobs, misinformation, disinformation and unintended consequences? Jack Bauer might be back on the case, but almost everyone around him seems to be screwin' up at a higher rate than ever before. They're only human, y'know ... but at least they're never "dead wrong."
Show 2: For awhile, I dug the teary-eyed feelgood drivel supplied by "Extreme Makeover: Home Edition," maybe because I'm a complete vegetable on Sunday nights. But it's cryin' for a socio-economic critique. To wit: Sure, the show selects families who are down on their luck because of a tragedy, or have been suffering through years of trouble because one member has a chronic illness. Sometimes they just have a ton of kids. But they all tend to have detached, single-family dwellings in relatively serene suburbs. Why? Because the show needs a huge canvas to pull off its magic. There must be room for the hot tub and the monster garage and the weight room and the jungle bedroom and the mega-kitchen. But why not attack a run-down two-bedroom row home in the middle of the hood? I'd imagine ABC has a few simple answers for that:
1. Where would we put the bus?
2. Big Ty is afraid of the 'hood.
3. It's easier to get tears and dorky we-love-you signs from people in sweet suburban neighborhoods.
4. If we have to tear down the joint, we don't want another M.O.V.E. fire.
But imagine the ratings!
A co-worker: "Hey, one of my buddies got the Giants package."
Me: "I got a giant package, too."
Bonus thought: It's gonna be fun watching Yankees fans try to rationalize that Randy Johnson is a great guy, a real gentleman, a role model, and a classic Yankee, because he's a winner and a dominant force on the mound. Yeah, he's a real humanitarian.
Of course Pope John Paul II is one of the most beloved men in the world, and Catholics everywhere are showin' out for their main man. But I ask this question: Does the holiest of holy men really need a global outpouring of prayers at this point? I mean, God has to be like, "Yo, we have a suite all set up for you, son. When you get here, just call the front desk if you need anything."