That's pretty much it. His song choice -- "The First Part" -- is impeccable. The highly tolerant audience gives him a round of applause at the end:
I haven't done any scholarly, psycho-sexual study of the details of the flick, but as I was watching it last night, the thought occurred to me: WALL-E and EVE are robots, and although humans refer to EVE as a "she" and WALL-E as a "he" (I think), they are not sexual creatures, and therefore sex and gender designations don't necessarily apply. Thus, it's possible that WALL-E could be homosexual -- in one way or another -- at least as far as human culture is concerned. One would assume that robots are less hung-up about such things.
ADDENDUM: EVE has a hole, but you fill it with plants; WALL-E has a hole, but you fill it with garbage.
UPDATE: Somebody already was all over this. I'm not surprised.
... I wish that she'd sign, "That's OK, I'm sorry that I still don't know how to read English very well, but I am grateful for your e-mails and text messages anyway." She'd still get the watch. Doesn't anybody read "The Gift Of The Magi" in school anymore?
A quasi-important, possibly unemployed mediaperson started The Daily Beast, which is -- oh no! -- as fusty and lame as Slate is, but it's newer, so that theoretically counts for something. The Daily Beast only lets black people write about hip-hop, unless the person writes short or writes about a Radiohead/Kayne mashup.
T-Pain: Have you ever been in the VIP room of your favorite street club
Pop Cesspool: No.
T-Pain: And you got a shawty on you, kissing on your neck, making you feel like she so in love
Pop Cesspool: We've already established that I have not experienced this setting.
T-Pain: Now you done grabbed you a couple a drinks, and you feeling like it's about time to cuddle up
Pop Cesspool: You are making broad assumptions about my social habits.
T-Pain: And you said shawty what's really up, and she takes big sip out yo' cup, and she said it'll be 60 bucks
Pop Cesspool: This microeconomy is equally unfamiliar to me.
The first line of Brett Favre's latest Wrangler Jeans commercial drives me nuts, because it's a really lazy piece of writing, even though it's intended as a haiku-like distillation of what Wrangler wants you to hear about their jeans. Never mind that Favre would never actually say something as hackneyed as, "I'm comfortable in jeans that are tough." Sure, he's shoveled his share of locker-room clichés and platitudes over the years. But that line is a fuckin' Madison Avenue disaster.
Every time I hear it, I imagine it as a diagrammed sentence. So, y'know, I had to follow through. I'm sure there are some minor stylistic errors in how I did this, but I feel much better, now that it's done:
Click for a bigger view. And in case you haven't seen the commercial 500 times already:
D.C. funk orthodoxy:
Fort Knox Five, "Insight" (mp3)
Black Keys, "I Got Mine (Live at the Crystal Ballroom)" (mp3)
Minimalist pop orthodoxy:
Fol Chen, "Cable TV" (mp3)
These guys are Canadian:
Faunts, "Memories of Places We've Never Been (TH White Remix)" (mp3)
Panther, "To Love Somebody" (mp3)
1. Episode 212 of "Mad Men"
2. DJ Revolution Feat. KRS-One, "The DJ"
3. Deerhunter, "Microcastle"
4. The fantasy basketball value of Thaddeus Young
5. The unexpectedly nimble use of "More Than A Feeling" in "Madagascar: Escape 2 Africa"
Bravo is not like crack anymore -- it's like a pile of burning autumn leaves: slightly acrid and mildly destructive, but strangely pleasant nonetheless. In that context, I find myself consuming "The Real Housewives of Atlanta" because ... it is there. And within the useless haze I have found Kim, and Kim levitates me with stoopidity:
NOTE: Jan, the professional, is ICE COLD.
You're in a foreign city. The language barrier is daunting or perhaps impenetrable, but you're surrounded by people who have some formal education and/or cross-cultural exposure. You have to take a shit. You don't want the indignity of pointing at your own ass in a frantic way or shouting something like, "WHERE ... IS ... THE ... TOILET!" This is a communications issue that the human race should've settled a long time ago. There's an international sign for choking, and it seems to work quite well, so I argue that there should be one for I will soon soil my pants if you don't direct me to the proper facilities. Below you'll see my suggested gesture, which is built off the idea of "number two" being a synonym for "shit." It also employs a double-pound for emphasis:
Let's consider it a "beta" test for now. I'm not sure sure about the universality of the gesture. But I'm certain that there are plenty of smart people who can help me refine this. In any case, such a nonverbal expression could be quite handy and discreet, even in situations where everybody already speaks the same language.
NOTE: It's possible that this gesture could be misinterpreted as, "I urge you to play a game of Rock-Paper-Scissors with me."
(photo ganked from losanjealous)
ADDENDUM: You might say that Satan provides "preppy escapism" or some shit like that. I say their casual upscale-ness only promotes DENIAL of the economic shit-sandwich that we're all eating right now. This is the band that no bailout package can save. Their rhetoric is useless. They are not fluff, they are walking death.
Back in 1991, I had a film-theory prof who dissed this video -- in terms of concept and execution -- in favor of the video for "Material Girl" by Madonna. Make of that what you will.
He plays loudly, and a lot of the sound eats-up the average cam's microphone. But this vid is charmingly authentic and unabrasive. Note the initial "shadow" shot of the videographer; one has to assume it's quasi-intentional, because the song is called "My Shadow." I also like the puffs of smoke from the crowd.
ADDENDUM: The BYT lady has some pix of the Black Cat show I thoroughly enjoyed last week.