The Neurotic Monkey's Guide to Survival

"These STILL aren't my pants!"

Monday, February 28, 2005

You Make the Call!

I often think about myself in a sitcom. The title would probably either be "Dean!" or "That's Our Monkey!". I would be a gruff, but deep down inside sweet, bartender who helps all of his quirky friends with all of their wacky problems. Now here's my question:

Which of these catch phrases should I have (it would be said at the end of every episode, and I would say it while shrugging, looking into the camera, and then freeze frame):

A) "Well...You're a douchebag!"

2) "Deal with it, America!"

iii) "Who am I to Judge?"

Quatro) "Well, I am a Sexual Predator!"

V) "Take That, Jesus!"

6) "Here we go again!...cunt"

G) "These Aren't My Pants!"

You decide! Vote Now! And don't be afraid to come up with your own. C'mon, people: let's prove that democracy works! ...for once.

Funeral for a Friend

Welcome, friends and loved ones. Today we are here to say goodbye to a beloved friend. It's hard in these trying times, with violence, death, and decadence constantly threatening to invade and ravage our lives, to cling to that which matters most. Like friends. Family. Faith. All of these things are important in coping with the chaotic world as it swarms about us. And we honor those great ideals today but bidding a fond farewell to one of our good friends. We've had to say goodbye to so many good friends in the past year: those over seas fighting wars that seem pointless and particularly brutal; the entertainers who have provided us with hours, if not years, of laughter, merriment, and introspection; and of course all those who have been taken due to the horrible storms that have ravaged Asia, and the coasts of America. But today, we say goodbye to someone close to us, someone that, naive though it may have been, we never thought we'd lose; at least, not this early. Not this soon.

For two days ago, The Neurotic Monkey's chance of EVER getting laid died.

It's weird to say those words, and I'm sure it's very odd to read them. Maybe the Chance of Getting Laid would never become President, or a famous celebrity, or a huge football star; but no one here can say that Chance of Getting Laid hasn't affected their lives. Everyone here who still has their Chance of Getting Laid knows how precious and important it is to have that expectation, to have that slim glimmer of hope of gettin' some. But, for The Neurotic Monkey, such a golden promise, such a raison d'etre no longer exists.

Two days ago, The Neurotic Monkey received a shirt in the mail. Ordinarily, ordering clothes online is no big task. It is not something that can condemn an intangible to death. But this was no ordinary shirt. This was a shirt for a cartoon show.

I can see by the nodding and tears in the audience that all of you already understand where this is headed. For, as we all know, no one with a T-Shirt Endorsing a Cartoon Show can get laid. It just doesn't happen. The Chance for Getting Laid was already sickly, not finding too many prospects around the craptastic peninsula where it resided, nor was he the type of person to simply swagger into a bar and pick up whichever barfly chica seemed the least infected. But when you throw a Cartoon Shirt over that situation, well, the whole matter becomes grim. Chance, as it liked to be known, squirmed and silently pleaded for mercy as the Neurotic Monkey slipped into the t-shirt.

Sure, it's for The Venture Bros., which is an admittedly funny program. But that doesn't make it right, people! There's no justification for donning such an obvious cry of geekdom and unwanted celibacy. As Housewives flip through the pages of their favorite romance novels, falling in love with burly pirates and heroic aristocrats, they never discover the sentence "...she moaned in pleasure as she ripped his Garfield & Friends shirt from his well chiseled torso". When describing the perfect man, an "ironic but sweet love for animated programming" is rarely listed in the qualities of the erotic Adonis. The Chippendale Dancer wearing the Chip'n'Dale shirt is usually the loneliest, gyrating on stage while silently dying in the inside, just wishing someone would notice him.

Of course we all know these things are true! We all wished we could've been there to warn The Neurotic Monkey before he attired himself in such a nerdlicious wardrobe. But this is not a time to lay blame, nor is it a time of angry regret. This is a time of mourning. A time of grief. The Neurotic Monkey will never get laid again; every time he hears an Al Green song, a part of him will weep and long for the days when sex, while an outstanding improbability, was nonetheless possible.

But maybe it's for the best. Perhaps all of the energy and brainpower that went into obsessing over sex will now be devoted, instead, to worthwhile endeavors. Maybe we shall have rocket cars, cancer cures, and robot butlers in no time thanks to the Neurotic Monkey's sacrifice. Maybe one day, will of his accomplishments and fancy inventions, the Neurotic Monkey will find his Chances of Having Sex mysteriously resurrected, an Intercourse Messiah arisen, the hope for a booty call made flesh once more.

Until that day, we will all say goodbye to our dearly departed friend. Some of us, especially the Neurotic Monkey's college friends, knew Chance very well. He would always appear, motivating everyone to go out and get drunk; Chance was always the instigator for mingling and socializing. He will be missed. Meanwhile, the Tell-Tale T-Shirt lies in the Neurotic Monkey's bureau, its power emanating beyond its simple color pattern; like the bloody evidence of a heinous crime, that t-shirt sits in the bureau, waiting to declare to the world that the Neurotic Monkey's sex life has been closed till further notice.

Amen.

Friday, February 25, 2005

Gleaming the Blog

Do any of y'all remember the 1990 movie Pump Up the Volume with Christian Slater and Samantha Mathis? In it, Slater played a troubled high school kid who used a pirate radio broadcast to rant about the scandals and angst that ran rampant at his school. As Hardcore Harry, Slater talked about homosexuality, suicide, rape, teachers getting you down, all while smoking, playing middling nineties music, smoking, ripping off the beatnik schtick, and yes, more smoking. The end of the film finds Slater getting arrested for fucking with FCC, and going away to jail while legions of his loyal fans, and fellow students, all watch him get hauled off. The last scene is a view of the cityscape in this sleepy California town while listening to every teen sign on to his own pirate radio station. "Hey, this is Mad As Hell, and you're listening..." "What's up, this is Kaotic Chic, and you're listening...." etc.

Here's my problem with this ending: Everyone's talking, but no one's listening. If everyone has their own station that they run at night, then there is no audience anymore. I assume this scene is meant to show how inspirational Slater's character was, and how he created a revolution of sound, man. That this class of kids is gonna change the way shit's goin down, and finally they'll be able to openly and honestly vent their feelings. But the irony is that Allan Moyle, the writer/director, has created an elegant metaphor for the problem of this modern world, including teenagers: Everyone's talking, everyone's finally saying just how they feel, but no one's listening to them. And sure, it feels great to just scream out yer problems, and rant and rave just for the sake of ranting and raving. Angst qua Angst can be quite satisfying. But if everyone's hoping to change the situation they find themselves in, and to alter the world for the better, then we all have to do our share of listening, too. Think of the rise of reality television: we all want to be seen and heard. We all want to be our existences validated, our pain to be felt, our jokes to be deemed "hilarious!"

And that makes me think of blogging. Up until, well, about yesterday, I was pretty sure that about three people read this thing. Ever. But still I wrote in it. Bemoaning this fact or this problem. Bitching about some other facet of my existence. But I was doing it just for myself. I wasn't doing it to really change anything, or improve conditions. I was just typing out of angst, silliness, and boredom. And, truth be told, I never read anyone else's blog, except for Zach Braff's and Jackson Publick's. But now I am reading other blogs. Following the cues of an intelligent woman, I now "blog hop" (you kids and your crazy terms these days) and just surf around, reading random bits here and there. I read Pure Prattle and other blogs that my friends have created (and that I just found out about). So I'm doing my share of listening, I feel. I mean, not that a person who expounds on the genius of Gleek, the blue monkey from the Superfriends cartoon, can really be seen as a societal gadfly, but still.

I guess my point is solipsistic rage, this myopic anger, can be very dangerous and ultimately isolating. Branch out everyone.

Of course, if you're reading this, you're already branching out. Thus rendering the whole point of this entry moot.

...

Well, I'm an idiot.

Thursday, February 24, 2005

It Hurts So Good...

There's a lot of new people reading this, evidently. So I figure I could kill two birds with one stone. The first bird kinda shows an example of who I am to you random newbies. The second bird is to address the fact that I "playa hate" a lot; that I'm "down on the man" and get a "perverse pleasure in putting down others", and I "need to insult to boost my own anorexic ego", and I "don't know how to use quotes properly". Well fine, to all those that think I'm nothing more than doom & gloom, sturm & drang, Laverne & Shirley, I give you my

GUILTY PLEASURES

Now then, it should be pointed that some of these aren't really that guilty. I'll defend them to the death, and would unabashedly exclaim my love for them. Others I would deny until my dying, slowly slipping from this mortal coil, gently whispering, "Really...I don't like movies about ski patrols..." Oh, and to answer yer questions, Sex Scenes at Starbucks, about whether I'm single, cute, sexy, and flirty: I'm definitely single (does desperation and loneliness drip off every word on this blog? Then I guess I'm not doing my job), I can be flirty (put a bottle of Goldschlagger in me, and not only will my stomach be bleeding, but I will also be making drunken attempts at "come hither eyes"). As for "cute & sexy"...um, I mean, at some point in the history of man, at some specific place in time, every body type has been considered "cute & sexy"; I'm sure there was a point where a fat guy with a unibrow was hot, or a midget with a hare lip. I guess that's my way of saying: no. No, i'm not. Anywhoski, On with the list!

1) Ski Patrol Movies. This includes not just the classic Ski Patrol, but also Ski School, Ski School 2, Hot Dog: The Movie, the fairly recent addition Out Cold, and to a lesser extent Better Off Dead. Holy crap are these movies unearthed goldmines of unintentional comedy and cheese. Just like slasher films, these snowbound comedies have their own formula to which they adhere.
First off, everyone can ski really well, and so can their stunt doubles who usually end up wearing a really bad wig. There tends to be one character who can't ski, but he's the goofy one! What he lacks in Ski prowess he makes up for in wackiness! The main character is a nice, genereally outgoing type, that just wants to have fun, meet the love of his life, and ski really well. There's usually an evil land developer/conglomerate/suit type that wants to take the pure fun of skiing down a mountain while drunk, and make a profit out of it. The hell? What a buzzkill! Also, the Villain usually has a Henchman who's the main guy's opposite: a really good skier, with feathered hair, a black outfit, and a total submissive to his boss. Watch for all of the homoerotic undertones, they're scandalous.
There's almost always a lot of bar/drinking scenes. Which is fair, because, there's not much to do on them thar mountains, except drink, ski, fight, and screw. And that brings us to the love interest and the slut, or the Madonna and the Whore. the love interest is sweet, kinda suspicious of our main guy, but he wins her over; oh yes, he will win her over. She is usually related to the owner of the ski resort, or else has some sort of vested interest in preventing the villain from turning a profit and feeding his family. She'll make out with the main character, and cheer him on, all while fighting off the advances of the Henchman. And then there's the Whore, a chick who is usually brought in to seduce one of the Good Skiers; she can either work for the Villain, and is therefore evil, or else is just the one woman on the set who agreed to show her boobies in the hot tub scene.
This subgenre was parodied really well in the South Park episode, "Asspen". Also, the reason why Better Off Dead is (partially) in this category is because there's far too many skiing montages, and also John Cusack's character, Wayne Meyers, tells his antagonist, Stalin, "You think you're so cool just because you're captain of the Ski team." Now, I didn't grow up in Switzerland, and maybe my school is the anomaly, but the kid who was the captain of the ski team was never anywhere close to be regarded as cool. He was either a stoner, who was amiable but lame, or a skitard, that took way too much pride in his pathetic sport. But then, that may just be me.

2)Fine Young Cannibals, "She Drives Me Crazy". Yeah. I like it. wanna fight about it? Seriously though, take a rocking eighties beat, complete with that sweet synth-drum noise, and combine it with a kickass falsetto, and you've got a recipe for a guilty pleasure, my friend. Wow, that sounded way too much like VH1 narration. I apologize. time to go flog myself. hehehehe...flog. Also, how fun is it to sing this song? Pour a little alcohol on your inhibitions if you must, but if you have ever belted out this high pitched tune, you know you loved it. you can't deny it!

3) The Proclaimers, "I'm Gonna Be (500 Miles)" I hate that I like this song. But it's the sort of undeniable beat, that strumming guitar, the harmonizing Reid twins from Scotland, and the post-punk pop abandon of just having a good time while being a total spaz. Is it corny as hell? You betcha. Does it make me think of that horrible Benny & Joon movie? I wish to Christ it didn't. But still, for a song to bop around to like a four year old tweaking on a box of Sweet Tarts, you can't do much better.

4) Camp movies. Unfortunately, I don't mean those darling movies from the 50s and the use of kitsch in John Waters's films Hairspray and Crybaby. Oh I like those things, but that wouldn't make me feel guilty. No, I would be standing amongst a legion of hipster doofuses (doofii?). I'm referring to movies such as Ernest Goes to Camp, Heavyweights, and Camp Nowhere. I don't know why I have an affinity for these films. Ernest Goes to Camp I watched as a kid, and Camp Nowhere came out in middle school, and Heavyweights came out around the transition from junior high to high school. So it's not like I'm a complete weirdo, clearly these all clue me into something from my childhood. I always have a soft spot for movies that show a small, but devoted group of friends; I think it's a combination of my love of superhero comics (with all of their teams like Avengers and Justice League of America) and my lack of a tight friend group in my developing years. But for some reason, any time I catch any of the above three movies on TV, I will watch it. I'm just that lame. And I know they're not funny, or realistic, or even good. I don't sit there and cry with tears of laughter while I extoll the virtues of turtles with parachutes and Christopher Lloyd mugging to the camera. No, but for some reason, this trio of crappy camp flicks captivate me and my attention. There's no rhyme, no real rationale behind it, and if I were to try and defend it, I simply couldn't. I acknowledge that it's pathetic and weird, and join you in mocking me.

Although, I will point out a funny little connection: Writer/Director/Actor Paul Feig is in both Ski Patrol AND Heavyweights. He's also the author of Kick Me: Adventures in Adolescence, and the creator of Freaks & Geeks. So the guy's got some nerd pedigree, and he and I have some weird connection. I assume it all means that one day I will meet and eventually slay, Mr. Feig. But I will tell him on that grim day, "Sir, I am a bigger fan than you will ever know!" And then I'll probably stab him or something. I dunno. I'm not big on planning, you know? Not a forward thinker, per se.

5) Occasional Reality TV. I hate reality TV. Mainly because I hate seeing the machinations and manipulations of salacious executives who cut up people's lives, personalities, and words like paper dolls. I despise how editing is used to such evil purposes on these shows. Also, I hate that most of the people on them are jackasses and stereotypical and only chosen because they are jackassy stereotypes. But, with that said. There is some reality TV that I have watched on occasion. Namely -- The Apprentice, Fear Factor, Road Rules/Real World Challenge, Project Runway, and select episodes of The Surreal Life. Yes, I get sucked in like all of the other mouth breathers out there. I pick people I like, and people I don't like. I root for one team or one person. Listen, there's no pretentions of respectability here. In my defense...I don't have one. Sometimes the shit is just interesting to watch. And I do prefer the reality programs where the people have to make something, or utilize their brain and talents, like in The Apprentice & Project Runway. I like seeing the products of other people's minds.
And then I like seeing hot chicks threaten each other on RR/RW Challenge, and a midget pissing in the corner on The Surreal Life. But that's me. I march to the beat of my own autistic drummer.

6) Journey. Yeah. JOURNEY. Not the new version, with the frontman who used to work for The Gap and then took over Steve Perry's job. Oh no. And not all of Journey either. Just most of the songs on their Greatest Hits CD. It started out ironically enough. The song "Anyway You Want It" was played on The Simpsons and in Caddyshack, so I thought it was such a funny and tacky song that I should have it, and play it ironically, like the good hipster in training that I was. But then things changed, and my unabashed love of these cheesy ballads came about. But it's not just an unironic love of their music; there's plenty of irony left. I mean, I hate this band. they sound horrible, cheesy, generic, lame, unoriginal, and pretty much go against all of my taste in music. But I do love listening to the Greatest Hits CD. If someone would ask me to explain what "cognitive dissonance" meant, I would tell them to look at my relationship with the band, Journey.
Or Fluff. the food group, not the band. I don't even know if there is a band named Fluff. there should be. But the point is that fluff is disgusting. You look at it, and you know there's absolutely no way that this gooey white substance (don't giggle) can be good for you. Even the name "fluffernutter" sounds like a diseased organ hemorrhaging inside someone's body. But it's delicious! It compliments peanut butter perfectly. So there's that. One aspect, the nutritional standpoint, you hate it; on the other hand, the flavor side, you love it. That's me and Journey. My mind, my logical brain that objectively states what I like and what I hate, says Journey = Shite. But some other part of me, my inner eighties skeezball I guess, thinks that Journey is Thomas Gray reborn with a keytar.

So there you go. There's some other stuff I was thinking of putting on here. Like Pat Benatar, but I think she's actually respectable now. Shocking. And I was also going to say putting grape jelly on grilled cheese sandwiches. It sounds disgusting but it's delicious. It's one of those things that you're family does, and you think is totally normal, but the second you do it outside of the safe confines of your kin, everyone else stares at you like you made an anti-semitic joke at the Holocaust Museum. But that's not a guilty pleasure, per se; it's just weird.

But that's me. that's the side of me that I'm ashamed of, at least in terms of personal taste. So I'm letting my freak flag fly high, so y'all can take aim and fire if yer so inclined. But I guess the point of this was to say that there's a lot of things that I like that is just crap, and I know they're crap, but I'll still defend them. And I'm sure there's some people that feel that way about some of the things I've insulted on here before; maybe Ashlee Simpson is your personal diva while you're driving your kids around in yer Explorer, or else you really like Survivor (the band or the show, both suck) and it gives you a moment of pleasure to watch them all bicker. The point is, when I criticize or insult these things, I'm insulting the things, not the people that enjoy them. As long as you can have a mildly good reason for your tastes, or as long as you derive true joy from them, who gives a fuck what a loser with a keyboard says? You could be the smartest, funniest, most beautiful woman in the world, and I would miss out on that because I think Pharrell Williams is a jackass? No. I may judge people on what they like, but I will never dismiss them on that basis. As everyone knows, I pick who I respect and who I befriend based solely on the color of their skin and their politics, just like every good American should.

Just kidding.

Seriously, though; Fuck Bush.

Wednesday, February 23, 2005

Consider Yourself Duly Warned, Ms. Simpson!

So help me Christ, if I hear Ashlee Simpson allign getting a fucking haircut with being an adult, I'm going to track her down and beat her within an inch of her life with my shoe. I despise MTV, and try not to watch it, but much like Hostess products and underage Thai hookers, I tend to lose my control and vigilance and lapse into watching it every now and then. Sometimes to see high school kids experience existential dread (see previous posts), sometimes to see blurred breasts; I'll own up to it. And I manage to always see the tail-end of an episode of "The Ashlee Simpson Show" in which she says she's starting to come into her own, and "getting my hair cut and making a video--these are my decisions that reflect that." Or some such.

Ashlee, since I know you read my blog all the time (she's always emailing me asking, when I'm going to post again) I feel like I should say something: Adulthood is a little more than deciding to "take a little off the top".

Being an adult means taking responsibility for your actions. This includes those awkward moments when you embarrass yourself in front of a national audience by becoming a hypocrite and being found out as a fraud. It's times like those that the Adult will step forward and declare "I'm a douchebag. I'm sorry." Instead of blaming a disease fresh from the zeitgeist, or your poor band that still hopes that one day it'll be a real band, and that Avril Lavaigne's band will stop calling them "posers".

Adulthood means the death of innocence, of naivete, but not necessarily the passing of wonder. You can still be amazed that people like you, lampreys of talent, can become rich celebrities for producing nothing positive or entertaining. And think: If you were busy soulsearching, you wouldn't have had time to perform at the Orange Bowl, getting booed off stage like so much Gallagher.

Adulthood is when you realize what's important in your life. Like family, both the family that you sponge off to get your career, and the family that is sponging and manipulating you...incestuously staring at you as you make videos or do risque adds. Seriously, I can't wait for the "special episode" of Newlyweds when Nick Lachey catches Papa Simpson whacking it to an issue of Cosmo with daughter Jessica on the cover. Talk about awkward moments with the in-laws! (Wacky sound effect added later by MTV)

Love and Friendship is an important part of adulthood as well. These key ingredients help you blossom, becoming a more profound person. You get to see new sides to yourself, you get to expand your personality and mind through your interactions. You realize that your solipsistic world is a mere childhood fantasy, but in fact you are part of a large collective, a whole interactive environment of other people and other personalities. And if you choose to love and/or be friends with a no-talent assdouche like Ryan Cabrera you will bring forth nothing to this world but an apocalyptic seed of misery and bland pop songs.

And while we're talking about him, is it just me or does Ryan Cabrera remind anyone else of just a giant nose with hair on top? It's like Alf got a partial body wax and cut an album. Fuck that guy.

Lastly, I just want to say one more thing: If you're name is Ashley, spell it that way. People who spell it "Ashlee" are fucking retards who should receive a swift boot to the head for spelling phonetically. It's not different. It's not quirky. It's just annoyingly stupid. Just like you, Ashlee Simpson.

Ashlee Simpson: You're a Douchebag!

Tuesday, February 22, 2005

Whatever Happened To...

--the Flying Car?
--Robot butlers?
--Virtual Reality? Seriously, remember when they said VR sets would be under every kids' christmas tree in like 1997? Way off on that one, douches.
--dinner in a pill?
--the new metric system?
--Choose Your Own Adventure Books?
--Limp Bizkit? Not that I'm complaining, but how did one of the biggest bands just fall off the planet? Did we actually finally all come together to do something good? And why can't we harness this energy against Avril Lavaigne?
--Alf? Is he still in Pog form?
--Pogs?
--The Fry Guys?
--Cool kids cartoons? I mean, not just anime hawking some card game, but respectable American cartoons trying shill plastic action figures?
--Wade Boggs?
--Rocket Packs?
--Tween sitcoms like California Dreams and Hang Time?
--Black Rebel Motorcycle Club?
--my sense of hope?
--Kids wanting to be president?
--Rocky 6?
--Britney Spears's acting career?
--Jesus? Isn't he supposed to be back?
--Liberal Bias in the news?
--Afghanistan?
--Kim Jong Il's Hair?
--that smug feeling of satisfaction I get every time I skip a step on a stairway, thinking to myself "I'm making excellent time"?
--TV shows featuring sassy maids and/or butlers?

If anyone has any answers or leads, please contact me. Let's close some of these cases, people.

"Put it Back There..."

That is a line from one of the best episodes of Carnivale yet. While this season has been exceptional, and entertaining, it has also provided me with a lot of unintentional funny lines. Like when Ben is going to meet an old woman, he asks what her name is, and is told that "FUCK YOUR MOUTH! FUCK YOUR MOUTH! THAT'S HER NAME! FUCK YOUR MOUTH!" I haven't laughed that much since the part in Toni Morrison's Beloved when Beloved tells that dude to "Touch me on the inside part, say my name." And then last night, when a dancer beds one of the field hands, she tells him to "Put it back there". It's actually a very sweet moment involving anal sex. But then again, aren't most moments involving anal sex sweet in some way or another?

Now, be warned Nerdflock, there will be spoilers following.

I watched the first season of Carnivale more out of compulsion than interest. It was great looking, appearing as if everything was covered in a layer of dust and poverty. The dream sequences depicted epic and apocryphal evil, along with demented visions that plague the two main characters, Ben Hawkins (Nick Stahl) and Brother Justin (Clancy Brown), made for an appealing visual display. And the storyline of two avatars, one a "creature of light" and the other "a creature of dark", pursuing each other across the backdrop of post-World War I America intrigued me. Thrown in some sideshow freaks, which I'm both fascinated by and empathize with, and I'm there. Only one problem with the first season: It was slower than an inbred pig trying to spell "onomatopoeia"....and that's slow. Nothing happened that first season. Oh sure, there was some evil, some sex (a lot of sex for circus folk, I felt), the occasional bit of violence, and heck even a death or two. Much like my high school sex life, there wasn't a lot of action. But every episode ended with the promise that next episode is when the fit hits the shan, only to be met with great disappointment. Except for the last three episodes, season 1 was pretty droll.

Now I see it's just Act 1. The creators of Carnivale have always said that they would need at least three seasons to tell their story, and I hope it's just three years. Cuz that would situate Season 1 as the opening act of the story; we meet the characters, we see what's at stake, we get a foreshadowing of all the stuff that will go down later. Season 1 is the Fellowship of the Ring of this dusty tale, where some cool stuff happens, but you know it's all gearing up for the badass battles ahead. Season 1 is now available on DVD, you can check it out here, and sometimes it's on HBO On Demand. It's one of those series that you can easily watch in a weekend, devoting huge chunks of time to trying to unravel the mystery. It's necessary to catch up in order to follow the new season, and then I would recommend watching all of the episodes of season 2, also on HBO On Demand in most areas. It would be a nerdy & antisocial little marathon, but it would be worth it just to see the levels of intrigue and foresight that has gone into the series.

So if you haven't done that already, I suggest you go and do it now. Then come back and read this. Go on. I'll wait. I've got nothin better to do. Go on!

...All set?

No? The fuck is wrong with you? Just go do it.

'Cause I said so, that's why. Now go!

...Done?

Good.

So last night Ben finally found his father, Scudder (John Savage giving his best performance since Hair), and brought him to meet Management (Who's actually the mutilated Russian Soldier, Beliakoff). Scudder asks his son to protect him before they head into the trailer. Once inside, Beliakoff forces Scudder to name Ben's opposite--so Scudder ends up saying that it is Alexei Beliakoff aka Brother Justin (remember those pesky Russian orphans?). Beliakoff thought his son was dead, and is shocked to hear this. Then the human Russian stump springs forth and begins to strangle Scudder. It's actually kind of funny to watch a guy with one arm and no legs and an eyepatch slowly strangle another man. He's whipped around like a backpack on Scudder's back, but holds on, until Ben stabs Beliakoff several times. The lights and power dies in the carnival. All is dark and quiet as blue blood slowly leaks out of Beliakoff's body. Then Beliakoff awakens and grasps Ben around the throat. All of the power comes back to the carnival. End. That is something worthy of a season finale, but instead comes with a few episodes left in the season. Oh, and Brother Justin struck out against his diocese and attacks the church much to the chagrin of his superiors and to the cheers of his devotees. So now what's going to happen? Dunno. But here's what's really interesting: This is the introduction to this season that Samson gave right before the season premiere:

On the heels of the skirmish man foolishly called The War to End All Wars, the dark one sought to elude his destiny, and live as a mortal. So he fled across the ocean to the empire called America. But by his mere presence, a cancer corrupted the spirit of the land. People were rendered mute by fools who spoke many words but said nothing... for whom oppression and cowardice were virtues... and freedom, an obscenity. And into this dark heartland, a prophet stalked his enemy. Until, dimished by his wounds, he turned to the next in the ancient line of light. And so it was that the fate of mankind came to rest on the trembling shoulders of the most reluctant of saviors...

The "prophet" is obviously Beliakoff, as he was "diminished by the wounds" he received from Lodz's bear. So that means the next in the ancient line of light is Ben. And we know that Scudder said he just wanted to live a normal life, have a family, or "elude his desitny". So therefore he's the Dark One. So the Dark One's child is now a Creature of Light, and the Prophet's child is the new Usher of Destruction. It is also interesting that the Dark One is usually more powerful than the Prophet of Light, as can be seen by Brother Justin's abilities, and all Ben can do is heal people at a costly price.

Why do messiahs always get the shit end of the stick? From Frodo to Neo to Richard Bach's book Illusions, to the guy who started it all -- The Big JC, messiahs don't really seem to be feeling their role. Just once it would be funny to find a rich, popular, good looking Messiah who really wants to be the savior, not the least bit reluctant or tortured. And then you would have a set upon Antichrist who seems to be cursed; he's clumsy, has Irritable Bowel Syndrome, only likes shitty bands like KISS, etc. Cuz then you'd be rooting for the underdog, which in that case was the Antichrist. So that'd be awkward.

Oh well. In any case, I'm looking forward to the rest of this season, and the rest of this series. It's like Todd Browning's Freaks meets The Stand by way of Twin Peaks. But with a lot more butt sex.

Monday, February 21, 2005

A Quick One While He's Away

Hey y'all. Two postings in one night? Shocking. Anywhoski, here's just a bunch of quick little notes, hope you enjoy them:

--Is it wrong that I prefer the episodes of the television show Made when the kids DON'T get "made"? I love that they've been working their ass off for six weeks with trained professionals, and they get expert help and hooked up with all of this sweet (and free) shite, and still it's not enough. I mean, it rocks that they were on MTV (I guess) and that they met so many cool people who end up invested in their lives. But I just love that it shows that nothing's a safe bet in this world. I mean, as much as I love it when the Johnny Football Hero becomes Captain of the Chess Club, I love it even more when that Prom Queen Plastics Princess bitch ate shit when she tried to learn how to BMX bike. How great was that? And I'm sure it's just schadenfreude, the unabashed joy of seeing these people who have everything handed to them, and then they just drop it all. At least, I hope it's that and not just a singular perverse love of seeing children fail...cuz that might make me a really creepy uncle. I think I also love the failure episodes of Made because there's always that awkward moment with the coaches. Where they say "Well, she's already a winner in my eyes", and they shake the hands of the kids and make up some excuse, and hand them some sweet lemons (the opposite of "sour grapes"). It's like a captured moment of adults trying to sell the world, full of broken dreams and dashed hopes, to teenagers, and teenagers trying not to lose it just cuz they're on camera. It's absolutely brilliant. Really, though, I should just stop watching MTV.

--Speaking of Television, there's two ads I have to talk about:
1. That Army Commercial where a Young Girl who is Obsessed with Tornadoes ends up figuring out weather patterns for the army. Now, I get what they're going for, and kudos for showing women not just in the Army but also involved in the sciences. But, do you really want someone who wanders out of shelter to stare enviously at a tornado to be helping out our guys when trouble's brewing. Clearly she ain't right. Everyone's yelling at her to come in, but instead she stands there transfixed. Now maybe she loves weather, and that's good to be passionate about something, but to the point where it could get you killed, and it jeopardizes your family members that have to come out and save you, well then maybe you shouldn't be on our side. I don't want you to direct a platoon of men into the eye of deadly hurricane just so you can get some sweet pictures. That's all I'm saying.
2. Those new Anti-Smoking ads from TheTruth, this new campaign centers around a fictional sitcom entitled "Fair Enough" which shows how Tobacco Companies are ruthless evil monsters that eat babies and shit on the retarded cuz it helps pass the time. Firstly, I hate anti-smoking ads and laws. I'm no longer a smoker, although I'm sure it's just a brief interlude before I take it up again. But I just hate how now these ads use the same means (half-truths, appealing to youngsters, trying to be hip) as the Tobacco companies, with the Tobacconists' money, and yet they're not evil. Maybe it's my Batman upbringing, but once you stoop to the level of your enemy, you've already lost. So there's that. But what I really don't like about this commercial, is when I first saw it, I thought it was going to be a real show. And I thought that it was brilliant. Let's be honest, how darkly funny would it be to have sitcom set in a tobacco company? Very. Lots of good cancer jokes. Some flipper babies. Occasions for political humor. So when I saw it was just another ad put out by those assclowns at TheTruth, I was so bummed out.

--Whenever anyone talks about receiving The Gift of Flight, they never talk about the drawbacks. Such as, if you're the only person in the world with this gift, and everyone knows it's you, you're bound to have to give people rides. And there'll always be that persistent, nagging thought in the back of your mind whenever your with a significant other, if it's you she's into, or is the flying? Also, do pigeons move out of the way for you during flight? Or is it their understanding that the air is their domain, so YOU better do the moving? I see a lot of awkward and messy entanglements with birds. How fast can you go? And will you get a punch of bugs in your face and teeth? What about the hair sitch? And can you stop as easily as you can accelerate? Cuz otherwise, you'll slam right into a mountain or the side of a building if you're not paying attention. You see what my life is? I'm finding a bunch of worrisome complications in a fictional GIFT that I don't, and will never, possess. This is why great adventures don't happen to me, because I would have a plan for any contingency, so therefore it would become boring. It's always the lucky schmuck who doesn't suspect that maybe one day aliens will pick him to fight in their intergalactic boxing matches to see who will rule the universe. C'est la my vie.

--I have 5 different versions of the song "Rocket Man". I have the original Elton John version. I have the punk rocked version by Me First & the Gimme Gimmes. I have the eclectic mix of musicians that This American Life pulled together for just one day to produce a great original rendering of the song. I have the William Shatner sing/talk thing he did at that Sci-Fi convention in the 70s. Which is AWESOME! And then I have the Stewie parody of the Shatner version from "Family Guy". Does anyone know anymore versions out there? Please find them and send them to me. There's either a great soundtrack or a great musical experiment hidden amongst all of these songs, I just know it.

--Listening To:
Albums:
Ratatat, "Ratatat"; King Gheedorah, "Take Me To Your Leader"; "This American Life" compilations and online here (it's great, and for some reason I feel very sophisticated to listen to the radio for an hour); Sufjan Stevens, "Greetings from Michigan, the Great Lakes State"; Calexico, "Convict Pool"; The Trachtenburg Family Sideshow Players; Bonnie "Prince" Billy & Matt Sweeney, "Superwolf".
Singles:
"Rocket Man" Variations; Straylight Run, "Existentialism on Prom Night"; Trick Daddy feat Twista & Lil Jon, "Let's Go"; Merle Haggard, "Theme to Dukes of Hazzard"; Fiona Apple, "Sleep to Dream"; Bonnie "Prince" Billy & Matt Sweeney, "My Home Is the Sea"; Interpol "The Specialist". They Might Be Giants, "She's An Angel".

--Reading: The Fortress of Solitude by Jonathan Lethem. And Pure Prattle, of course.

--Watching: "Lost", "The Venture Brothers", "Arrested Development", "The Daily Show", Crappy Horror Movies, "Carnivale", Takashi Miike films, "Scrubs", very little but still way too much MTV, my life slipping away, the video for Interpol's song "Evil". Hoping to (finally) see Sideways and Constantine.

--Lastly, Hunter S. Thompson has died. At the moment, it appears as if he shot himself in the head. He was 67. You can read the local paper's account of what transpired here. And here's the NY Times quick recount of the man's life and work. I only read a handful of his books (Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas, Fear and Loathing on the Campaign Trail '72, Hell's Angels, some of The Rum Diaries). But of the books I read, I liked. Of course, I loved the Terry Gilliam adaptation of Thompson's Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas. And I thought Where the Buffalo Roam (the little seen movie based on his life starring Bill Murray) was OK, but that's neither here nor there. The man was a pioneer in writing, although no one I know has really taken up the mantle of gonzo journalism. However, I will point out that I believe his stream-of-consciousness, drug and frenzy fueled writing style (itself partially inherited from Neal Cassady and Jack Kerouac) has gone on to influence a lot of today's hot stars on the fiction scene. Read some of The Corrections and tell me you don't hear a little Raoul Duke screaming through an acid dipped nightmare. Or check out Augusten Burroughs's work, and see if the world doesn't seem to be constructed around him, only to be knocked down in one fell swoop. Even Chuck Klosterman, and most of the new reviewers (especially at www.pitchforkmedia.com), have taken on this style of going off on ill conceived tangents and writing about the insanity in their own heads along with whatever the topic of the article just happens to be. Hell, look at how I write. Reading his stuff was always like talking to my friend, Jake N. (who also was/is a drug addict): It was always entertaining, often educational, seldom logical, occasionally scary, and usually laced with some sort of hallucinogen. But you walked away from it changed, a little episode of weirdness in a usually dull and forgettable day. Such was Hunter S. Thompson's influence on the world. The man was insane. The man was an artist. The man was a Dick. The man was a poet. The man was a slob. The man was a genius. The man was a rebel. The man was an addict. The man was a punchline. The man became a pedagogue. The man became an institution. The man will sorely be missed.

--There's a great poem Yeats wrote in 1903 called "The Old Men Admiring Themselves in the Water". I always think about it whenever I hear about someone's passing. Hope you enjoy it. See y'all on the flip side.

The Old Men Admiring Themselves in the Water

I heard the old, old men say,
'Everything alters
And one by one we drop away.'
They had hands like claws, and their knees
Were twisted like the old thorn-trees
By the waters.
I heard the old, old men say,
'All that's beautiful drifts away
Like the waters.'

"House of The Dead" -- A Modern Classic?

No.

No.

My god no. A thousand times over, NO. The other night, I sat down and watched 2003's House of the Dead. Much like my dalliance with performance enhancing steroids and Crystal Meth, I can now tell others to not make the same mistakes that I have. I can act as a living sign post, pointing others away from the carnage of this train wreck. I took the lashes of this 90 minute mental beating for you, gentle readers; I'm like Jesus, if Jesus was a sarcastic robot on Mystery Science Theater 3000 in addition to his dayjob of messiah. But I documented the whole wretched affair, and I will now show you my Survival Diary of House of the Dead.

A quick word:

The following is very stream of consciousness and doesn't make much sense. It would make sense if you were to read along while watching the movie, but that would mean you would have to watch the movie, and to be frank, I'm just not worth it. But, in case anyone (and by one, I mean YOU, the one person reading this) does see the movie, this diary contains SPOILERS, but spoiling this movie is like getting a splinter when a building falls on top of you: It's just too late to give a damn.

The Movie:

Directed By Uwe Boll (dir. Alone in the Dark), starring...um....no one. Clint Howard and Jurgen Prochnow stopped in to pick up a check. The movie is a horror/action hybrid that is based on the popular (really?) arcade game of the same name. But how's this for postmodernism: The movie is really a prequel to the game. So if you love the game...then...you'll like the sequel that's coming out in 2006 (I wish I were kidding) called House of the Dead 2: Dead Aim. Yikes. Just Yikes.

Enough Jibber Jabber, Give Us Your Crazy Thoughts, Puny Man!

--The name of the Production Designer is Tink. Wha? Just Tink. whoa. This is gonna be bad.
--What rave happens during the day? And with volleyball? the fuck?
--Clint Howard is a God! Hasn't been this good since Charlie Sheen flick The Wraith. I should see THAT again.
--The phrase "Shove Off" has been repeated 5 times in the past two minutes. Oy.
--"Can't blame her for still getting wet over me, can you?" Puked in mouth.
--Speaking of vomit, Guy pukes on Hot High Maintenance Girlfriend and she laughs? And then she shows Clint Howard her tits? Best. Girlfriend. Ever.
--Glowing Eyes on zombies are weak. They make the monsters look like Dwayne Wayne from A Different World.
--I keep thinking the black girl is female rapper, Rah Digga. Does that make me racist?
--Bubbling, misty pools of water = SIGN OF TROUBLE. Except on Dagobah. Glayven.
--So far, they expect you to sympathize with...the boat? These people suck; their deaths better be good.
--Besides Das Boot, did Jurgen Prochnow ever have a career?
--No one has died on camera. The fuck is this? Jane Austen? Let's get to it, already!
--Those aren't candles, they're torches, Fucktard.
--Asian girl dressed in American Flag get up...RULES!!!! Her name is Liberty, and she is my queen.
--Where'd he get that Axe? Why are axes always lying around in movies and TV shows? Is there an axe surplus in this country? How can I cash in on it?
--Hooray! Some blood & death.
--Why are all of these zombies holding their breath underwater? And swimming? Wouldn't they just walk? And swallow water?
--So...creepy scarred albino guy is main villain? K.
--I prefer fast zombies. Seem more motivated.
--Was that just an homage to Saving Private Ryan? I'm sure The Greatest Generation appreciates it.
--LIBERTY!!!!
--For a group of privileged posh clubbers, these kids can all kick a lot of ass. Plus, I think I'm in love with Liberty.
--Why are Spanish Pirates speaking English?
--So the Bad Guy was originally like Die Hard on a Boat...except Bad. Like Speed 2: Cruise Control.
--This movie blows. Halfway through. Can't walk away now, in too deep. Like the Phil Collins song.
--Phil Collins should be in more movies.
--Homage to Lord of the Rings: Fellowship of the Ring? You've got Balls, Mr. Boll.
--For people doomed to be eaten, they sure are making a lot of dick jokes.
--Remember, Girls: When Fighting Zombies, Wear Your Hair Up.
--YES! BAD RAP SONG! CRANK IT, FUCKERS!
--Brilliant! Rip off Bullet-Time from The Matrix, with only a fraction of the artistry and budget! Genius!
--These Zombies are really limber.
--Not as Limber as Liberty.
--These zombies are really unorganized. Most of them are just milling about. I sense a vacuum in leadership position. Where's your managerial skills, Scarred Albino?
--Did he just clothesline a zombie? Can you do that? Has anyone made a wrestling/zombie movie (not including El Santo)? Look into that.
--Liberty has died, and with her any chance of seeing her boobs. And any interest in this movie, I might add.
--Quick cut melee...going into epileptic seizure.
--Why is it when people get cut in half, it's always an effective gag? It always looks cool and gross. Might have something to do with midgets. Look into that, too.
--This movie would do really well with an extra sound track of farting. Lots of high pitched squeakers.
--2/3 of the way through.
--If I'm hideously scarred and facing an undead army, would I still be able to get it up for sex? God, I hope so. God, I hope so.
--Just once, while a couple has a spat in an apocalyptic setting, I wish one of them would bring up something trivial but annoying, like the toilet seat or some idiosyncrasy of the other person. "I'm not going to stay here and wait to die!"
"Well, you move around too much in your sleep! It's really annoying!"
Pure Gold.
--Crate & Barrel, and Barrels, and Barrels. Lots of barrels.
--"Must...get...as close...to gross undead thing...as possible."
--What's more important to a sea captain: Go down with the ship or Die with Little Captain Hat on?
--I'm sure they survived that mammoth explosion. After all, they were a whole 10 feet away. That's a safe distance, ennit?
--The closer they get to the end of the tunnel, the fatter and crappier the zombies look.
--Who the fuck is this guy in the cape?
--Zombies take hostages?
--"You Created it all to be immortal, why?" "To live forever." BRAVO.
--I think this chick's boobs have gotten the hardest workout thus far.
--A SWORDFIGHT? Eat my dick.
--There's a lot more kicking in swordfighting than I remember.
--Nice headstomp, but didn't she just get stabbed in the heart? Or did her massive boobies save her?
--Where the fuck is this helicopter coming?
--Why would you say "Reanimated homo sapiens"? Is this guy a robot or just poorly written?
--And it ends on the ultimate high note: Hint at a sequel that'll never happen & a shitty rap song.
--Is this how guys feel after they've passed kidney stones? Pained but relieved it's over?

So that's House of the Dead. Guess I was wrong about the sequel never happening. Damn. Oh, and the summary of the movie that was on after House of the Dead?

Totally Exposed. (1991) Tanning salon co-workers get frank. (Adults Only).

Frank is one lucky dude. Bum-dum-bum-ching! Seriously though: House of the Dead is really bad. It passes the Event Horizon of being good bad (like, most eighties movies) and is just bad bad (like Until the End of the World). Like a sitcom with Jason Alexander (post-Seinfeld), or anything made with Olestra, avoid at all costs.

If you like Zombie Movies, check out: Zombie, Shaun of the Dead, Dawn of the Dead, Return of the Living Dead
If you like video game movies, check out: Um...The Wizard? Double Dragon is hilariously awful.

Friday, February 18, 2005

Neurotic Monkey's Guide to Survival Declares War on Pure Prattle

With blogs becoming major news in the past couple of days, breaking stories and embarrassing major journalists, it's only fitting that two blogs BECOME the story. In an unprecedented move unseen so far in the burgeoning age of Bloggers, this web site has declared war on Pure Prattle, another blog.

"Pure Prattle supports terrorism, hates babies, and is known to laugh at retarded people," The Neurotic Monkey, Editor-In-Chief of the site, declared early this morning. "Also, there's a lot of spelling and grammatical mistakes over there. Which isn't evil or anything, just kind of annoying."

The relationship between the two blogs has always been lukewarm if not tense. Robert Farish, the attractive but violent dictator at Pure Prattle, has threatened The Neurotic Monkey, warning that if certain demands weren't met, he and his friends would be "toast."

"This blog does not cow tow to threats, and we certainly will not cede the safety and security of our readers for the interests of a foreign blog," The Neurotic Monkey continued. This declaration of war is coming at a time of unprecedented activity at Neurotic Monkey's Guide to Survival, following the two month white out that occurred during December 2004-January 2005. But now The Neurotic Monkey is back, writing constantly, and says that "the internet may be infinite, but I will not allow my readers to be threatened, nor do I like toast."

The plan is to begin imposing sanctions on Pure Prattle, first by not letting them talk about such things as Nicole Richie and MTV Programming anymore, topics that would devastate the blog as they are part of the main pop culture resource that Pure Prattle discusses.

At press time, Robert Farish was unable/unwilling to give us a comment on the developing crisis, although he did write a note telling us to "suck it".

The Neurotic Monkey named Pure Prattle as part of the Axis of Internet Evil, along with www.FatChicksGetFaceFucked.org and that "Kid who thinks He's In Star Wars, Twirling Around Like An Idiot."

Thursday, February 17, 2005

Well Fuck You, Too, Seth Macfarlane!

That's my response to American Dad, the new Seth Macfarlane cartoon that will be on Fox and Cartoon Network this Spring and Summer. What could be a new successor to the (increasingly burgeoning) field of prime time Adult Oriented cartoons, is instead just a chance for Jackass MacLameJoke to pick up a check.

Does anyone remember the movie Multiplicity? It starred Michael Keaton as a man who perfects cloning, and then makes clones of himself, who, in turn, makes clones of themselves. I actually never saw the movie, refusing to acknowledge that Michael Keaton is still alive anymore (long story); but I just remember one of the lines in the trailer: "You know how when you make a copy of a copy, it's not as sharp as... well... the original." That pretty much sums up American Dad. It's a copy of a copy, and the few lines of definition are gray and hazy.

First, just to orientate the reader, let me describe my position on Seth Macfarlane. A lot of people either worship the man and his work, swearing by every episode of Family Guy (i.e., most drunk guys living in college dorms right now), and a lot of others condemn him as being one of the most reprehensible people to ever receive a paycheck from Fox, which is saying something (i.e., Kevin Smith, Ken Tucker, the editorial staff over at www.moviepoopshoot.com). Macfarlane even acknowledges this divide in the January 26, 2005, issue of The Onion A.V. Club in which he states in an interview that,

People either hate [Family Guy] or can't get enough of it. There's really no one in
between. There doesn't seem to be any group that can take it or leave it.
It's either, "I laugh my ass off start to finish, it's my favorite show," or "You
guys are pathetic."

Well, I guess I find myself in the Third Estate in this debate. Family Guy is actually pretty funny, and more often than not I find myself quoting from it like some retarded form of tourettes (more so). It is at its funniest whenever it makes absurdist jokes, goes off on illogical tangents for about two minutes, or makes such an obscure reference it even sends Dennis Miller to the altar of Google. And being the type of nerd that lives off obscure references like a socially unfit lamprey, I appreciate those moments. So overall I laugh at Family Guy, and think it showed a lot of surreal and absurd leanings that made it as daring and refreshing as any sitcom then or now.

Did I make it a must see when it initially ran? No. Can I stop watching in the middle of an episode? Easily, as opposed to vintage Simpsons which I will watch all the way through, just because every part of the episode works so well.

[And I know people are probably sick of Family Guy and every other cartoon being compared to The Simpsons, but when you have a great benchmark show that displays all of the possibilities for an entire genre (animated Sitcom), but it's a helpful tool in reviewing and judging everything that comes after. It's how we as a species go through life -- comparing and contrasting, trying to compartmentalize everything we run across. Suck it up.]

Family Guy started out, and never really shook off, the shroud of being a drunk clone of The Simpsons. It had the same family set up, same drunk fat Un-P.C. patriarch and lead character, and same manner of working pop culture into the jokes (so much so, that Simpsons refused to do the Random Jump Cuts anymore, just as a way of saying Fuck You to Seth). The only difference was that it was cruder, seemed to try to be offensive and gutter minded for the mere sake of being offensive--which isn't always bad, but does tend to feel forced. The character of Stewie was great, but also seemed like it had shades of "The Brain" from Animaniacs. So I had my problems with the show. I didn't hate it though; I think it's funny, but it's nothing to be revered.

And then comes American Dad. The basic premise is that Stan Smith is a government agent who happens to be ultra-conservative, government trusting, and loves his gun. He is married to a doting, and fairly bland, wife named Francine. His kids, Steve and Hayley, are a high school nerd and a liberal college student, respectively. Then there's the seemingly gay alien with Paul Lynde's voice named Roger who just wanders around the house being bitchy. Lastly, there's a goldfish named Klaus that has the mind of a german skier. And then hilarity ensues...or so They would have you believe.

I have seen the pilot three times now, and guess what? It sucks every time. Which helps to explain the title of this column. American Dad pretty much takes the exact characterization of Family Guy, but then puts a political background behind them, but the politics have nothing to do with the plot or punchlines in an episode. There are some tweakings: Steve is a social outcast because he's a nerd, not because he's an overweight awkward fella, like Chris. Hayley has a voice as opposed to be "annoying girl family member" that was Meg. And Stan is now good looking and carries a gun, as opposed to fat Peter whose random acts of violence seemed horribly (and hilariously) out of place for a WASP suburban dad. The wives are identical, with Francine even delivering a speech about her shadowy sexual past much like Lois might do on Family Guy.

And normally, I wouldn't have a problem with this. A lot of early Futurama episodes shared the same pacing and characters with Simpsons. But what bothers me is that American Dad was created before Family Guy was going to come back. So Macfarlane probably thought he was just going to appease the nerds who were jonesing for their (believed deceased) beloved animated show by cranking out a duplicate of that show, like when a parent replaces a dead pet with an identical one to spare your feelings and help you deny the natural order of the life cycle. Family Guy was rotting in its grave when American Dad started to be produced, and then when the geeks waved their magic wands (i.e. credit cards) over that charnel Peter Griffin rose again like a Hanna-Barbera Lazarus. And now Family Guy will be on the same night as American Dad when both start up their full seasons in May. Which is like having a conversation with a set of Siamese twins, only one of them is a little slow since Twin #1 gets most of the blood to the brain, so Twin #2 can pass for normal (by Siamese twin standards at least), but in fact is pretty lame.

When it was announced that Family Guy will be returning, American Dad should've had a huge overhaul. First off, stop ripping off other sitcoms. End the self-cannibalizing of Family Guy. Make American Dad it's own entity. Make Stan a unique character--make him reprehensible or completely idiotic or totally abusive, or something I can't even foresee. Instead he comes off like a rip off of Sledge Hammer, which no one from my generation has seen so they don't even know they're getting this reheated bullshit. Don't rip off Get A Life either, with Roger spewing goo everywhere just like the alien in that episode named SPEWY! For Christ's sake!

Also, none of the jokes were really funny. The timing was off. Watching American Dad was just like watching Jimmy Kimmel Live for me, where I'm sitting there and lecturing the television on where the joke should be, or how the timing sucked on a gag, etc. (By the way--can Jimmy Kimmel Live still be called that when it's not even live anymore? The fuck is that? I don't think the "Live" aspect of the title was really drawing the kids in, so it's probably not a big deal if you just dropped it.) The point is, it just wasn't funny. There was one funny scene, where I actually laughed out loud, and I'll remind you this was after a superbowl in which my team WON, so I was feeling fairly happy and easy to entertain. Steve has become Student President and, when spurned by his crush, announces that all PDA (public displays of affection) is forbidden. The camera then cuts to a bunch of couples separating, and it culminates in a teacher buttoning up while a frog lies expectant and waiting on its back. "I'll come back tonight," the teacher says, "it's too risky now." That was funny. I enjoyed a chuckle.

What really annoys me about this show is that Seth Macfarlane was given a chance to prove himself, to prove that Family Guy wasn't a fluke, to prove that all of the devotion Family Guy fans have hoisted onto him is worth it, and he blew it. He took the safe and unfunny road. He didn't try to rethink anything, didn't try anything different from what he knew worked for him in the past. And now that Family Guy is back, I have a feeling either one show is going to be great while the other lingers in "forgotten-Fredo Corleone-passed over" limbo, or else both will only be mildly entertaining.

And I know cartoons need about two years for the shows to find their niche. There's the style of animation, a huge group of writers all working together, the voice talent, so many different things need to come together in a groove. What's problematic about this show is that the seeds its planted will most likely yield bitter fruit. I liked the first Family Guy. I said it was kinda like The Simpsons, but I liked their devotion to pop culture. And everything that I liked about the pilot expanded as the show grew. There's nothing to mature and expand in this show. Probably the political satire, which there was little to none of (so God, Bush, and Cheney are friends? how risque!). Is some of this jealousy? Yes. I openly admit would kill (and have killed....take that, Arthur Miller!) to have the ability to create a TV show and air it on a national network. So when people take that opportunity and completely half-ass it, it just angers me the way some sports fans were outraged when Ricky Williams took all of his immense talent and wandered the earth in a constant buzz and covered in orange Cheetos dust.

And lastly, one more offense that American Dad and Seth Macfarlane perpetrated on me? Fox has arranged it so that Arrested Development has a truncated season, probably because of its piddling ratings, and to make room for American Dad. Arrested Development is the most daring, risque, smart, quick, brilliant, original comedy on TV. It and Scrubs are the only funny sitcoms on TV at the moment, not counting animated programming. And it is likely that it will die a quiet death in order to make way for the Emperor's Tacky New Clothing that is American Dad. Which blows. And merely underlines just how much of a urinal puck this life is.

So if Seth Macfarlane doesn't respect us enough to come up with something new, something original, or at least funny, then I say "Well, Fuck You Too, Seth Macfarlane!" I was going to say something about how he should've died on Sept 11, like he was supposed to (instead he got drunk at an airport bar); but I'm going to take the high road here and simply say I hope you get syphilis.


Here's another great one from www.Airtoons.com Posted by Hello


If I ever entered the daring and cut throat world of T-Shirt Production, this would be my first T-Shirt. To find other great bits using Airline Art just click on over to http://www.airtoons.com/. And if you feel the need to giggle or want to know what's Hot and what's Not (turns out Fanny Packs are NOT. I was wrong, and I apologize) then go to http://pureprattle.blogspot.com/. Posted by Hello

Wednesday, February 16, 2005

Press Play, Mr. Wilson

Valentine's Day.

As we go through life, there are days that we will always dread, a day that rolls around every year that we reluctantly face just so we can wake up tomorrow. For some, it's a dentist appointment; for others, it's their birthdays. For me, it's Valentine's Day.

I hate Valentine's Day. Always have. Always will.

Now I know this is actually the popular position to take on this Hallmark spawned day of diabetes and papercuts, but I'm not just doing it to fit in with the crowd. If I wanted to do that, I would watch "American Idol" and LOVE Maroon 5, or some similar masochistic cultural activity that makes me yearn for my suicidal days. No, my beef with Valentine's Day is personal. And maybe one day I'll surprise V-Day when it leasts suspects it--it'll be walking out of some bar, staggering around, happy to be spreading the love, and can't believe it has to wake up in 4 hours for work. And then BLAMMO! there I am, right behind it with a sawed off shotgun and litany of abuses for which V-Day must answer. Watch your back, V-Day: I' m like a cat, and this kitten's got claws, baby.

I could recount all of the abuses that V-Day has foisted unto me, like a drunken uncle at a family get together. I'll eschew all of that to talk about the real reason I despise Valentine's Day: I'm a Romantic. I don't even know if I'm allowed to qualify myself as such, or if a declaration will get me kicked out of the frilly club, but I stick by my statement. I still believe in the one true love. I still think one day I'm going to do something foolish and brave, and before I set off in search of my herculean task, I hold my great love in my arms and we kiss like she's a crack pipe and I'm addict lookin for a fix. Blame it on TV, or the movies, or comic books, or Love in the Time of Cholera; but I do believe in all of these altruistic and ideal forms of love--where there's no awkward positioning or cramping during sex, and you don't spill Alfredo sauce all over your pants at a nice dinner, or you don't accidentally insult your love's mother (how could I know? She didn't seem like a scientologist.). And while my romantic visions have always met the cruel fate of being mashed under reality's heel like the dying flames of the last cigarette you'll ever smoke.

So that's why I despise V-Day, above all else: because V-Day is the day that I should be in my element--sending flowers, getting kisses, making sweet love in time with some slow jazz in the background. It should be the day I consummate all of my passionate dreams and hopes, where I finally tell Suzy Dreamgirl that I like her so much, and the day where she realizes that she likes me, too. But the fact of the matter is that I usually spend the day avoiding the radio and TV for fear of seeing some schmuck who's just as awkward and lame as myself proposing to some hot girl, and that she says yes emphatically and they live happily ever after, while I wonder how bad prison could be (three squares and a gym? not too shabby...). V-Day is the confirmation that my dreams don't live in this world; instead they flop around impotently and die a slow suffocating death desperately trying to swim as freely as they do in my heart.

But it's not all doom and gloom. Sure I hate V-Day, but I wouldn't trade complacency for giving up on my romantic dreams. And that's why I love the Beach Boys. What? Huh? Yes, The Beach Boys. Specifically Pet Sounds, their seminal album from 1966.

It was before Brian Wilson went completely batshit crazy, one year before The Beatles came out with Sgt. Pepper, and three years before hundreds of hippies would be beaten in the streets of Chicago while screaming "the whole world is watching"; it was the cusp for America, a country still realing from the death of their bootlegging prince of a president and a few years before the wave of counterculture would rise up to wash across the nation like a Pollock painting during one of his more grotesque benders. Pet Sounds is filled with some of the best songs on any album ever recorded; but more specifically, it has the best love songs found anywhere. It covers every hue of love--from puppy love, to deeply devoted, to fleeting, to unrequited, and every shade of heartache in between. It's the album I listen to when I want to revisit all of my previous crushes and loves, when I like to remember all of my resounding victories and crushing defeats in the battle of the sexes. It reminds me of the sting of all of those disappointments, when the girl I liked just walked away. It fills me with hope of finding that special woman that, when I play "Wouldn't It Be Nice", she GETS it. She doesn't think it's corny that I start to bop around with the bombastic drums of "I'm Waiting for the Day", partly because the rhythm is infectious, and also because it's the tale of the Best Man, the second in line who's waiting to be pulled from the wings to star in his own romantic tale with his Lady Love.

And then there's "God Only Knows".

To anyone reading, if you play this while in the vicinity of your significant lover, you will inevitably profess your love and end up one tangled ball of flesh by the time the scant 2:52 of the song is up.

Don't play this song if you're single and drunk: You Will Drunk Dial. It is one of the most potent songs every encapsulated.

Remember that scene in "Yellow Submarine" when the Blue Meanies are being beaten by the words to "All You Need Is Love"? That's pretty much what happens in your mind when you listen to this song. Your heart grows, your mind recollects every great moment of every relationship (even those shortlived, poorly conceived ones that normally you scoff and attempt to play off as youthful naivete), and you welcome those moments again.

Even in my bitter solitary moments, there are those songs, those great love songs that you play and suddenly, it's not so bad. "The Fragile" by Nine Inch Nails, "Don't Change Your Plans" by Ben Folds, "Take Me With You" by Morphine, "Waste" by Phish, "As Is" by Ani DiFranco, "Something" by The Beatles, "Buggin" by Flaming Lips, "The Curse of Great Beauty" by Clem Snide, "The Shining" by Badly Drawn Boy. Hell, if I'm in a particularly sappy mood, even "I Would (500 Miles)" by The Proclaimers and "She Drives Me Crazy" by Fine Young Cannibals reels me in like a suicidal trout.

Great love songs don't just make you recall the best moments of a past relationship, but they also let you reflect and recognize those horrible moments. The anxious seconds before one of you said "it's over", that moment when you realized she had been cheating on you, the time you said "I Love You" and you didn't mean it. All of those moments come rushing back to you at once, and for some, they look into that motley collection of romantic disasters and triumphs, and they walk away from the edge. But for me, when that emotional flood rushes through my veins, I realize those are the moments that I felt most alive--if only because I was combating or caring for another human being. A great love song forces you to see all of the scars on your past relationships, but it also concludes with you looking hopefully and expectantly to the future. So as much as I hate you, V-Day, I can't wait for when you roll around next year when, maybe, I'll have someone to embarass with lavish gifts, nerdy mix-tapes, insipid promises, and stolen kisses.

As The Beach Boys sang on "Here Today":

It starts with just a little glance now
Right away you’re thinkin’ ’bout romance now
You know you ought to take it slower
But you just can’t wait to get to know her
A brand new love affair is such a beautiful thing
But if you’re not careful think about the pain it can bring

It makes you feel so bad
It makes your heart feel sad
It makes your days go wrong
It makes your nights so long

You’ve got to keep in mind love is here today
And it’s gone tomorrow
It’s here and gone so fast

Right now you think that she’s perfection
This time is really an exception
Well you know I hate to be a downer
But I’m the guy she left before you found her

Well I’m not saying you won’t have a good love with her
But I keep on remembering things like they were

She made me feel so bad
She made my heart feel sad
She made my days go wrong
And made my nights so long

You’ve got to keep in mind love is here today
And it’s gone tomorrow
It’s here and gone so fast

Keep in mind love is here today
And it’s gone tomorrow
It’s here and gone so fast

Love is here today
And it’s gone tomorrow
It’s here and gone so fast

Thursday, February 10, 2005

Bare Essentials

Hello, Silent Majority.

How y'all doin?

Me, I'm still on rock bottom. But it's cool. People are a lot more honest and relaxed down here than up there on snooty Cloud 9.

Currently, I'm in the process of vacating my premises. I will be moving onward and outward at some point, lurching towards the pacific like a drunken conductor at the helm of his metallic phallic symbol that rips through the heartland like so much Robotic Tommy Lee. The plan is to move out to LA (once funding has been secured. And if anyone out there wants to sponsor me, please call my 800 number: operators are standing by and you'll receive this nice Tote bag for your troubles), saying sayonara to Sucksville, MA for a while. Don't get me wrong, Non-Existent Critics, I love my home state. Massachusetts, a state with a chip on its shoulder and just enough beer in its belly to make it obnoxious and almost dangerous. Almost. Known for being liberal, bad-mouthed BY OUR OWN FRIGGIN PRESIDENT, and in love with all of our beautiful gay brides. But I'm sick of seeing a thousand cold fronts meet up with a billion warm fronts from the ocean which causes midgets carrying pudding to fall from the sky like a plague that was so bad, that even God passed on using it in Egypt. The Point: The Weather Here Sucks. It Sucks Hard. But that's not why I'm leaving, no I'm leaving for muddier pastures of Cal-EE-Forn-IE-A so I can be a grip on the set of "Pauly Shore Touches Andy Dick in the No-No Place" while still holding a B.A. in English.

But this is all pent up frustration that has nothing to do with the main point of the little blog entry you are reading. It's merely backstory, describing the warring factions of the Empire and the Rebel Alliance as the Star Cruiser that is the main point of this entry glides across the screen.

This entry is about Choices. Making hard choices. I don't mean choosing political parties, or personal philosophies, or which savior you want to bet on for judgment day (C'mon, Thor, Norse God of Thunder! Kick Ass on Ragnarok!). I mean choosing which CDs to take with me when I move outward.

Like most nerds of my generation--well let me stop there. I actually think it's nerds in general who have this trait--this trait of obsessively collecting things; whether it be comic books, stamps*, Star Trek memorabilia, rare books, posters, or what have you, nerds like to amount crap as if they are building a shrine to some benevolent deity who is obsessed with pop culture. A nerd's possessions act as a museum to his passions, and as an essay to whoever cares, loudly stating that he once lived and that he was moved by some art form or another. And that he probably had a really shitty social life. So with this said, it should be noted that I have over 1000 CDs. Easily. I don't count them, but the last time I did I had over 850. And that was over a year ago. and what a year it's been!

So now, due to the odd circumstances involved in my relocation, I can't take all of my CDs with me at once. Some are going to have to be left behind. I hope the nerds out there can understand the "Sophie's Choice" nature of my predicament. It's the same as when you go into a pet store to buy a new puppy, and whichever one you choose, you now have a whole wall of puppy dog eyes staring at you, silently judging you, demanding your reasons for passing them over. That's how I feel as I stand before my vast music collection: as if I'm about to break a bunch of puppy hearts--by which I mean I'm going to regret whatever decisions I make.

So the question becomes, How to Choose?

Does one go with what one already knows so well? I know Nine Inch Nails's "The Fragile" back and forth, verse and note. So do I take it with me? It's my favorite album of all time, so it should be at my side shouldn't it? OR do I cede it's place to an album I don't listen to that often. Do I leave Trent's soul baring, crushing, optimistic with a broken nose songs behind so I can unearth the true beauty that lies in the Last Action Hero soundtrack?

Do you go with familiarity or what is new?

The familiar is good. I like it. I know it well. I know the right moments to play it, and I know what it'll do to me and the mood around me when I put that CD in.

But I could get bored with it. I could get so sick of hearing The Flaming Lips sing "Lightning Strikes the Postman" that I forever ruin any chance of enjoying that song or my favorite band ever again. Que Triste. Variety is the spice of life, it's the one ingredient that'll make sure everything else keeps, if only for a little while.

On the other hand, the new is a wild card in the Uno deck of life. I mean, I kind of liked "You're A Woman I'm A Machine" album by Death from Above 1979. It was OK. Will I grow to love it if I have to? If there's no other alternatives? Is that how we make friendships, relationships, and tastes? By enjoying what's available to us. Are we all closet idealists, making the best of our circumstances and we don't even know it?

Ultimately, I'm bringing the albums I can't live without. Familiarity wins out, but there is some of the new, the unfamiliar in there too. I'm bring NIN's "The Fragile"; The Flaming Lips's "The Soft Bulletin" (Hell, I'm even bringing "Zaireeka" just to have an excuse to hang out with 3 other people**); Every Soundtrack to a Wes Anderson film is going; all of my Godspeed You! Black Emperor albums; Paul Simon, "Graceland"; Morphine, "The Night"; both Black Rebel Motorcycle Club albums--an ouevre that contains both a very familiar album (their first album is one of my favorites of all time), and something new (the second one I didn't quite get, but I'm willing to learn to love it). I'm going to try and finally crack Death Cab for Cutie, or else announce that I don't get it, and forever be shunned by indie peers. Maybe I'll resurrect all of those house albums from the late 90s (Chemical Brothers, Fatboy Slim, et al) and see if they stand up. Or if I get addicted to ecstasy all over again! Nostalgia rocks!

In the end, my trip to the sunny and fake land of Hollywood is as up in the air as what I will take with me to listen to once I make it out there. There'll be a lot of stuff that I love and know intimately, the Beach Boys songs that remind me of the promise of a summer's day, and the Beatles songs that display the solace in a solitary walk in the fall. And then there'll be those albums I don't know yet, but I know that I should know them...and I guess that's about 3/4 of the battle...or something. I'm not good with math in conjunction with cartoon slogans.

In the end, the choices we make help define the world we live in. And within that world we have to make still more choices. It's all one big M.C. Escher sketch where the paths all intersect and intertwine and fall apart in a dizzying displaying of geometry and psychedelic drugs. But when choosing what to bring with you as you walk along those paths, its important to always carry that which is closest to your heart while being prepared to welcome in the new experiences. The things we overlooked, or just never gave any due time to, those can end up defining us even better than what we once hailed as our anthem. All that matters, in the end, is whether or not it has a good beat, and if you're willing to sing along with it while on your road trip to the future.


"We're on the road to nowhere...come on inside...."





* Philatelist! My God do I love that words! Never has anything so nerdy sounded so lewd.
**"Zaireeka" is not just an album, it's an event. The Flaming Lips issued an album that spans four discs. That's not to say the album is four discs long, but instead that it is comprised of the sounds on four discs that are played simultaneously. So it entails four people standing with their fingers at the ready at four different stereos as they try and synch them all up. It's good, indie, artsy fun. Especially on weed. So go and tell your parents, kids!