Remember Scary Stories To Tell In The Dark? Remember being truly terrified for the first time in your life? Remember trying to sleep but being unable to get the image of the girl with the spider sac on her face cleaned from the back of your eyelids? I do! And I imagine a lot of you folks out there in internet-ville do too. I treasure those quivering, night-lited memories. You know who doesn’t? The fucking establishment man. Big brother HarperCollins is here to shit on all your terrified childhood wonderment.
For the 30th Anniversary Edition of Alvin Schwartz’ widely read story collection (which has probably single handedly payed for many therapist’s new cars), the publisher is replacing Stephen Gammell’s art. WHAT?! Bastards! Those drawings were the absolute best part about that book. The stories were fine, but those drawings were brilliantly twisted. That weird human balloon, the aforementioned spider girl, the rat dog, Harold the bloody scarecrow: all gone now, replaced by some bland bullcrap. The next generation of kids are gonna be real pussies. Is George Lucas somehow involved in this?
Other than remixing sixteen Ke$ha songs last year, André 3000 hasn’t been releasing much music. This saddens me. This saddens me because I really like André 3000 and Outkast. It’s like he’s just been doing nothing!..Or has he?
Gillette Fusion ProGlide Styler. Boom. Here he is. My boy Three Stacks, though seemingly up to not much, has really been spending time honing his craft, which now includes sponsoring razors. Or should I say, a 3-in-1 grooming tool. No, I think I’ll just say razors.
Who needs hip hop? Not me. Not André. We’ve got Gillette.
P.S. Adrien Brody is nicely transitioning his career from Oscar to “you know, that guy in that commercial.”
I… can’t… tell… what’s ironic… anymore uhhhhhhhh. Perpetual crush of dudes who weren’t cool enough to leave their flannel shirts unbuttoned and dated a girl for a while just because she had a killer zine collection, Kathleen Hanna, was recently listed as Set Designer (why?) for a NY based performance art group (huh?) for their show that is a recreation of an Insane Clown Posse concert (hey, what’s that burnt toast smell??).
The artist, Neal Medlyn, has done several performances like this apparently, recreating the experience of people like Prince and Britney Spears. But Wicked Clown Love is his first foray into the Faygo soaked masses. I was at the Portlandia live show last week, and Ad-Rock came out to play guitar for a couple of songs. People, obviously, asked him where his wife Kathleen was, which he laughed off. Now I know why. Because she was off somewhere painting faces, piercing her nipples, and debating the relative merits of the Joker’s Deck. Cool?
I thought it was pretty crazy when I got Kanye’s name tattooed on my inner bicep, but this woman sure as hell showed me up. Kanyeresa West, as she recently changed her name to, got Kanye’s name tattooed flat across her rump. She’s gunning for that girl who got Drake’s name tattooed on her forehead with this one.
Ladies, please; there’s room enough in this world for both of you to be irresponsibly obsessive.
At least she had the piece of mind not to get the tatt on her forehead. Well, maybe that’s giving her too much credit. It’s really going to be a shame if she doesn’t marry Kanye, as she intends, and instead some other guy is emasculated throughout their entire marriage.
In the video up top, DJ Moon Dawg asks Kanyeresa what she thinks of people that say she’s crazy. “I say that they don’t know Kanye.” I’d say that you don’t know Kanye, Miss.
“Until he say ‘You’re crazy,’ or until he gets married, I’m gonna keep going.” Really? Does it have to be Kanye who says you’re crazy? I’m sure there are a number of other people willing to diagnose you as such. Oh well.
Merry Christmas, Reader. I hope you’re satisfied with all the fantastic Мишка gifts left under your tree. Or, conversely, I hope you’ve come to terms with why no one got you anything this year.
Christmas is a time for peppermint hot chocolate, wearing sweaters, and listening to Frank Sinatra, and no one knows this better than I, but today, in the spirit of not being too spirited, let us take a look at some of the really shitty parts of Christ’s birthday.
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Beat ‘Em Like Mike
Air Jordans are the best; there’s no question about it. Are they worth dying over? Apparently. This past week Nike released the Jordan Retro XI Concords and people literally killed for them (I’ve always wanted to do that. You say someone literally did something and they actually did do it. Like, you don’t mean it figuratively. Huh. This is great). Sneakerhead-on-sneakerhead violence erupted across the country where, in Atlanta, shoppers broke down the entrance to the mall, leading to multiple arrests, and in San Francisco, gunfire erupted and the sale was eventually shut down.
In Florida, police took a page from the Occupy Wall Street Book of Unethical Behavior and pepper sprayed rioting customers (though, here the pepper spraying was a bit more justified), while in North Carolina someone was trapped beneath a glass door. The lamest account (and by lame I mean completely senseless because it happened over a pair of Jordans) comes out of Washington DC, where it’s been rumored that an eighteen-year-old kid was murdered over his Concords. That’s been confirmed, spread and then refuted, so who the hell knows? Let’s not get into if it actually happened or not, or the implications of this materialistic, exclusivity-based possible murder, but merely take a moment to appreciate our own Jordan collections.
Last night, on the eve of Christmas, a woman tried to make light of the Concord release, saying, “Did you hear about people shooting each other overs sneakers? Who even brings a gun to the mall?” She didn’t get it.
I told her, “Hey. Stop it. You don’t know about Jordans.”
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True Life: I Am Zelda
In a fascinating unveiling that has absolutely nothing to do with Christmas but because I don’t care I’m going to post it anyway, Nintendo recently published the official Legend of Zelda timeline. Apparently this is something fans have debated for years, and I guess if I think back to fourth grade I can remember being curious about where Oracle of Seasons fit in with Majora’s Mask. Here, it appears that following Ocarina of Time, the timeline splits into two, possibly because of time travel or something.
If you don’t want to watch the above video (for obvious reasons), check out this simplified version of the timeline. If you don’t care at all, then go eat some yogurt.
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Hey There, Sandusky Claus
A few weeks ago I posed the question as to how Santa ever became the mascot for our Lord Jesus Christ’s holy day of birth. I’ll admit, the idea was half-baked (not as funny as it could’ve been). Still, it is a question I am genuinely curious about. I’m snot sure how the association occurred; perhaps it was a story fabricated by a bearded priest after he was caught sneaking into someone’s home. After all, Santa Claus is essentially just a confused robber. He breaks in to your house in the middle of the night, but then, instead of stealing, leaves stuff behind. Eventually the milk and cookies (or scotch and ham sandwich, depending on your tradition) were added to the equation to make St. Nick a little less of a dope. Maybe that’s it (it’s probably not).
Kind of along the same lines, do you get Christmas cards from people? Lame relatives, square co-workers, whoever it may be, you know what I’m talking about: the long letters informing you of all the wonderful things that they and their family have been up to this year. They’re the worst. We usually don’t get them because no one likes my family, but this year some unknowing sucker decided to send us one. As it turns out, this guy is awesome. Obviously I’m quite the pedant myself, but this guy tops even me. Check it:
Seasons Greetings to All. [note the period]
Diane and I enjoy hearing from so many of you at this time of year as we remember friends from across the miles and years. While substantially less immediate and real-time than Facebook or Twitter, it does officially relegate us to senior status but also permits us to appreciate the wonderful blessings of our life. We’ve had another rewarding year in which Diane and I officially entered senescence for our first cruise from Southampton through Kiel Canal and did a reverse pivot of the Baltic via Rostock, Germany, and in the interstices of the trips we welcomes Sebastian Rocksworth – the prototype Amazon.
That’s the intro paragraph. The whole thing is great, but let’s skip to the very end, where it gets real pedantic and unnecessary:
So as not to permit accumulation of miasma on your Thesauri, I will calm your sussuri by telling you my lucubrations continue unabated but assure you there is no cure.
What exactly does that last sentence mean? “So as not to have you chumps rifling through your Thesaurus, I’ll go ahead and tell you that I will continue with my solemn literary work [this letter], but should let you know that there is no cure for my superior intelligence.” In other words, this guy is saying he’s not sorry for being way smarter than everyone else. And you know what? Neither am I. Merry Christmas.
I must apologize, Reader, for the lack of posts as of late. It must be killing you. It’s certainly killing me, not being able to read my own writing. Rest assured, this temporary absence from the Bloglin will soon be remedied. In the meantime, let’s debrief.
Pictures of Cats
Recently I found myself at a Holiday party. I had been lost prior to the gathering, confused about the “real me,” but then I found myself again. Jk. So I was at this party, looking great and decorating a gingerbread man, when I got a text. It was a picture of a cat. Yes, a cat. It was a cat that I did not recognize. Similarly, it was sent from a number that I did not recognize. I sent back a picture of the gingerbread man I was decorating. No response.
Yesterday, I was on a date (I was actually just sitting at home, but whatever. I’m cool.) when I received another picture of this cat. It was a picture of some little boy reading to the cat, with the caption, “Leo reading a book to the cat :-)” This was getting out of hand. “Who is this cat?” I thought. “And who is this little boy?” I figured this sender was a woman and that she was using these pictures as a means to hit on me. That would make sense. I sent back a picture of myself seductively reading in bed, sans shirt. The caption read: “Wanted: One cat.” Needless to say, she came over later that night, sans cat.
Hip Hop
This video right here – you see this video? Well this video for Blu‘s “Seasons” was first released over a year ago, seemingly in support of a new project, but an album never surfaced. I waited. I’m a huge Blu fan. He might even be my favorite emcee. Finally, two days ago, a follow up to 2007′s Below the Heavens was released (I know! I’m stoked! It’s great!).
The producer-emcee tandem’s latest LP, Give Me My Flowers While I Can Smell Them, is phenomenal. It’s not as polished and produced as Below The Heavens (with some people complaining that it is unmixed), and a couple of the songs in the middle are slightly dull, but the songs that are great are fantastic. Exile, again, delivers incredible production, with Blu’s flow and lyrics largely exceeding that of Heavens. The only downside to this release is that now there’s nothing better I could get on Christmas. Shucks.
Wha-… what the fuck is this? What am I even watching right now? Seriously, play that trailer up there first. Is that real? Is that an actual film that people, that Dario Argento worked on? Is Dario Argento suddenly the greatest living troll? I mean, there’s a giant praying mantis in that. In the trailer for a Dracula movie. That is apparently all shot in the same room.
That didn’t even look like it was vaguely shot for 3D. Is that Rutger Hauer? Oh, of couse Asia Argento is in it, naked, because no one likes to put their own nude daughter in movies more than Dario. Thanks for making this even more uncomfortable dude. That’s one of the worst things I’ve ever watched. I have to go take a nap now…
Gentlemen (and ladies too probably) you are now free to fulfill all of your kinky D-Generation XXX fantasies. That is, of course, if you have the pocketbook, and the guts to hire Chyna, yes, Joanie Laurer herself, as an escort. Which is a thing that she is doing now. For only a couple thousands dollars, you average joes can become eskimo brothers with X-Pac! Who doesn’t want that.
This is really equal parts amazing and horrifying, and also kind of sad a little bit maybe? I know she’s used to doing the low blow, but I think this is a different kind. ZING! Yeah, I know, I pretty much went for the lowest hanging fruit on that one. Just like Chyna does. ZING! Okay I have to stop.
This is the story of James Bryce. James is thirty years old. James is from Bristol. James accidentally cut his thumb off and had his big toe surgically relocated from his foot to his hand.
Doctors were able to amputate James’ toe and reattach it to his thumbless hand, giving him the appearance of Bruce Banner in mid-Hulk-transformation, though now it’s difficult for him to walk with balance, and he probably won’t be running races any time soon. This is weird.
Don’t you hate when this happens? One minute you’re living your life, thinking logically, and the next, Drizzy drops a new album and you totally lose control and get his name tattooed on your forehead. Same thing happened to my brother when he dropped Thank Me Later. Now he’s got the words “Thank Me Later” real big across my chest (“So Far Gone” is on his lower back). Clearly this woman is a huge Drake fan. Clearly she also does not hope to attain any sort of respect or dignity for the remainder of her life. Imagine if your mother had Drake’s name tattooed on her head. Boy howdy.
And before you get to doubting the authenticity of this, tattoo artist Luke Wessmanconfirmed that it’s real, and who’s more trustworthy than Luke Wessman? That’s right: presumably many people.
This reminds me of something I’ve always pondered. Imagine if you had a child (for the sake of simplicity, let’s presume it’s a boy), and when he was still an infant you tattooed an eye on the back of his head, and then as he grew older, and his hair grew in, the eye got covered up, until finally it was no longer visible. Now imagine if you never told this son of yours about his tattoo. He would go his whole childhood and young adulthood with no knowledge of his marking, until finally, when he became a badass at nineteen, he shaved his head and discovered the eye. How cool would that be? It would be so cool. He would probably think he were the messiah, or something. The only flaw in the plan, and really, the only thing keeping me from going ahead with this plan, is that newborn’s heads are too soft to tattoo. It’s a real shame.
Oh, how does that twisted fantasy remind me of this woman? Both tattoos are horrible ideas. Take care.
(Afterthought: I bet she’s related to Gucci Mane.)
