Allow me to preface my review of the comic world’s patriotic poster child by acknowledging that I’m a little late on the uptake, seeing as the film hit theaters earlier this week and every self-proclaimed movie critic in the free world has been coming out of the woodwork laying down equal amounts of positive and negative feedback. I am no Roger Ebert and I certainly don’t claim to be an authority on what good or bad film is but I sat through the picture so I’ll make like an umpire and call it as I see it.

I haven’t been the biggest supporter of the comic book property search and seizure that’s been going on in Hollywood. The industry cats have milked the tit of Marvel and DC for some time now showing no signs of stopping or slowing down. We’ve had movie adaptations of The Green Hornet, Green Lantern, and Thor come out just in the first half of this year and now we can add Captain America: The First Avenger to the dogpile. Directed by Joe Johnston, the man behind the camera for Jurassic Park III, The Rocketeer, Jumanji, and others, this menial Avengers film, the fifth thus far, didn’t do much for me with the property although it looked pretty.

Here’s the breakdown, Captain America is as grossly jingoistic as comic books ever got, as if the square-jawed, man of steel Clark Kent was too subtle a message. Steve Rogers, Captain America, is a hulking beast of a man adorned in a costume that could only have been sewn by the delicate fingers of Betsy Ross. He’s the 50 states packed into one body but you get the picture. I was never too keen on superheroes, growing up, it was in fact, their arch-nemeses that intrigued me and the Captain had one of the best. His name is Red Skull, a towering mass of nefarious Nazism and the polar opposite of everything this country stands for and commander of a criminal organization of well-trained footsoldiers, HYDRA.

So, the movie, Rogers is a scrawny shrimp of a man played by Chris Evans, well actually his face was, oddly enough, superimposed on an entirely computer-generated body. It dawned on me, hastily enough, that there was something up with Evans and he looked more like a circus freak with impossibly disproportionate features than an actor who took his role to the next level. Set in Brooklyn during the ’40s, wartime for this great land, Rogers has always dreamt of serving his country and fighting for freedom and liberty and all the good stuff that makes being an American better than everything else.

Rogers’ is denied entry because of his frail build and laundry list of prior conditions but his more brawny cohort is waved into the service with the stamp of a paper. At the World’s Fair, Rogers tries again to sign up at a recruitment annex, granted access to the army by a mysterious doctor with a terrible German accent, Stanley Tucci as Dr. Abraham Erskine. The good doctor sees his potential and Steve Rogers ends up in a military division lead by Colonel Phillips otherwise known as Tommy Lee Jones. After all the movies he’s done, I still can’t break the association with Men In Black and with each phrase he only further embodies Agent K for me.

Meanwhile our villain, who doesn’t look himself just yet, is plundering some Teutonic treasure from the grips of an old Nordic man. The energy, said to be the power of the gods meaning Odin, is stolen by Johann Schmidt alias Red Skull, Hugo Weaving, and his gang o’ Nazis. He’s a megalomaniac with his heart set on destroying all the major U.S. cities, what else is new, overtaking Hitler himself in his plans for world domination. He uses an elaborate laboratory built by a lackey scientist to control and manipulate the ageless energy into a weapons system that vaporizes his enemies with a burst of plasma.

Back to Cap’n, he’s got a love interest, played by Hayley Atwell, and furthermore he’s been elected by the doctor and colonel to take part in an experimental serum injection, that will turn him from zero to hero. Some pointless dialogue occurs, all of the dialogue feels forced in like an afterthought, when in reality all the audiences really needed was a few grunts from the costumed crusader, directly proceeding on to the delivery of an Aryan ass-kicking. They strap him into an upright metal coffin, jack’m up with blue liquid, and a shining light transforms him into the smug, strapping Evans we all know but don’t exactly care for. For all I know, he could’ve been digitally transferred onto this body too.

Around this point I feel like they’ve wasted enough time prepping this guy for manhood when his pre-hero history could’ve been covered with a ten or fifteen minute flashback. Now he’s Captain America but not nearly ready to fight anybody, his launching pad to success takes the shape of a traveling show for soldiers of which he is the face, a dancing monkey that he, himself, realizes and detests. Sick of the propaganda machine, selling war bonds to “put a bullet in the barrel of the best guy’s gun”, and being heckled for his outfit, a rough mock-up of his signature attire, he decides to go on to bigger and better things, maybe some superhero stuff, I don’t know, guess we’ll have to wait another half an hour and find out.

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Today it was announced that McDonald’s will be giving the Happy Meal a makeover. Barely.

Starting in September, Happy Meals will now feature smaller french fry portions, the choice of fat-free chocolate milk or 1% low-fat white milk, among other choices, and, get this, apple slices! This, in addition to the classic heart of the kid’s meal, consisting of either a hamburger, cheese burger, or chicken nuggets. According to a statement made by the corporation, “By adding fruit to every Happy Meal, McDonald’s hopes to address a challenge children face in meeting the recommended daily consumption of produce.” The challenge, it should be noted, comes in large part from children eating too much fast food, and while this is a step in the right direction, it is in some ways only masking the problem. Of course, with the issue of fast food over-consumption comes the financial difficulties of eating healthy and the underlying social class structure that exists across America, so whatever. This is a start.

The thing about the current state of the Happy Meal though, over fifty percent of which are purchased solely for the toy (At least, I imagine that’s true. I kind of totally made that figure up.), is that in San Francisco, and possibly soon in New York, the toys have been banned! Though, really, this may be a good thing. If that figure I made up is at all correct, then many kids do in fact buy Happy Meals for the toys and end up eating the meal just as a means to get the awesome plastic thing. If even some kids are discouraged from purchasing a Happy Meal due to a lack of plastic, then maybe that will actually do something about this whole obesity epidemic.

This, however, raises the question: How will kids get those apple slices?

McDonald’s as a whole has recently been striving to develop a healthier, more positive company image, the first step of which, has been phasing out Ronald the Cholesterol Clown. Recent add campaigns have seen significantly less of the clown, instead featuring young singers and dancers that people may actually find attractive.

But again: The apple slices.

This past weekend saw many tragic events unfold in the media, from the mass killing in Norway, to the death of singer Amy Winehouse, to the crash of a Chinese bullet train. Now, I don’t take many things seriously, but I have a certain amount of respect for the subject of death, enough, in any case, not to make jokes about it. Or rather, enough respect to not make tasteless jokes.

With the announcement of Winehouse’s death on Sunday morning came, of course, a slew of Facebook statuses and Tweets regarding the singer’s passing. At first all I was seeing was the standard, “R.I.P. Amy,” “No, no, no Amy :(,” and “We lost a great one today. R.I.P.” But, as the day bore on, and people started feeling a little more confident in themselves, I started seeing things like, “They probably should’ve made her go to rehab. R.I.P.” and, “She shouldn’t have said no, no, no.” Are you kidding me? However funny Winehouse’s vice-filled antics may have been at times, her death is not the time to try being witty for once. I say that only because if you have any sort of comedic sense or integrity, you already know that this is not a place for jokes. A lot of people, however, aren’t funny, or at least aren’t used to making jokes, so when a disgustingly easy opportunity like this one arises, they jump at the chance to try their hand in our craft of wit. Don’t do it.

I even saw a lot of people expressing their lack of astonishment, tweeting things like, “R.I.P. Winehouse #Can’tSayI’mSurprised.” And again, sorry that this real-life death, that happened in reality, did not satisfy your craving for excitement, or apparent need for a surprise, but you need to keep those things to yourself. Her death was not a marker for which you should measure how surprised you do or do not get. It seems on top of the typical pointless idiocy that floods twitter every second, when a publicized death occurs Twitter becomes the frontline for inconsiderate, corny, one-liners.

Any publicized event, really, seems to bring the would-be comedian out of most people. On the subject of what was the deadliest killing in Norway since World War II, I saw comments like, “Norway: Another reason I’m glad I live in America,” and, “What up with that guy in Norway killing everyone? I THOUGHT NORWEIGENS WERE PEACEFUL.” Try to be more ignorant. Just try it. Give it a shot. I don’t think you could succeed. It’s one thing to be proud of your country, or relieved that a tragedy has not befallen your people, but find another way to phrase it.

And as is human nature, no two things can ever happen in close proximity without people picking one as more significant, or better, or even just outright comparing them. One person tweeted, “Amy Winehouse is dead, that’s sad. But dozens of innocent people have died because of a killing spree in Norway. Let’s not forget that…” First, we should thank this user, because there was definitely a chance of every person forgetting what happened in Norway. There was not, actually, and just who is this user that she gets to clarify that one celebrity death is sad, yet not as important as a mass-slaying? She is nobody, and yes, I know that part of the purpose of Twitter is for nobody people to concisely express whatever thought they want, but this is a matter of inconsideration, and really, unnecessary comparisons.

Another user felt the need to educate the Twitterverse in proper English, stating, “Amy Winehouse was a drug addict who died of an overdose [as of this writing that claim is unsupported]. Her death is a shame, NOT a tragedy. The killing in Norway was a tragedy.” Dude. Get out of here. Thanks for the English lesson, but do not take it upon yourself to tell people what Winehouse’s death means to them. Also, just don’t even compare them. They’re both unfortunate events that occurred. Were one to have taken place even a week later there would be no comparison of the two.

But, alas, that is the tendency of human beings. If you give people a means to express any thought they deem relevant, express they will. And fine, whatever; if you want to be ignorant and inconsiderate, by all means, go ahead. That’s not even why I started writing this. I find very little objection to ignorance, because I know that it’s never gonna not happen. But please, leave my craft of comedy alone.

The business of trailer-making is a fine-tuned craft that finds itself in a world apart from the actual industry of directing and shooting a feature-length film. Usually left up to the production company, their job is to take footage that’s been shot already and approach the cutting room table, with fresh ideas, assembling an individual product that speaks for itself using bits and pieces that have been edited together. A horrible preview/trailer could mean the difference between hundreds of thousands and millions of dollars at the box office.

Yesterday, I went to the theater to see a matinee and it was after a certain preview in particular that I began to mull over the whole trailering thing. Having seen first hand what goes into editing a film, the sleepless nights in front of Avid or Final Cut Pro with the ceaseless, carpal-tunnel inducing, click and drag movement of the hand, it is unfathomable to me that a trailer could come out stinking of half-assed handiwork.

This is understandable if the movie itself is an exhausted piece of crap but not when the film is, exactly what I just said, a film. This may even be some counter-intuitive marketing technique that works it’s magic on loads of people as they arrive to the theater with low expectations and massive amounts of finger-food preparing themselves for another dopey, good for a few chuckles, comedy only to be blown away by how funny the movie was (of course I’m using a comedy as the example here) ultimately praising the film for it’s supersession.

Where was I? Oh yeah, so the specific trailer that lead me down this path of ranting and raving was in fact the official preview for 30 Minutes or Less, an upcoming comedy flaunting a cast of titans, Jesse Eisenberg, Aziz Ansari, Nick Swardson, and Danny McBride. Sounds like a surefire recipe for some reviews that involve the word “uproarious” and “raucous” as well as phrases like “laugh out loud funny” and “the best comedy you will see all year” right? Well maybe it is all those things and maybe it isn’t but if this stale handjob of a trailer is any tribute to the movie itself, I’d keep it in your pants New York Times.

This isn’t the first time director Ruben Fleischer pulled some calculated shit like this. He gave the thumbs up to a similarly awful trailer for his previous film, Zombieland, probably with a knowing smirk on his face that he would exceed everyone’s pre-screening impressions and be given a pat on the back by critics. He wasn’t wrong, Zombieland ended up being way better than it’s stupid, unsatisfying previews, excelling into an echelon above the run-of-the-mill Hollywood bait. But why even do that? Why embrace glitz over substance and story in a trailer?

Trailers, like the one for 30 Minutes or Less, that leave you scratching your head asking yourself “Why is this movie getting made?” sorta puts a damper on the anticipation level of audiences and just seems like contrived hype. Sony Pictures was the production company on this flick, in addition to Zombieland, and their trailer, in both cases, honestly made me cringe with disgust at how lame and ad-hoc they were. It was a disconnected collection of moments placed awkwardly against one another and not one of those moments was genuinely humorous. Save all the good jokes for the movie, huh? Let’s hope so.

All in all, the people making the trailers for Fleischer’s films need to be let go or given a stern talking to at the very least. The whole thing is oddly laughable because in the end everyone is going to pack into the cineplex for another summer comedy anyway regardless of how weak the trailer is. If 30 Minutes or Less pulls off the same trick Zombieland did, I’ll be both impressed and confounded. Can he do it?

So I was in the chair, anxious, and on the verge of a panic attack, when my hair cutting friend told me that I could relax. I prefer the term hair cutting friend to hairdresser as it leaves both my hair cutting friend and myself looking more dignified. Actually, I guess it leaves her looking rather unprofessional. But whatever, I look much more cool and nonchalant this way, so we’re sticking to it. “You can relax now,” she said, “We’re out of the woods.”

Out of the woods? Great idiom. I’m really interested in idioms and this particular one had not crossed my mind in some time (crossed my mind, there’s another one right there). It’s a great one though, don’t you think? It’s simple, and easy to understand. “Out of the woods.” It makes perfect sense. You’re in the woods: terrified, anxious, sweaty, crying, perhaps; and then you’re out. You’ve made it. You’re safe.

Upon hearing the news that we had made it through the woods, I released a sigh of relief, at which point my friend promptly continued: “Yeah don’t worry. Calm down, stop shaking. We’re out; we made it through the woods. You’re Scott free.”

I’m what? I’m Scott free? I don’t much like that. No, don’t like it at all. Who’s Scott? I certainly am not. Who was this Scott that just got away with everything? He must have been a wizard of some sort to have consistently gotten away with deviant actions. Whoever he was, I’m pretty sure that idiom didn’t even apply to the circumstance at hand.

You can bet I looked it up. Really, I did! In between that last paragraph and this current one I took a break from writing to figure out just who Scott was. It turns out he, Dred Scott, was a slave born in Virginia in 1779. His whole schtick was that he didn’t want to be a slave, instead, opting to be free. And I guess after several unsuccessful court cases, he was finally freed by his owners.

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When I was a shonen, a young boy that is, I was way into Japanese animation, commonly referred to as anime. And when I say ‘way into’ I really mean to say addicted to. Filling my days with back-to-back episodes of Sailor Moon, Dragonball Z, and Voltron: Defender of the Universe became a commonplace routine, an obsession, a way of life. Somewhere inside I knew and appreciated the stark difference between those toons and the awfully banal Scooby Doo, forget about the fact that the two art-styles are completely incomparable and a dead giveaway of foreign influence. I was a wide-eyed, hormonal young man who craved over-exaggerated facial features, short-skirted floating schoolgirls, and all-consuming energy balls.

Not until much later did I realize that a single animation studio had made it possible for me to contentedly eat ants-on-a-log and drink Yoohoo in my home as I watched Sailor Moon, Mercury, Neptune, Mars, Jupiter, Venus, Pluto, Saturn, Chibi Moon, and finally Uranus, never gets old, kick ass ensconced in an aura of color-coded fantasy.

Hi haters, that’s correct, I was and am still a Sailor Moon fan. The series’ ladies kept me captivated from the moment “Fighting evil by moonlight” reached my ears. A show for girls? I call bullshit, Sailor Moon leaped gender boundaries with as much grace and finesse as they battled the dark, negative forces of the universe. Those mystical dames bestowed upon me an interest in astronomy and the Solar System in addition to my first proper, blood-tingling, erection. For myself at least, Sailor Moon was my introduction to occult themes in toons with the show integrating astrological mysticism and crystalline magic into it’s storyline.

The people that brought me Sailor Moon and would present me with many other awe-inspiring shows was Toei, an art and production studio that would be responsible for the overwhelming success of Japanese animation worldwide. They are a company that never ceases to amaze with superb artwork and storywriting setting the standard for others in the industry

As I would find out in years to come and after some dorky prying, there is an entire subgenre of anime called Majokko, or magical girls. A subgenre which again forks based upon interest on entirely human or anthropomorphic interest in women, I’m talking girls with cat ears and shit leading curious viewers down a one-way street to a hardcore furry habit and animal cosplay. That’s not, personally, my bag but after getting my cherry popped by the Sailor Moon chicks I couldn’t turn back.

The first ever magical girl anime was produced by Toei in 1966 called Sally the Witch. The black and white show, having begun as a manga and soon adapted to television, is about a young girl with powers that must not reveal her abilities to the dull outside world. Yeah we’ve all heard that overused character profile before but Sally the Witch is on a “must see” basis for fans of the genre. If you haven’t deduced already, the show was heavily influenced by the America’s Bewitched starring the sultry Elizabeth Montgomery and was used as source material for teen witch productions like Sabrina and my favorite late 80′s box-office flop, Teen Witch. I’ve provided a video for those who initially passed on watching this classic slice of cinema.

Now back to babes with supernatural capabilities and shit. Having researched Toei I came across another metaphysical babe by the name of Kamikaze Kaito Jeanne. Her deal is that she’s some reincarnation of Joan of Arc battling off evil forces and containing demons. Predictable maybe, but sitting back as this tough bitch of a character jumps 100 feet in the air only to come down in a hail of sword slashes is beyond engrossing. Watch as angels and demons duke it out for power and control. This is a fantastic anime, period.

That brings me to Majokko Tickle, another out-of-this-world anime produced by Toei in the mid-70s with dedicated fans to this very day. This airy series revolves around sister schoolgirls, one a fairy named Tickle and one a human named Tiko, reveling in their youth and causing mischief. Smiley and fun, the show is more child-friendly than the others gives it a nice, easy -to-watch, and somewhat refreshing tinge.

Majokko is one of those genres that stretches over it’s perceived fanbase, you won’t catch me fervently scanning the web for hentai to stroke my weenie to or attending conventions dressed up as Final Fantasy characters. Albeit, my inability to watch and be entertained by newer shows like Fullmetal Alchemist and Bleach and an aversion to the whole 4chan/anime/manga strangely elitist geek culture doesn’t stop me from maintaining a respect and admiration for japanimation that continues to live on in me and for Toei and their women I am grateful.

What is it about the deathless rap samurais Wu-Tang Clan that makes them one of the most “mashed” artists ever? The fact that DJs/Producers race to chop, edit, and mix their tracks with those of an unlikely guitar hook or synth-beat points to two things. The first, a proposed laxness when it comes to the copyrighting and reserving of the collective’s music. The second, that their flows, timed differently from most other spittaz in the game, have a rhyme pattern and delivery style that’s advantageous to a DJ in that the “W” sounds good slowed down, sped up, and put over, virtually, any beat. But it could also be as simple as that they’re just the fuckin’ Wu-Tang Clan and that’s reason enough.

Jigga gets love too, as they’re are also plenty of  Jay-Z hybrids like Jaydiohead and The Grey Album as well, but it’s that fearless tribe straight out the slums of Shaolin (Staten Island) that takes the cake for the amount of devotion and attention the crew gets from DJs/Producers looking to edit and re-edit their classic songs, verses and couplets into clever and sometimes exciting new life. Just when you thought we’d reached the saturation point of some grand and clever new Wu-Tang mashup, a few years go by and someone one-ups the last. So with that said, lets count some out, shall we?

In ’06 you’ve got an album called Wu Orleans by DJ BC, an infusion of dixieland Louisiana jazz, then in 2010 we get a taste of some rich Beatles blends with the hip-hop gods entitled Enter The Magical Mystery Chambers by a previously unknown British schoolteacher, Tom Cuarana. That mashup was way dope and even garnered a stamp of approval from The Chef himself. I hope Tom waved hat little fact in his students faces.

Those are some of my choice cuts from the past few years and I’m sure there are probably a few I missed. Like I said, there is no shortage of DJs/Producers clamoring to mashup the Shaolin and truthfully I’m not really a fan of most mashups… so it’s kind of hard to keep up. Anyhow, the year is now 2011 and we’ve just received a fresh cut from them boys at Doomtree, Cecil Otter and Swiss Andy in particular. It’s been making the rounds the past week or so and maybe you’ve heard, or maybe not but it ain’t nothing to fuck with.

Wugazi is it’s name and if you haven’t put it together, the digi-album is the mashup album to end all of them. A crossbreeding of post-hardcore heroes Fugazi with the tenacious Killah Beez, 13 Chambers, a play on Wu’s 36 Chambers and Fugazi’s 13 Songs, has single-handedly changed my feelings on computer-based audio stitching.

Mashing together different songs and smashing genres into one another with the fervor of a boy and his action figures always came across to me as a cheap and artless act, like shoving a square peg into a round hole over and over again until the majority was convinced it fit. In contrast to the usual shudder, I had an atypical reaction after hearing the album. Altogether the release worked for me and I found myself bobbing my head as opposed to hitting the pause button in 20 second intervals.

My initial impression of Wugazi’s 13 Chambers was that it reminded me of another pseudo-mashup album I had enjoyed last Summer, having burned up my iTunes blasting over and over again on a perpetual loop, that was worked together by some dude calling himself Soul4hire AKA Biz. He combined the fuzzy electronics of, French musician and Ed Banger Records affiliate, Mr. Oizo with the pure toughness of Wu-Tang producing an independent entity of mighty, buzzing layered beats with raw flows called Shaolin Worm Attack.

Although that album was my personal pick of the litter, it wasn’t alone and got me thinking about more and more recent Wu mashups. Mashup kings Girl Talk and The Hood Internet have assimilated the almighty Wu family into their repertoire with the latter giving us some really choice Wu alchemy. The Illinois duo stays flipping Clan bangers left and right giving us their chillwave reworking of “C.R.E.A.M.” and a duel between Raekwon and Twin Sister called “Wu Daydream.”

Let us not forget, although we may try to, that the crew has done some collaborative mishmashing themselves, signing-off on a Wu-Tang Meets The Indie Culture, Volume 2. The subsequent installment of their series that stresses outside cooperation with other artists consists of dubstep wobbliness synced with classic raps. Having not heard the album myself, I wouldn’t count on it being too fulfilling an experience. Individual members have also been getting the mashup treatment, those with enough solo material to play around with, that is. Ghostfunk, a soulful, African-psych album from Max Tannone, the producer who crafted both MosDub and Jaydiohead (mentioned above), just hit the streets a week or so ago and already got it’s fair share of downloads and press hype, so much so that I instantly regret mentioning it.

Getting back to Wugazi, the compilation’s got some roundhouse kick to it. Songs like “Sleep Rules Everything Around Me” and “Forensic Shimmy” underline the natural ability and dedication that was poured into this project. Bass lines push on at stop-and-go speeds that crescendo and shift with each coming rhyme, leaving no space for error. It’s a compendium of hailed singles and deep cuts from Ian MacKaye’s anthemic songbook cut with the straightforward spoken word of the RZA, GZA, Raekwon, Inspectah Deck, Ol’ Dirty Bastard, Ghostface Killah, Method Man, Masta Killa, and U-God. The Wu-mash has been done to death but when all erodes and the slate wiped clean, there Wugazi will stand, palms inward, displaying, that which other mash-ups lack, the intensity, focus, and discipline of an awakened monk.

Have you ever heard the saying, “Iced Tea is the summer’s Hot Chocolate”? I assume you have not, as it’s a saying that I made up. It’s true though, don’t you think? In terms of what to drink over summer, Iced Tea is the best option. Not only does it possess the traits necessary for a summer drink — it’s liquid, it’s quenching, it’s refreshing — it’s also fully customizable! Unlike a soda, or a sports drink, the sweetness of Iced Tea is dependent on user preference. You can also trick it out with a slice of orange, or some mint, which is cool. Also, unlike a soda or a sports drink, Iced Tea can be made at home, and for free, making it a real winner.

Now, in awarding Iced Tea the title of Greatest Summertime Drink, backlash inevitably arises from Lemonade fans. People love Lemonade. And I mean it’s not that I don’t, per se, but it’s no Iced Tea. It’s fine; it’s definitely good, but it can be very inconsistent. With Iced Tea you always know what you’re getting (unless it’s some of that flavored-tea bullshit), but with Lemonade often times it can be too sweet, or perhaps too lemony, too tangy, or sometimes just flavorless and watery. Honestly, Lemonade can be a real risky drink.

Lemonade fans hear the now famous saying, “Iced Tea is the summer’s Hot Chocolate,” and instantly they object, hissing, “Well then what is the winter equivalent to Lemonade?”

The answer? “Lemonade is the summer’s Hot Tea.”

They’re confused, “Why isn’t Iced Tea just the summer’s Hot Tea? They’re both Tea!” But this detail doesn’t matter, and I tell them this:

The classification is not dependent on the identity of the drink itself, but more so the social status, class, and inherent rituals of the drink. Hot Chocolate is the ultimate winter drink: It’ hot, chocolaty, fully customizable in terms of marshmallows and cinnamon – it’s got it all! Hot Chocolate is the drink you enjoy with your grandmother’s neighbor while you talk about your love life, or in some cases the weather.

And Iced Tea has the same ritualistic nature. As I’ve explained, it’s fully customizable, and similar to its chocolate counterpart, it’s served to you by your grandmother’s neighbor, though this time in the morning before giving you a ton of candy and sending you to the beach, or if it’s Wednesday, to her backyard to pull weeds. Both Hot Chocolate and Iced Tea are the ideal drinks. They are what you pray is available on the other end of the question, “Would you like something to drink?”

Lemonade and Hot Tea, conversely, are not ideal or desirable. Ever. Certainly not Hot Tea. The only time Hot Tea is consumed is when there are no more packets of Hot Chocolate to make. And that’s a fact. And that’s also why they are traditionally linked as each other’s seasonal counterpart.

Alright, look. I’m being a little hard on Hot Tea, I know. Hot Tea can be good. Hell, Hot Tea can be downright delicious! But the truth of the matter is, it’s no Hot Chocolate. It’s safe, and healthy, and frankly, just missing that thrilling element fundamental in a cup of Hot Chocolate. So when I get carried away crucifying Hot Tea, rest assured that I know I’m a little out of line. That’s just how incredible Hot Chocolate is though: It makes you hate other hot drinks with a unrivaled passion.

I refuse, however, to qualify my remarks on Lemonade; Lemonade is inferior to Iced Tea and that’s that.

Now, there is an asterisk to this whole summertime drink debate that must be addressed. Namely, the Arnold Palmer. A combination of both Iced Tea and Lemonade, its existence is considered to be but a myth in many communities (which is absolutely absurd because it for sure exists). While it is ranked by some as the ultimate summertime drink, a sort of, “Best of Both Worlds,” as it is ignorantly labeled, it is in fact just a less good version of Iced Tea. If we were discussing numbers, it would be like if you added a whole number (Iced Tea) and a negative number (Lemonade). The result would be a number still much higher than the negative half of the original equation (Lemonade), but not quite as high as the positive half (Iced Tea). Or, another way to think of it is like if you poured a bunch of garbage into Iced Tea and gave it a new name. That’s probably a better analogy.

After I explain this whole phenomenon to Lemonade supporters, they go through a sort of three step mental journey, starting with anger, caused by the destruction of their belief system, turning quickly to sadness, as they realize the truth about Iced Tea’s superiority, and finally acceptance. I liken the last level of the withdrawal process to a sort of enlightenment.

My original intention with this post was to give each drink a grade, but I realized that might be very embarrassing for Lemonade. Similar to in school when the teacher wants to pass out grades, her first thought is to print a list and tape it on the wall, but she then realizes that she doesn’t want to embarrass Sean (Lemonade) who got a C-, especially while Henry (Iced Tea) is gallivanting around, overjoyed with his A+. Meanwhile, Arnold (Arnold Palmer, of course) is twiddling his thumbs over a solid B.

(Between you and me, those are in fact the grades that each drink would receive.)

Look, don’t get all mopey now. I can tell you’re feeling a little bad just because you’ve been a faithful Lemonade drinker. That was hardly my intention though! I didn’t come here to put you down, quite the opposite, really. I want to help! It’s not too late! Give up Lemonade. Just do it. I know, it may seem scary at first, but it’s the right thing to do. You’re going to be much more satisfied and quenched with Iced Tea.

In truth I should maybe apologize to you, reader, just for the fact that the title of this piece is a little misleading. Eternal Debate? There was no debate here. I surely hope you didn’t come here looking for a fair, two-sided debate. This was not that. This was a hazing.

I’m not exactly sure what the big deal about American Apparel is or has been for the past however-many-years they’ve been selling midgrade textiles, backed by the sales gimmicks of organic cottons and risque cuts, to hives of hungry hungry hipsters. In their prime, having quickly fleeted seeing as how the company now faces bankruptcy in a vicious cycle of loans and debts, AA developed a reputation for being the cool corporation on the block, turning a blind eye to in-store theft in keeping with a “different from the others” sort of esteem. What baffles me even more than their astronomical cult following is that some trendhopper’s shallow memoirs about stealing from the manufacturer has been published and is now being adapted to film.

Occasional Vice Magazine contributer, Tao Lin, his brand of pseudo-journalism channeled through Brett Easton Ellis, wrote, in 2009, a self-satisfying novella entitled Shoplifting From American Apparel. The book is an account of his experiences pilfering clothing from the retail chain and flipping it on eBay for a profit. A spokesman for all the bored New York hipsters living off their inheritance, Tao’s intentionally understated tale plays to readers pretentious and self-deluding enough to “get it.” It’s total masturbatory fluff played off as intellectual existentialism, so in other words the great American hipster novel errr novella. The novel was even sold in Urban Outfitters for a time, in an ironic marketing move.

So why am I raging now on a book that came and went eons ago? Well cause it’s being turned into a movie and the trailer is terribly awesome! Now entering pre-production, the film (or at least it’s trailer) promises to be a thick-framed, flannel-wrapped descent into a pit of independent cinema called Mumblecore. This subgenre defined by such dry and tiresome productions like The Puffy Chair or Humpday, is both egotistical and farcical. Not only is Shoplifting from American Apparel evocative of mumblecore but also calls forth images of Charlotte Yi’s dried ejaculate of an indie flick, Paper Heart, in that it feels the need to weave in minor relationship conflicts.

The director, Pirooz Kalayeh, can throw around whatever labels he wants, a satire, a mockumentary, a faux blahblahblah, it’s all just an excuse to sell audiences on the idea of a group of fashion-conscious, affluent, self-aware individuals too radical for the world’s conventions. The team continues to seek potential investors, basically any artschool dropouts that became doctors or lawyers with enough money to dump into what proves to be a cutesy, quirky flop. Each backer receives a stupid talking tree toy because no smugly progressive project would be complete without aligning itself with the environmentalist and “go green” movement.

Special thanks to all the suckers that gave this guy enough money to profit from his first book Eeeee eee eeee, the sound a dolphin makes when you fuck it’s blowhole, enabling him to continue writing and eventually build enough self-esteem to pitch it as a movie, set to be released sometime in 2012. I’m banking on the world ending before this movie sees the light of day.

On second thought? Watching the trailer over and over, this may just be a “must see” trainwreck, so please someone, anyone get them to their goal, so we can all have a few chuckles over it.

The childrens TV network, Nickelodeon, has, as with anything, undergone a considerable transfiguration since its commencement as a predominantly animation-based channel, splintering off into subsidiaries such as TeenNick and Nick Jr. Fluctuating interest in live-action programming amongst their target audience has left it almost unrecognizable to anyone born before 1995. But change isn’t always a bad thing. Let go of Rugrats because the acne-ridden viewers have spoken and deemed Miranda Cosgrove their new master and commander.

iCarly is a teen comedy show centering around a girl’s “talent” video webcast mostly concerned with boy problems, hijinks amongst friends, and other prepubescent frippery. The program exhibits the same disposition of earlier adolescent sitcoms like Lizzie McGuire with the precious, slightly chubby Hillary Duff and Zoey 101, starring the innocent, petite, and pre-pregnancy Jamie Lynn Spears. This is a phenomenon that has gone un-talked-about until now, with a following spanning outside of the suggested 8-12 year old age bracket, the series has gleaned attention from the twenty something crowd and tapped into the adult viewership market.

I, myself, am an avid iCarly fan, making no buts about it, as I follow the underdeveloped tweens season after season with eyes transfixed upon the tight virginal asses of fictional characters Carly Shay and Sam Puckett, her blonde, fair-skinned co-host. This past week, I found myself sitting next to a couple friends, of whom I shall not name lest I tarnish any manly reputations, casually drinking beer and enjoying a unique episode in which bombshell Victoria Justice along with some of the cast from the older, hotter sister of teenie productions, Victorious, combine forces in a crossover episode with the iCarly actors and actresses, creating a fusion of perky tits, round butts, and sexual innuendo.

The hour-long television feature, iParty with Victorious, is, in a nutshell, the reason why I tune in at 7 pm eastern daily to attend the preteen pussy parade as a couchside voyeur. iParty is considered a movie-length special, the second after iGo to Japan, wherein Carly’s douchey boyfriend turns out to be a grade A player, also introducing his baby boner to her friend Tori Vega. Can you really blame him though? Victoria is the sweetest piece of tail in children’s TV and she knows it. I’m pretty sure that actor’s role was, in someway, written in as a reference to Justin Bieber’s proposed sexual romp with both stars. This can’t be proven but I have an inkling that the gimmicky hair-flipping little showdog had his grubby paws all over my ethnic angels irl.

The success of teen sitcoms with the older crowd is something I believe roots not only in the deep-seated primitive pedophilic desires of every man, an explanation for the prosperity of barely legal skin flicks, but in a more closeted fondness for naively youthful relationship drama. Watching minors sort out their microcosmic but nonetheless real issues addresses that part of everyone that longs to be back in their old school halls. At this point, it’s either watch iCarly or “people watch” outside the local high-school waiting to get cuffed.

At the end of the day, there are those that will scoff at the prospect of watching a “children’s” show as an older male, condemning myself and other man-fans for deviancy and sexual immorality. Writing this article is my way of owning up to the fact that yes, I am a sicko with a soft spot for juvenile television. The girls of iCarly and Victorious are eager to please at the click of a button, as Lamour Supreme and Greg Mishka now know…don’t knock it ’til you try it.