I've had numerous discussions in the past about how a good majority of early rap songs were basically about "rapping". As in The Sugarhill Gang: I'm rappin' to the beeeat!
As of late I've found new irritation in rock 'n roll songs about rock 'n roll. As an artist, you have to be in the midst of a serious creative block to turn to writing about your medium.
I love rock 'n roll
But it's still rock 'roll to me
It's a long way, to the top, if you wanna rock 'n roll
I know, it's only rock 'n roll, but I like it
And so forth and so on.
Of course, a similar argument could be made about meta-comedy. But there is much more grey in that arena. You can laugh at a comedian who is parodying mainstream comedy. You can laugh at a comedian who is so bad, so clueless to the fact, that it becomes meta-comedy, unbeknownst to the provider. Although now, meta or alternative comedy, is much more mainstream to the point that I would label it "modern comedy". Although in the end, it really just comes down to funny or not funny, depending on whether you base your judgement on audience reaction or critique as a connoiseur.
Although, a sculptor who simply presents a lump of untouched clay as a sculpture of "clay" might be declared a genius. In the 80's. When people wrote a plethora of rock 'n roll songs about rock n' roll. And there were comedians that people laughed at for being good then, that some of us laugh at for being bad now.
What I'm getting at is, we're living in a world of remix, repeat, remake, and sequel.
How incredible would it be if Transformers was a completely NEW idea, and not a toy/cartoon from back when?
Out of ideas, out of new stuff. Go ahead, let the money run out. Let the well run dry.
Recession is the time of invention. Maybe if more people would starve to death we wouldn't be so focused on making an My Little Pony movie, and someone would get a goddamn flying car made and a pill that would taste and feel like you just ate a delicious chicken dinner.
No, wait, that was on the Jetsons. Fuck.
Bring back the McRib,
Mike
Thursday, June 25, 2009
Wednesday, June 24, 2009
Up On What The Kids Are Throwin' Down
I saw this marker painted on the corner of Beverly and Western. Is this the name of some new band I haven't heard of? It should be.
"You haven't heard of D4AR?! Dude, so rad. They sound like Limp Bizkit mixed with Steely Dan. I'll burn you some."
Monday, June 22, 2009
will.i.faggot.am
Okay, let me get this straight (no pun intended), Perez Hilton, who is homosexual, got punched in the face for calling will.i.am, who is straight, a "faggot". will.i.am is in the group, The Black Eyed Peas, which is gay. So my question is, does this make will.i.am a "faggot"? And if one is indeed a "faggot", would that be more offensive to be called a "faggot" or is it more offensive if you're not a proper "faggot" or if you're a "faggot" in sheep's clothing?
I'm sorry, but I just need a little clarity on who the "faggots" are, which "faggots" should do the punching and which "faggots" should be punched by other "faggots". But I'm pretty sure it's not ok to punch a "faggot" if you're not a "faggot".
One thing I am sure of is that one long haired guy in The Black Eyed Peas who does all the hoppy dancing for no apparent reason is definitely someone who you'd call a "faggot" if you are the kind of guy who calls people "faggots".
I wasn't even sure if "faggot" was an okay thing to say since I'm not a 6th grader on the playground anymore. Good thing I read this excerpt from the AP release on the incident. Cleared things right up. Hooray journalism!
Hilton, who is openly gay, said in interview with The Associated Press that he called will.i.am a "faggot," a gay slur, inside the club after the musician told the blogger not to write about his band on his Web site.
I'm sorry, but I just need a little clarity on who the "faggots" are, which "faggots" should do the punching and which "faggots" should be punched by other "faggots". But I'm pretty sure it's not ok to punch a "faggot" if you're not a "faggot".
One thing I am sure of is that one long haired guy in The Black Eyed Peas who does all the hoppy dancing for no apparent reason is definitely someone who you'd call a "faggot" if you are the kind of guy who calls people "faggots".
I wasn't even sure if "faggot" was an okay thing to say since I'm not a 6th grader on the playground anymore. Good thing I read this excerpt from the AP release on the incident. Cleared things right up. Hooray journalism!
Hilton, who is openly gay, said in interview with The Associated Press that he called will.i.am a "faggot," a gay slur, inside the club after the musician told the blogger not to write about his band on his Web site.
Hobo of Love
Oh how I adore the homeless and crazy. Snapshot moments with them is like a highlight vignette from a reality show, only nonscripted!
Today I saw one of God's special people pushing a shopping cart through bustling traffic on the corner of Hollywood and Vermont. Here are the few choice phrases I heard come barreling out of his mouth in the 20 seconds it took me to pass him:
(to a bus driver)
"GO AHEAD AND CALL SOMEBODY! YOU NASTY ASS BITCH!"
(to me)
"YOU PUNK! YOU ALL GONNA GET LOCKED UP FOR TAX EVASION! YOU NASTY ASS BITCH!"
I can just picture Rudy Ray Moore, smiling down from street corner jive talk heaven.
Today I saw one of God's special people pushing a shopping cart through bustling traffic on the corner of Hollywood and Vermont. Here are the few choice phrases I heard come barreling out of his mouth in the 20 seconds it took me to pass him:
(to a bus driver)
"GO AHEAD AND CALL SOMEBODY! YOU NASTY ASS BITCH!"
(to me)
"YOU PUNK! YOU ALL GONNA GET LOCKED UP FOR TAX EVASION! YOU NASTY ASS BITCH!"
I can just picture Rudy Ray Moore, smiling down from street corner jive talk heaven.
Sunday, June 21, 2009
Lawyer or Psychotic Supervillain?
And the award for Most Terrifying Advertisement For A Traffic Attorney On A Bus Stop Goes To...
I was actually a little wary to even post this. I'm pretty sure this guy has some sort of alligator pit in his lair, and I'm absolutely positive he rides to work in a black helicoptor.
I was actually a little wary to even post this. I'm pretty sure this guy has some sort of alligator pit in his lair, and I'm absolutely positive he rides to work in a black helicoptor.
Saturday, August 16, 2008
Father Chet Morecock
As a 5th grade youngster at St. Stephen’s Elementary, it was quite an exciting day when we were told that Father Chet would be coming in to teach the boys the ins and outs of the birds and the bees.
The promise of the usual suspects making crass remarks in an open forum about sex was far more to my liking than an average afternoon of algebra, taught to us by a woman who had a horrible short tight blonde clown curl hairdo and who’s breath reminded us constantly of the dog shit sandwich she must have eaten for lunch.
Let me say first, that growing up Catholic, I’ve known many men of the cloth to be kind, generous, honest, and true believers in the Christian faith who actually chose Jesus Christ over openly sleeping with women or men.
And not all priests are raging homosexuals and/or kiddie ticklers.
Most of us, having already viewed pornography, had a thorough knowledge of at least how the deed was done. I still remember the first XXX feature I sat through with a pillow on my lap. The main character’s name was Dr. Morecock, and he had sex with a woman while wearing a cut-off shirt that exposed his midriff. I couldn’t understand why a man would show their penis to another person, yet choose to cover up their nipples.
As is appropriate to this scenario, I’ll fast forward to the good part, although there are several other fantastic pieces of the story that I don’t remember quite as accurately.
The question was posed to Father Chet as to how large a grown man’s penis would get when erect. Taking a thoughtful pause, Father Chet bluntly answered, “about 11 inches.”
Stifling gut laughs, we got our rulers out so fast I’m surprised someone didn’t lose an eye.
Now, depending on the level of one’s intelligence and exposure to sex, this must have caused several future reactions:
Some of the boys probably look back fondly on this and laugh like I do, accepting of their allotment of developed ding dong.
A few of them probably feel like the description was inappropriate and place blame on it when they whine to their therapists.
But I like to think that there’s at least one stupid, poor, sheltered, bastard out there walking around with a sweetass 9-and-a-half inch cock who’s too ashamed to mention it to anyone, let alone share it with a horny guy or girl who’d appreciate it because he thinks he’s inadequate.
For the record, Father Chet had short, spikey, peroxide blonde club hair, spoke with a thick lisp, and walked with more swooshes than Nike.
I’m not saying this makes him gay. I’d hate to perpetuate a stereotype. I live in a glass house so I don’t own any stones. I just thought a mental picture would be nice.
What made him gay was when it turned out that he was fucking a guy who lived two doors down from my Grandparents.
Not that there’s anything wrong with that.
I’d guess it’s safe to say Father Chet couldn’t resist, who my Grandmother referred to as, “the weirdo guy’s” big and bad 11-inch dick.
The promise of the usual suspects making crass remarks in an open forum about sex was far more to my liking than an average afternoon of algebra, taught to us by a woman who had a horrible short tight blonde clown curl hairdo and who’s breath reminded us constantly of the dog shit sandwich she must have eaten for lunch.
Let me say first, that growing up Catholic, I’ve known many men of the cloth to be kind, generous, honest, and true believers in the Christian faith who actually chose Jesus Christ over openly sleeping with women or men.
And not all priests are raging homosexuals and/or kiddie ticklers.
Most of us, having already viewed pornography, had a thorough knowledge of at least how the deed was done. I still remember the first XXX feature I sat through with a pillow on my lap. The main character’s name was Dr. Morecock, and he had sex with a woman while wearing a cut-off shirt that exposed his midriff. I couldn’t understand why a man would show their penis to another person, yet choose to cover up their nipples.
As is appropriate to this scenario, I’ll fast forward to the good part, although there are several other fantastic pieces of the story that I don’t remember quite as accurately.
The question was posed to Father Chet as to how large a grown man’s penis would get when erect. Taking a thoughtful pause, Father Chet bluntly answered, “about 11 inches.”
Stifling gut laughs, we got our rulers out so fast I’m surprised someone didn’t lose an eye.
Now, depending on the level of one’s intelligence and exposure to sex, this must have caused several future reactions:
Some of the boys probably look back fondly on this and laugh like I do, accepting of their allotment of developed ding dong.
A few of them probably feel like the description was inappropriate and place blame on it when they whine to their therapists.
But I like to think that there’s at least one stupid, poor, sheltered, bastard out there walking around with a sweetass 9-and-a-half inch cock who’s too ashamed to mention it to anyone, let alone share it with a horny guy or girl who’d appreciate it because he thinks he’s inadequate.
For the record, Father Chet had short, spikey, peroxide blonde club hair, spoke with a thick lisp, and walked with more swooshes than Nike.
I’m not saying this makes him gay. I’d hate to perpetuate a stereotype. I live in a glass house so I don’t own any stones. I just thought a mental picture would be nice.
What made him gay was when it turned out that he was fucking a guy who lived two doors down from my Grandparents.
Not that there’s anything wrong with that.
I’d guess it’s safe to say Father Chet couldn’t resist, who my Grandmother referred to as, “the weirdo guy’s” big and bad 11-inch dick.
Tuesday, August 12, 2008
Cool Colt .45
When I was 15, I got officially drunk, as I know the word today. Living in a downtrodden, post-auto, Michigan boomtown had a small benefit in that purchasing alcohol in what adults referred to as a “bad area” only required an ID known as cash.”
Sure, I’d consumed an Old Style, Old Milwaukee, or a Coors or 4 before. Took nips out of a bottle of Black Velvet, even puffed on what in retrospect was probably just oregano rolled up in a page of the Old Testament, but I had never sat down with the sole intention of getting “drunk.” Quickly, and thoroughly, although not extremely excessively. That would come later.
On a sweltering July evening I commissioned a neighborhood kid referred to as Crazy Cooter to purchase a 40 of Cool Colt .45 for me on his way home, with the promise of “5 bucks and you can keep the change.” Ever have Cool Colt .45? It’s essentially menthol cigarette-flavored beer. After some recent research, I discovered that the good people at the Heileman Brewing Company created Cool Colt after failed attempts with “Rib Tips and Fried Chicken Colt .45,” Anheuser Busch’s “Government Cheese King Cobra,” and “Illegitimate Baby Makin’ Thunderbird Wine.”
Now just hold on a second, before I get back to the story, forget all about vintage advertising prints depicting African-Americans in a tar baby-esque manner. Even forget about Aunt Jemima in a do-rag. Cool Colt .45 has to be the most insulting, despicable, racist product in history.
It was malt liquor.
Named after a gun.
That was flavored like menthol cigarettes.
And was sold primarily in urban neighborhoods with a high population of African-Americans.
It’s not like St. Ides came out with malt liquor that tasted like orange soda and then made advertisements featuring Ice Cube encouraging its demographic to purchase the product with the use of rap lyrics such as, “Get your jimmy thicker, with St. Ides Malt Liquor.”
Oh, wait. They did. I have the plethora of St. Ides hip-hop commercials memorized. My buddies used to intersperse them on VHS mix tapes of videos recorded from BET’s Rap City or YO! MTV Raps. On just in time for the kids to watch them after school.
It’s not like Budweiser or Miller ever marketed to poor white people by plastering their name all over a stock car driven by a hillbilly at 200 miles an hour, crashing into other hillbilly-piloted cars with Mountain Dew on the side while in a race sponsored by Winston cigarettes, did they?
Oh wait. They did. Except now Winston doesn’t sponsor them anymore. Drinking and driving? Sure. Drinking and driving AND smoking? No way. Looks like tobacco lobbyists need to step their game up. It’s the Sprint Cup now, because driving and talking on your cell phone is...sigh. Goddamnit.
To be fair, Cool Colt .45 is no longer in production. They decided to just make plain old Gun Liquor after discovering that African-Americans don’t eat cigarette butts. Although I heard that there’s plans to release a new brand of malt liquor named “Damn!.” There’s absolutely no “I can’t read” text on the bottle, just a close up of a Jet centerfold’s ass in a thong on the label.
They’re gonna offer a rebate if you drink it, urinate into the bottle, and mail it back to the company where it’ll be repackaged as Sammy Hager’s Dark Lager and sold to inbred white people at his state fair appearances.
I’m kidding. White people birthed from society’s acceptable breeding practices would probably be just as interested in an $8 plastic cup of sweet black piss, as long as it had the endorsement of the Red Rocker.
Sure, I’d consumed an Old Style, Old Milwaukee, or a Coors or 4 before. Took nips out of a bottle of Black Velvet, even puffed on what in retrospect was probably just oregano rolled up in a page of the Old Testament, but I had never sat down with the sole intention of getting “drunk.” Quickly, and thoroughly, although not extremely excessively. That would come later.
On a sweltering July evening I commissioned a neighborhood kid referred to as Crazy Cooter to purchase a 40 of Cool Colt .45 for me on his way home, with the promise of “5 bucks and you can keep the change.” Ever have Cool Colt .45? It’s essentially menthol cigarette-flavored beer. After some recent research, I discovered that the good people at the Heileman Brewing Company created Cool Colt after failed attempts with “Rib Tips and Fried Chicken Colt .45,” Anheuser Busch’s “Government Cheese King Cobra,” and “Illegitimate Baby Makin’ Thunderbird Wine.”
Now just hold on a second, before I get back to the story, forget all about vintage advertising prints depicting African-Americans in a tar baby-esque manner. Even forget about Aunt Jemima in a do-rag. Cool Colt .45 has to be the most insulting, despicable, racist product in history.
It was malt liquor.
Named after a gun.
That was flavored like menthol cigarettes.
And was sold primarily in urban neighborhoods with a high population of African-Americans.
It’s not like St. Ides came out with malt liquor that tasted like orange soda and then made advertisements featuring Ice Cube encouraging its demographic to purchase the product with the use of rap lyrics such as, “Get your jimmy thicker, with St. Ides Malt Liquor.”
Oh, wait. They did. I have the plethora of St. Ides hip-hop commercials memorized. My buddies used to intersperse them on VHS mix tapes of videos recorded from BET’s Rap City or YO! MTV Raps. On just in time for the kids to watch them after school.
It’s not like Budweiser or Miller ever marketed to poor white people by plastering their name all over a stock car driven by a hillbilly at 200 miles an hour, crashing into other hillbilly-piloted cars with Mountain Dew on the side while in a race sponsored by Winston cigarettes, did they?
Oh wait. They did. Except now Winston doesn’t sponsor them anymore. Drinking and driving? Sure. Drinking and driving AND smoking? No way. Looks like tobacco lobbyists need to step their game up. It’s the Sprint Cup now, because driving and talking on your cell phone is...sigh. Goddamnit.
To be fair, Cool Colt .45 is no longer in production. They decided to just make plain old Gun Liquor after discovering that African-Americans don’t eat cigarette butts. Although I heard that there’s plans to release a new brand of malt liquor named “Damn!.” There’s absolutely no “I can’t read” text on the bottle, just a close up of a Jet centerfold’s ass in a thong on the label.
They’re gonna offer a rebate if you drink it, urinate into the bottle, and mail it back to the company where it’ll be repackaged as Sammy Hager’s Dark Lager and sold to inbred white people at his state fair appearances.
I’m kidding. White people birthed from society’s acceptable breeding practices would probably be just as interested in an $8 plastic cup of sweet black piss, as long as it had the endorsement of the Red Rocker.
Monday, August 11, 2008
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