I'm not gonna lie, I kind of miss my Walkman. No, not even my Discman - that stupid fucker would always skip, and I would have to handle CDs with the utmost of care on my travels, lest they be scratched (they always got scratched, even if I enveloped them in the King's finest silks). No, I miss my tapes and the fuzziness that I'd hear through my plastic, unbendable headphones before the music started, when the tape was just playing. Maybe it wasn't my parents, but the Walkman that truly taught me discipline; if I wanted to listen to a specific song, I just had to wait for it, because it was impossible to tell where exactly on the tape it was. The Walkman gave me patience. And phat Salt N Pepa beats.
Friday, June 29, 2007
We'll Live Like Kings! Damn Hell Ass Kings!*
I am obsessed with The Simpsons, and their movie is finally coming out, and I'm so excited, I'm so exited, I'm so scared. I've been watching this show since I was five years old. I remember watching The Tracy Ullman Show while playing with my My Little Pony army on the carpeting in my mom's bedroom... and then when The Simpsons shorts came on, I'd scream, "It's the cartooooon!" and I'd watch, enamored. Not much has changed today. I still watch it (and love it [and quote it incessatntly]). I won't even buy into that claim that it's not as good as it used to be, blah blah blah. It's still fantastic and provides belly laughs where most other shows provide a few chuckles at best. I don't want to live in a world where The Simpsons isn't on the air.
My goal in life is to become a Simpsons character. Unfortunately I think flying to the moon would be a more possible feat. Make Your Own Simpsons Avatar here! Look what I came up with:
what I would look like if I overblowdryed my hair
Then again, why have a computer Simpsonize me when I can just do it myself?
my skin is less yellow in person
I'm one of those people that would rather make it myself than purchase it. Growing up, I couldn't find a giant Rent poster, so I made one myself:
I don't own emotion, I paint
It's fun to have the talent to be able to create things with the power of my magical hands (and some acrylic paint). I doodled a Porshe in my notebook, I'm still waiting for it to come to life.
*obscure Simpsons reference... told you I'm obsessed. (Anyone name that episode?)
My goal in life is to become a Simpsons character. Unfortunately I think flying to the moon would be a more possible feat. Make Your Own Simpsons Avatar here! Look what I came up with:
Then again, why have a computer Simpsonize me when I can just do it myself?
I'm one of those people that would rather make it myself than purchase it. Growing up, I couldn't find a giant Rent poster, so I made one myself:
It's fun to have the talent to be able to create things with the power of my magical hands (and some acrylic paint). I doodled a Porshe in my notebook, I'm still waiting for it to come to life.
*obscure Simpsons reference... told you I'm obsessed. (Anyone name that episode?)
Thursday, June 28, 2007
The Post In Which Paris is Not Mentioned (Besides in the Subject Headline)
So I've been procrastinating writing a memoir. A lot of funny stuff happens to me (and a lot of fucked up shit, too, don't forget all that dramatic fucked up shit!) and it needs to be recorded so it can be read and enjoyed (and studied in Ivy League liberal arts colleges) in the future. I've also turned most of my writing into comedy bits for when I will myself get drunk enough to give stand-up a shot. But until then, enjoy these sample mini chapters of my life. This one is during my stay in Australia when my best friend came to visit. Wacky hijinks ensued. Fuckit, I ruined the ending.
(P.S. anyone else noticing how much I'mloving abusing crossing out stuff and using parenthesis? You can't do that while speaking! God bless the written word.)
Melb'n!
In December 2005, Pam* came to visit and we spent a weekend together in Melbourne, Australia's second largest city located in the state of Victoria. Because she spent over twelve hundred dollars on plane fare and took more than a week off of work, Pam automatically received ten hole punches in her Best Friend Card, redeemable for twenty airport pick-ups or an ovary.
We were booked at a hostel cutely named the Elizabeth Hostel. The fact that this was the cheapest hostel I found online did not deter me from picturing a floral Bed-and-Breakfast with framed paintings of British ships hung on the wall. There'd be an old lady with white hair and a kind face handing us our room key, along with a plate of fresh baked crumpets and scones.
Upon our arrival in "Melb'n", as it's correctly pronounced, we could not detect the warm aroma of baked goods emanating from the lobby. In fact, the lobby of the Elizabeth Hostel was actually an Asian convenience store and a bottle 'o' (liquor store) and the only thing I smelled was liquid soap cleaner and marijuana. Not the best sign when your accommodation has to triple its services to get by. This is precisely the reason I do not eat at American fast food chain Jack in the Box. Anywhere that serves not only burgers, but also fajitas and eggrolls obviously cannot concentrate on one type of cuisine and obviously cannot sort out its priorities. I don't trust places that can't even commit to one identity.
The Asian man behind reception could barely speak English and it took fifteen minutes of arguing about the price of our room to realize we were agreeing with each other in different languages. Additionally, the building was three stories high but did not have an elevator, and our double room was not only lacking in framed British vessels, but windows and a closet. The beds creaked if you breathed on them. This room was your ugly cousin you can't even say has a good personality.
Within five minutes of sitting on our respective twin beds and discussing what we should do with the rest of the day, there came a knockity-knock on our door.
An Australian woman, mid-forties and missing two teeth I would assume are very important to adequately chew, talk or whistle, stood in the crack of our door, grimacing. She was complaining, threatening us about the noise volume.
"Me and everyone else on the floor can hear everything you say! EVERYTHING! I live here and I'm a night worker and there's others here, too, and this old man down the hall is sick and needs to sleep and I got the last people in here kicked out because they wouldn't turn off their music and be quiet! I got them right out of here! If you travellers want to party then that just won't work on this floor! You better move to one of the lower floors, that's where the loud people go!"
First of all, Pam and I were over-achievers in school. We never felt it necessary to hide or alter a report card. We are quiet, studying-on-a-Friday night kind of people. Both of us were in serious relationships at the time; any thoughts of loud sex with European backpackers were immediately ushered into nonexistence. Out of all the travelers on Earth, you could do a lot worse than share a floor with me and Pam. This crazy woman and her asymmetrical mouth were already complaining about us having a conversation in our own room. At four p.m. in the afternoon. On a Saturday. We were on vacation and entitled to talk at whatever volume we desired, but as it stood, the zipper on my suitcase was louder than the two of us.
I desperately wanted to stand up and defiantly proclaim, "Excuse me, missy. We paid for the room, and it's not our bloody [I would use an Australian colloquialism to attack her with her own national vocabulary] problem to adapt to your insane sleeping schedule. And if you're going to live in a hostel, you should learn how to deal. [Then I would pump my fist in the air.] U.S.A.! ALL THE WAY!"
Instead, all I did was give her a very strange look during her ranting monologue, and nod respectfully as I closed the door behind her. I am a polite person – on the outside. This is because I am afraid of any sort of confrontation and it's easier to agree with angry people than fight back with an attitude. But believe me, inside I am forever screaming, "Fuck you, Toothy McGee!"
pam learns her lesson
* * *
As we walked through the city, free to speak above a loud whisper, we quickly discovered that Melbourne is underwhelming when coming from the tropical oasis that is Sydney. The buildings are grey, the weather is colder, and the river that splits through downtown is a muddy brown. There may be tons of interesting neighborhoods and exciting, unique Melbourne-only attractions, but if you don't wow me in the first ten minutes, whether you are a movie or the second largest city in Australia, I am immediately moving on to daydreaming about sex or winning American Idol. My brain ping-pongs between those two fantasies. Sometimes I'm having sex on the American Idol stage, and Simon tells me I'm "absolutely brilliant", Paula cries, and Randy escorts me into the dawg-house. For the last few months my dreams have featured Australian Idol (I fake a perfect Aussie accent and fool the country into voting for a yank), but you get the idea. Melbourne simply couldn't compete.
I had done close to no research on Melbourne, figuring that's what will make it a true adventure. It's more interesting to visit a place with zero expectations, because then even the smallest thing will become interesting.
"Look! Shrubbery! They don't have shrubbery like this back in Los Angeles!" And then I took roughly five hundred photos of a bush. A Melbourne bush. Without consulting a Fodor's or Lonely Planet, this shrubbery could be famous shrubbery for all we knew. Our imaginations were the only travel guide we needed.
Of course, over the years Pam and I have become true Los Angelinos, and there's only so much distance our feet can drag us through until we need to have a destination and call a cab to take us there. So, we picked up a few brochures and maps and flipped through them, seeing whatever stuck first.
We immediately spotted what was sure to be our reason for becoming friends and eventually, but inevitably, as it was fate, visiting Melbourne, combined into one tourist trap:
DRACULA'S ADULT CABARET DINNER THEATRE.
Pam and I are friends because we share many common interests. Writing, boys who wear glasses, Tim Burton directed Batman movies. I was Goth in high school and Pam reads online erotic literature, so we both are all about vampires.
"We have to go to this. We have to go to this!"
When I called, their machine picked up. "G'day and thanks for contacting [Vampire accent] Dracula's Adult Cabaret Dinner Theatre. [End vampire accent.] We are perfect for your next office function, hen's party, or romantic evening out with your partner. Unfortunately our offices are closed right now..." Blast! How can I concentrate on anything else this weekend when there's a chance this trip could go by without seeing Dracula's Cabaret?
We took the tram to St. Kilda, a backpacker's neighborhood, to do some shopping, although I was too shopped out to seriously consider buying anything. My tiny studio had capsized with clothes and souvenirs I had acquired after three months and I was officially out of room. It's small enough as it is without the blow-up mattress, a six-foot-three man, a woman with birthing hips, and both of our various haircare products filling up any available space. But with arcades and department stores on every block, there's little else to do in Melbourne besides shop. Except eat, and there were no less than ten thousand restaurants on Fitzroy Street, all lined up against one another like encyclopedias. There are only three million people spread throughout Melbourne, and each one of them must own a restaurant, because there was no other possible excuse for this many places to eat. How did each one stay in business? Do people eat twenty-four hours a day here? Is there something I'm just not getting about Vegemite?
I couldn't concentrate on shopping anyway when we still didn't have tickets secured. I called again and finally got them on the phone. I felt like the 100th caller.
"KVAMP IS THE ONLY STATION I LISTEN TO NOW GIMME MY CONCERT TICKETS!"
Instead I said, composing myself, "Do you have any spots left for tonight's show?" I was prepared to ditch Pam if there was only one space left.
"Of course!" replied a friendly, Dracula-free Australian accent. AUS$63 each. (In my head, I did the math - about US$50. I've become a human conversion calculator. Everything is automatically on sale for me because I am American and my money gets wired to me from another land. This makes me feel privileged among the unfortunate Aussies who have to pay for everything at market value.) The friendly voice further explained that our tickets included a three-course meal, pre-show entertainment, a two-hour live comedy show, and a RIDE ON A GHOST TRAIN.
I'm sorry - THE Ghost Train.
They just upgraded my 100th caller concert tickets to include a VIP groupie gangbang with the band after the show.
I ran back to Pam perusing a table of Aboriginal thunder sticks. WE GOT THEM. We planned the rest of our day around getting ready for our big night out. No time to lie out on the beach, we have to primp for Dracula!
Our Melbourne purpose was chosen for us. And that was to attend Dracula's Cabaret Dinner Theatre. I was not this excited for my own Sweet 16.
* * *
great for hen's nights, dates, corporate parties, and two american girls who enjoy things the most when enjoyed ironically
Pam and I got there early and took pictures of our well-coiffed hair and out-on-the-town outfits. We waited for our turn on the infamous Ghost Train while sipping drinks with names like Raven's Blood and Goblin Goo, fake plastic spiders floating in each glass. Now I am not even a fan of the spider's existence in the world, let alone in my drink, near my mouth, but fortunately enough the drink also had alcohol in it, so I was able to compromise. The lounge reminded me of Disney's the Haunted Mansion but without children, unless you counted me and Pam, already buzzed off of our campy cocktails, clapping our hands in anticipation.
When we finally boarded the ghost train (the most frightening, extreme ride of your life! our imagination travel guide prepared us for), the tiny two-person train car shuffled us from one room into the next. The pathway was unlit, but the lights from one room overlapped into the lights of the next room. It wouldn't scare an autistic child.
Our host greeted us with an Australian-Vampirian accent, the one I briefly heard on their outgoing voicemail. Her outfit looked as though she planned to attend a midnight Rocky Horror Picture Show and improvised a costume at a vintage thrift store.
"Welcome to Dracula's Cabaret, where you'll have a SCREAM of a good time. Where in the world are you GOULS from?"
Before I can say Sydney, Pam replies, "We're from Los Angeles." Oh, yeah. I'm from Los Angeles, too. I had completely forgotten there was a time before Sydney, before my boyfriend. It had all vanished, along with memories of my sixth birthday or anything I ever learned in my eleventh grade Physics class. Completely gone. Never happened. Selective amnesia.
The hostess drops her vampire accent. "Are you both agents?"
Pam and I make eye contact. How badly should we mess with her?
"We're in the film industry, yes."
A vague answer like that has different meanings depending on where its said. In Los Angeles, "I'm in the film industry" means exactly what we are: we went to film school. It could also mean we work at a video rental store or see movies. In the rest of the trustworthy US, it would be taken at face value: our careers fall somewhere within the film industry. At Dracula's Cabaret in Melbourne, however, it meant we, Pam and I, are the saving graces of these struggling Australian actors. As much as we desperately wanted to experience their campy dinner theatre, they desperately wanted to steal our passports and Nicole Kidman's movie roles. We are their golden ticket out of here.
We let our hostess marinate in her pipe dreams and we took our seats. The theatre was filled with about fifty tables facing a stage, each table seating various couples and groups. While I assumed all the other tourists here tonight were celebrating engagements, anniversaries, and other such events, Pam and I were commemorating our love of horribly, embarrassingly bad theatre. Sometimes our jokes come to us; sometimes we have to actively seek them out.
The show consisted of a dozen random sketches, all surprisingly focused on poking fun at the nationalities in the audience rather than vampires and vampire-related subject matter. French people are snooty, oh-ho-ho! Canadians are super friendly, ay! Americans constantly wave tiny American flags and like to have loud sex! It's like they're reading my diary!
Each sketch was separated by a musical interlude of the same actors performing songs that were currently popular on the radio. I was confused with the ultimate lack of vampires in Dracula's Adult Cabaret. It was more like Hot Topic Sings the Hits.
We kept drinking and the show got proportionally more and more enjoyable. Another Long Eyeball Iced Tea, another Zombie, another non-vampire-related pop song.
At the next table, a middle-aged Indian couple was clearly enjoying their Coffinapolitans. Every lame joke onstage resulted in a shrill, obnoxious laugh, their upper torsos doubling over with convulsions.
"Look at them," I said to Pam. "They're going nuts. I'm getting a Coffinapolitan next."
A performer came onstage dressed in a turban and spoke with a heavy Indian accent. Immediately the inebriated wife screamed, "I am Indian, too! I am Indian! Like me, like me!" We Americans, particularly New Yorkers, are known for being incredibly proud to the point of arrogance of our home turf, but this woman's drunken screaming "I am Indian!" to a room full of couples and pseudo-vampires could teach us a thing or two about pride.
However, the woman's equally drunk husband wasn't hearing any of it. He waved his hands in front of her, trying to quiet her down, as if to say Sorry, folks, I don't know why I bring her places.
But as soon as the wife hushed up (it's hard to scream while sipping through a straw), Mr. I Am Indian immediately started screaming at the stage himself, pumping his fists in the air.
"Yaawoo, Indian! Karma sutra! Karma sutra!"
I'm drunk at this point and in a happy place – Dracula's Cabaret. I have a huge desire to stand up and proclaim, "I am Indian! I am Indian!" myself, get a whole pep rally started. It would be a very Malcolm X-type moment. Pam would get my joke, because she's a cinephile like me, but even if she didn't she'd still laugh. Having my best friend around, even just for the week, is a huge comfort. She's my partner in crime. And with her she brought a piece of Los Angeles, of the United States, that I've been distanced from for the last three months. Her reappearance in my life jogs my memory back; I'm not Australian, I'm not a part of the community and lifestyle I've come to nestle myself into. I'm a born and raised, proud New Yorker. I'm a Hollywood wannabe. I'm a runaway from all of these experiences and characteristics that have attached themselves to me my whole life without my permission, but with Pam beside me, I'm momentarily homesick for the mini American flag I've never owned, I've never waved.
* * *
It was after midnight when we returned to our hostel room, falling like dead wood on top of our creaky twin beds. I yearn to shout "I AM INDIAN! KARMA SUTRA!" as loud as possible so Toothy MgGee would hear, the sound echoing throughout the cavernous space where her two front teeth used to be. Except I realize she's probably at work, her undisclosed job keeping her up late nights, ruining the vacation of every backpacker to cross the Elizabeth Hostel's florescent-lit threshold. For a moment I feel pity for her that she'll never have a night off to enjoy Dracula's Cabaret. Then I think, That's what you get for being a bitch. No Werewolftini for you.
I fall asleep smiling, dreaming sweet dreams of starving artist vampires participating in Karma Sutra on American Idol.
me and melb'n - frenemies
*names have been changed to protect Jan's identity**.
**Oops.
(P.S. anyone else noticing how much I'm
In December 2005, Pam* came to visit and we spent a weekend together in Melbourne, Australia's second largest city located in the state of Victoria. Because she spent over twelve hundred dollars on plane fare and took more than a week off of work, Pam automatically received ten hole punches in her Best Friend Card, redeemable for twenty airport pick-ups or an ovary.
We were booked at a hostel cutely named the Elizabeth Hostel. The fact that this was the cheapest hostel I found online did not deter me from picturing a floral Bed-and-Breakfast with framed paintings of British ships hung on the wall. There'd be an old lady with white hair and a kind face handing us our room key, along with a plate of fresh baked crumpets and scones.
Upon our arrival in "Melb'n", as it's correctly pronounced, we could not detect the warm aroma of baked goods emanating from the lobby. In fact, the lobby of the Elizabeth Hostel was actually an Asian convenience store and a bottle 'o' (liquor store) and the only thing I smelled was liquid soap cleaner and marijuana. Not the best sign when your accommodation has to triple its services to get by. This is precisely the reason I do not eat at American fast food chain Jack in the Box. Anywhere that serves not only burgers, but also fajitas and eggrolls obviously cannot concentrate on one type of cuisine and obviously cannot sort out its priorities. I don't trust places that can't even commit to one identity.
The Asian man behind reception could barely speak English and it took fifteen minutes of arguing about the price of our room to realize we were agreeing with each other in different languages. Additionally, the building was three stories high but did not have an elevator, and our double room was not only lacking in framed British vessels, but windows and a closet. The beds creaked if you breathed on them. This room was your ugly cousin you can't even say has a good personality.
Within five minutes of sitting on our respective twin beds and discussing what we should do with the rest of the day, there came a knockity-knock on our door.
An Australian woman, mid-forties and missing two teeth I would assume are very important to adequately chew, talk or whistle, stood in the crack of our door, grimacing. She was complaining, threatening us about the noise volume.
"Me and everyone else on the floor can hear everything you say! EVERYTHING! I live here and I'm a night worker and there's others here, too, and this old man down the hall is sick and needs to sleep and I got the last people in here kicked out because they wouldn't turn off their music and be quiet! I got them right out of here! If you travellers want to party then that just won't work on this floor! You better move to one of the lower floors, that's where the loud people go!"
First of all, Pam and I were over-achievers in school. We never felt it necessary to hide or alter a report card. We are quiet, studying-on-a-Friday night kind of people. Both of us were in serious relationships at the time; any thoughts of loud sex with European backpackers were immediately ushered into nonexistence. Out of all the travelers on Earth, you could do a lot worse than share a floor with me and Pam. This crazy woman and her asymmetrical mouth were already complaining about us having a conversation in our own room. At four p.m. in the afternoon. On a Saturday. We were on vacation and entitled to talk at whatever volume we desired, but as it stood, the zipper on my suitcase was louder than the two of us.
I desperately wanted to stand up and defiantly proclaim, "Excuse me, missy. We paid for the room, and it's not our bloody [I would use an Australian colloquialism to attack her with her own national vocabulary] problem to adapt to your insane sleeping schedule. And if you're going to live in a hostel, you should learn how to deal. [Then I would pump my fist in the air.] U.S.A.! ALL THE WAY!"
Instead, all I did was give her a very strange look during her ranting monologue, and nod respectfully as I closed the door behind her. I am a polite person – on the outside. This is because I am afraid of any sort of confrontation and it's easier to agree with angry people than fight back with an attitude. But believe me, inside I am forever screaming, "Fuck you, Toothy McGee!"
* * *
As we walked through the city, free to speak above a loud whisper, we quickly discovered that Melbourne is underwhelming when coming from the tropical oasis that is Sydney. The buildings are grey, the weather is colder, and the river that splits through downtown is a muddy brown. There may be tons of interesting neighborhoods and exciting, unique Melbourne-only attractions, but if you don't wow me in the first ten minutes, whether you are a movie or the second largest city in Australia, I am immediately moving on to daydreaming about sex or winning American Idol. My brain ping-pongs between those two fantasies. Sometimes I'm having sex on the American Idol stage, and Simon tells me I'm "absolutely brilliant", Paula cries, and Randy escorts me into the dawg-house. For the last few months my dreams have featured Australian Idol (I fake a perfect Aussie accent and fool the country into voting for a yank), but you get the idea. Melbourne simply couldn't compete.
I had done close to no research on Melbourne, figuring that's what will make it a true adventure. It's more interesting to visit a place with zero expectations, because then even the smallest thing will become interesting.
"Look! Shrubbery! They don't have shrubbery like this back in Los Angeles!" And then I took roughly five hundred photos of a bush. A Melbourne bush. Without consulting a Fodor's or Lonely Planet, this shrubbery could be famous shrubbery for all we knew. Our imaginations were the only travel guide we needed.
Of course, over the years Pam and I have become true Los Angelinos, and there's only so much distance our feet can drag us through until we need to have a destination and call a cab to take us there. So, we picked up a few brochures and maps and flipped through them, seeing whatever stuck first.
We immediately spotted what was sure to be our reason for becoming friends and eventually, but inevitably, as it was fate, visiting Melbourne, combined into one tourist trap:
DRACULA'S ADULT CABARET DINNER THEATRE.
Pam and I are friends because we share many common interests. Writing, boys who wear glasses, Tim Burton directed Batman movies. I was Goth in high school and Pam reads online erotic literature, so we both are all about vampires.
"We have to go to this. We have to go to this!"
When I called, their machine picked up. "G'day and thanks for contacting [Vampire accent] Dracula's Adult Cabaret Dinner Theatre. [End vampire accent.] We are perfect for your next office function, hen's party, or romantic evening out with your partner. Unfortunately our offices are closed right now..." Blast! How can I concentrate on anything else this weekend when there's a chance this trip could go by without seeing Dracula's Cabaret?
We took the tram to St. Kilda, a backpacker's neighborhood, to do some shopping, although I was too shopped out to seriously consider buying anything. My tiny studio had capsized with clothes and souvenirs I had acquired after three months and I was officially out of room. It's small enough as it is without the blow-up mattress, a six-foot-three man, a woman with birthing hips, and both of our various haircare products filling up any available space. But with arcades and department stores on every block, there's little else to do in Melbourne besides shop. Except eat, and there were no less than ten thousand restaurants on Fitzroy Street, all lined up against one another like encyclopedias. There are only three million people spread throughout Melbourne, and each one of them must own a restaurant, because there was no other possible excuse for this many places to eat. How did each one stay in business? Do people eat twenty-four hours a day here? Is there something I'm just not getting about Vegemite?
I couldn't concentrate on shopping anyway when we still didn't have tickets secured. I called again and finally got them on the phone. I felt like the 100th caller.
"KVAMP IS THE ONLY STATION I LISTEN TO NOW GIMME MY CONCERT TICKETS!"
Instead I said, composing myself, "Do you have any spots left for tonight's show?" I was prepared to ditch Pam if there was only one space left.
"Of course!" replied a friendly, Dracula-free Australian accent. AUS$63 each. (In my head, I did the math - about US$50. I've become a human conversion calculator. Everything is automatically on sale for me because I am American and my money gets wired to me from another land. This makes me feel privileged among the unfortunate Aussies who have to pay for everything at market value.) The friendly voice further explained that our tickets included a three-course meal, pre-show entertainment, a two-hour live comedy show, and a RIDE ON A GHOST TRAIN.
I'm sorry - THE Ghost Train.
They just upgraded my 100th caller concert tickets to include a VIP groupie gangbang with the band after the show.
I ran back to Pam perusing a table of Aboriginal thunder sticks. WE GOT THEM. We planned the rest of our day around getting ready for our big night out. No time to lie out on the beach, we have to primp for Dracula!
Our Melbourne purpose was chosen for us. And that was to attend Dracula's Cabaret Dinner Theatre. I was not this excited for my own Sweet 16.
* * *
Pam and I got there early and took pictures of our well-coiffed hair and out-on-the-town outfits. We waited for our turn on the infamous Ghost Train while sipping drinks with names like Raven's Blood and Goblin Goo, fake plastic spiders floating in each glass. Now I am not even a fan of the spider's existence in the world, let alone in my drink, near my mouth, but fortunately enough the drink also had alcohol in it, so I was able to compromise. The lounge reminded me of Disney's the Haunted Mansion but without children, unless you counted me and Pam, already buzzed off of our campy cocktails, clapping our hands in anticipation.
When we finally boarded the ghost train (the most frightening, extreme ride of your life! our imagination travel guide prepared us for), the tiny two-person train car shuffled us from one room into the next. The pathway was unlit, but the lights from one room overlapped into the lights of the next room. It wouldn't scare an autistic child.
Our host greeted us with an Australian-Vampirian accent, the one I briefly heard on their outgoing voicemail. Her outfit looked as though she planned to attend a midnight Rocky Horror Picture Show and improvised a costume at a vintage thrift store.
"Welcome to Dracula's Cabaret, where you'll have a SCREAM of a good time. Where in the world are you GOULS from?"
Before I can say Sydney, Pam replies, "We're from Los Angeles." Oh, yeah. I'm from Los Angeles, too. I had completely forgotten there was a time before Sydney, before my boyfriend. It had all vanished, along with memories of my sixth birthday or anything I ever learned in my eleventh grade Physics class. Completely gone. Never happened. Selective amnesia.
The hostess drops her vampire accent. "Are you both agents?"
Pam and I make eye contact. How badly should we mess with her?
"We're in the film industry, yes."
A vague answer like that has different meanings depending on where its said. In Los Angeles, "I'm in the film industry" means exactly what we are: we went to film school. It could also mean we work at a video rental store or see movies. In the rest of the trustworthy US, it would be taken at face value: our careers fall somewhere within the film industry. At Dracula's Cabaret in Melbourne, however, it meant we, Pam and I, are the saving graces of these struggling Australian actors. As much as we desperately wanted to experience their campy dinner theatre, they desperately wanted to steal our passports and Nicole Kidman's movie roles. We are their golden ticket out of here.
We let our hostess marinate in her pipe dreams and we took our seats. The theatre was filled with about fifty tables facing a stage, each table seating various couples and groups. While I assumed all the other tourists here tonight were celebrating engagements, anniversaries, and other such events, Pam and I were commemorating our love of horribly, embarrassingly bad theatre. Sometimes our jokes come to us; sometimes we have to actively seek them out.
The show consisted of a dozen random sketches, all surprisingly focused on poking fun at the nationalities in the audience rather than vampires and vampire-related subject matter. French people are snooty, oh-ho-ho! Canadians are super friendly, ay! Americans constantly wave tiny American flags and like to have loud sex! It's like they're reading my diary!
Each sketch was separated by a musical interlude of the same actors performing songs that were currently popular on the radio. I was confused with the ultimate lack of vampires in Dracula's Adult Cabaret. It was more like Hot Topic Sings the Hits.
We kept drinking and the show got proportionally more and more enjoyable. Another Long Eyeball Iced Tea, another Zombie, another non-vampire-related pop song.
At the next table, a middle-aged Indian couple was clearly enjoying their Coffinapolitans. Every lame joke onstage resulted in a shrill, obnoxious laugh, their upper torsos doubling over with convulsions.
"Look at them," I said to Pam. "They're going nuts. I'm getting a Coffinapolitan next."
A performer came onstage dressed in a turban and spoke with a heavy Indian accent. Immediately the inebriated wife screamed, "I am Indian, too! I am Indian! Like me, like me!" We Americans, particularly New Yorkers, are known for being incredibly proud to the point of arrogance of our home turf, but this woman's drunken screaming "I am Indian!" to a room full of couples and pseudo-vampires could teach us a thing or two about pride.
However, the woman's equally drunk husband wasn't hearing any of it. He waved his hands in front of her, trying to quiet her down, as if to say Sorry, folks, I don't know why I bring her places.
But as soon as the wife hushed up (it's hard to scream while sipping through a straw), Mr. I Am Indian immediately started screaming at the stage himself, pumping his fists in the air.
"Yaawoo, Indian! Karma sutra! Karma sutra!"
I'm drunk at this point and in a happy place – Dracula's Cabaret. I have a huge desire to stand up and proclaim, "I am Indian! I am Indian!" myself, get a whole pep rally started. It would be a very Malcolm X-type moment. Pam would get my joke, because she's a cinephile like me, but even if she didn't she'd still laugh. Having my best friend around, even just for the week, is a huge comfort. She's my partner in crime. And with her she brought a piece of Los Angeles, of the United States, that I've been distanced from for the last three months. Her reappearance in my life jogs my memory back; I'm not Australian, I'm not a part of the community and lifestyle I've come to nestle myself into. I'm a born and raised, proud New Yorker. I'm a Hollywood wannabe. I'm a runaway from all of these experiences and characteristics that have attached themselves to me my whole life without my permission, but with Pam beside me, I'm momentarily homesick for the mini American flag I've never owned, I've never waved.
* * *
It was after midnight when we returned to our hostel room, falling like dead wood on top of our creaky twin beds. I yearn to shout "I AM INDIAN! KARMA SUTRA!" as loud as possible so Toothy MgGee would hear, the sound echoing throughout the cavernous space where her two front teeth used to be. Except I realize she's probably at work, her undisclosed job keeping her up late nights, ruining the vacation of every backpacker to cross the Elizabeth Hostel's florescent-lit threshold. For a moment I feel pity for her that she'll never have a night off to enjoy Dracula's Cabaret. Then I think, That's what you get for being a bitch. No Werewolftini for you.
I fall asleep smiling, dreaming sweet dreams of starving artist vampires participating in Karma Sutra on American Idol.
*names have been changed to protect Jan's identity**.
**Oops.
License to Shoot Myself in the Face If I Have to Watch This Movie's Trailer One More Time
So this horrible movie is coming out, and I am ashamed of even mentioning its existence here on P&B. Usually I don't like to point out the things I truly despise, because that just gives it more publicity and I've done my part in making the cause of my hatred stronger and more unstoppable. So, sigh, begrudingly, in the name of the humor that will follow at the expense of reminding you that this movie exists, here is the winner of What I Wouldn't Even Watch on Basic Cable While Blow-Drying My Hair in the Same Room, Just to Have Something On in the Background:
Let's take a closer look at this poster and analyze what each actor must be thinking while this photoshoot was taking place:
Let's take a closer look at this poster and analyze what each actor must be thinking while this photoshoot was taking place:
John Krasinski - (looks at camera with wide-eyed expression of shock and amusement) Wow. What am I doing in this movie? I'm on a hit TV show and every secretary in the world has my photo on their bedroom ceiling at night. Every woman with a television set, a cat, a scented candle and not much else has a giant crush on me, rubbing their cat's fur while watching The Office marathons, pretending it was my mop-top of hair. This is not a good career move into feature film leading man territory. I am so much better than this.
Mandy Moore - What the hell am I doing in this? I'm a pop star and an acclaimed actress (well, for a pop star, anyway). My hair is too pretty for this kind of movie. Just because Lindsay's in rehab doesn't mean I need to scrape up all her shitty roles! I'm firing my agent. God, I hope my new CD does well. I can't be known my whole life for being Vincent Chase's girlfriend.
Robin Williams - Aaaaaall in a day's work! Time to go cash that phoned-in paycheck! (Does an imcomprehensible impression of something-or-other while running around the room.)
Gimme Gimme Gimme Gimme Gimme!
I want this. In a bad way.
Gwen Stefani's Fragrance
The funny thing is, it's a perfume. Who cares what the bottle looks like? I won't be carting it around with me or fuse it onto a chain and convert it into some blingage. The only person who will even see it will be me, in the glass case where I keep all my other bevvy of perfumes. And who cares that it's Gwen Stefani? It's a SMELL. If I don't care for the smell, then the celebrity designing/promoting said fragrance shouldn't matter, right?
Who cares. I love Gwen Stefani, so according to chain rule, I will love this fragrance and will pay nearly $80 to own it, which, now that I'm typing that aloud, sounds FUCKING CRAZY. But who cares what it smells like! It smells like me owning anything my one true idol produces! Including this wallet, twice:
mine's empty because I spent all my cash on owning this wallet, twice
I bought this wallet in the first place because it was Gwen Stefani-related, also because I needed a new wallet, also because for a 10th grader, it was expensive but affordable (around $45, aka, I went a few months without buying any new CDs), but as it turned out, it was the best wallet in existence. Not only fashionable, it came with an outside guitar strap and an exterior coin purse large enough to fit your car keys in. It becamw it's own little bag extraordinaire. I worshipped it like a new tattoo, welcoming it into the rest of your life.
And then my gym locker at my Australian gym was broken into and they took my wallet (along with my cash, credit cards, and ID - not exactly the best thing to lose while in a foreign country). My precious, precious L.A.M.B. wallet - gone! So months later I finally found a replacement (although a brown one - not as cool) on eBay - for $100. But it had to be mine. And mine it still is, and if anybody ever messes with my L.A.M.B. wallet again, they will have to deal with THESE lambs.
The funny thing is, it's a perfume. Who cares what the bottle looks like? I won't be carting it around with me or fuse it onto a chain and convert it into some blingage. The only person who will even see it will be me, in the glass case where I keep all my other bevvy of perfumes. And who cares that it's Gwen Stefani? It's a SMELL. If I don't care for the smell, then the celebrity designing/promoting said fragrance shouldn't matter, right?
Who cares. I love Gwen Stefani, so according to chain rule, I will love this fragrance and will pay nearly $80 to own it, which, now that I'm typing that aloud, sounds FUCKING CRAZY. But who cares what it smells like! It smells like me owning anything my one true idol produces! Including this wallet, twice:
I bought this wallet in the first place because it was Gwen Stefani-related, also because I needed a new wallet, also because for a 10th grader, it was expensive but affordable (around $45, aka, I went a few months without buying any new CDs), but as it turned out, it was the best wallet in existence. Not only fashionable, it came with an outside guitar strap and an exterior coin purse large enough to fit your car keys in. It becamw it's own little bag extraordinaire. I worshipped it like a new tattoo, welcoming it into the rest of your life.
And then my gym locker at my Australian gym was broken into and they took my wallet (along with my cash, credit cards, and ID - not exactly the best thing to lose while in a foreign country). My precious, precious L.A.M.B. wallet - gone! So months later I finally found a replacement (although a brown one - not as cool) on eBay - for $100. But it had to be mine. And mine it still is, and if anybody ever messes with my L.A.M.B. wallet again, they will have to deal with THESE lambs.
OH YEAAAAAH!
Kool-Aid is awesome because, not only is it a delicious drink, you could dye your hair with it. After a long day dying my hair bright red, I always like to relax with a cool, refreshing glass of Tropical Kool-Aid!
Purple Stuff auditioned as Kool-Aid Man, but they didn't think he was quite right for the role. He then got drunk, drove recklessly over to Sunny D's condo, and bitterly killed him.
Purple Stuff auditioned as Kool-Aid Man, but they didn't think he was quite right for the role. He then got drunk, drove recklessly over to Sunny D's condo, and bitterly killed him.
Tonight, at 11: Anchors Head Explodes, Paris Finds It "Hot"
Wait, so Paris Hilton did something recently? What? What was it? Is she in a new movie? Was she in some sort of trouble? Maybe she's designing a line of handbags? Guess I'll have to watch the news to find out what!
What?? You're not going to tell me what happened with Paris Hilton? Then how am I going to find out?!? YOU'RE THE NEWS! Now I'll never know! Damn you, Mika!
hey, don't pin this on me
What?? You're not going to tell me what happened with Paris Hilton? Then how am I going to find out?!? YOU'RE THE NEWS! Now I'll never know! Damn you, Mika!
Tuesday, June 26, 2007
Girl vs. Boys
This College Humor clip is pretty much representative of my own job, where I'm the only girl working alongside a team of guys in their 20s:
If any guy I work with gets out of line, having these would come in handy sometimes:
Victoria's secret is that she has machine gun boobs
Good thing I still have this! Girl power! And awkward trips to the dentist!
If any guy I work with gets out of line, having these would come in handy sometimes:
Good thing I still have this! Girl power! And awkward trips to the dentist!
Fall Out Week - Moment #4
F.O.B Week continues here on P&B. This is all a bit different from Gwen Stefani week - I don't really have life changing experiences with this band. There's really only two experiences of note (which are obviously reserved for slots #1 and #2) and besides that, I just really, really love their songs. It's that simple. Touching lyrics and catchy music (and an excellent singing voice) are the way to my heart. (Add skinny jeans and eyeliner and you've found the map to my crotch.)
Most of my favorite F.O.B. songs don't even have videos, so the music vids I choose to highlight this week are more a P.S. than videos I wholeheartedly endorse. I'm including "Saturday"'s video because
a) it's their earliest video (You've come a long way, baby!)
b) they close every concert (i've ever been to, anyway) with this song for some reason
c) Pete Wentz really looks like my ex in this video*
*You'll probably never see a pic of my ex (of whom I'm still friendly with) in this blog being that i have (some) respect for his privacy; if alluded to at all, I'll try to just keep it on my side of things. Sometimes I honestly feel bad for anyone who lets me into their life, nonetheless dates me, because you never know if you'll end up in a blog post or a song. I should just apologize at the beginning of every introduction of anybody I ever come into contact with. (extends hand) Hi, I'm Bex, I am so sorry that in a few weeks when you inevitably become a douchenozzle and I am too emotional about it to deal with it maturely, I'm going to end up writing this. Just thought I'd warn ya! Anyway, so watch the video and know that I got to bone (Ed. note-- is "bone" exlusively a Guy's Only euphimism for "fuck"? Cause that ain't fair) somebody like Pete Wentz for a few months. Hot.
And because everyone's all like "what in the eff are F.O.B. saying???", here are the written out lyrics to one of my favorite songs (without a video, as it was not a single), with possibly the best title of any song ever. Some of the lines in this song are absolutely heartbreaking to me. Oh, Petey, you can come cry on my shoulder. And on my vagina.
"Homesick At Spacecamp"
Landing on a runway in Chicago and I'm grounding all my dreams
of ever really seeing California, because I know what's in between
is something sensual in such non-conventional ways.
Tonight the headphones will deliver you the words that I can't (say).
Tonight the headphones will deliver you the words that I can't say.
(Tonight I'm writing you) a million miles away
Tonight is all about "We miss you" (We miss you) "We miss you" (We miss you)
Tonight is all about "We miss you"
And I can't forget your style or your cynicism,
somehow it was like you were the first to listen to everything we said.
My smile's an open wound without you...and my hands are tied to pages inked to bring you back.
Tonight the headphones will deliver you the words that I can't say.
(Tonight I'm writing you) a million miles away
Tonight is all about "We miss you" (We miss you) "We miss you" (We miss you)
Tonight is all about "We miss you now"
These friends are, new friends are golden [x3]
These friends are, new friends are...
Tonight the headphones will deliver you the words that I can't say.
Tonight the headphones will deliver you the words that I can't say.
Tonight the headphones will deliver you the words that I can't say.
These friends are, new friends are golden
I Would Give My Right Arm For This Photo to Be Real
I'm not above shouting out to other celebrity sites (or any blog or website in general) that endlessly entertains me throughout my neverending busy work day. I came across this one today - Planet Hiltron, where all your favorite celebrities are brilliantly photoshopped into opposite genders, get puffy, and wear clothes not sold at Kitson's.
Example:
Standing in line at the buffet at the twins' quincinera
Turns out they spent all those multi-millions of dollars on cheeseburgers.
Another fantastic website is Gallery of the Absurd, an excellent artist/cartoonist with a really mean bite. Here's a sample, which will also count, why not, close enough, as our Thanks, Japan! moment of the day!
the extremely popular Hello Paris' Kitty doll
Example:
Turns out they spent all those multi-millions of dollars on cheeseburgers.
Another fantastic website is Gallery of the Absurd, an excellent artist/cartoonist with a really mean bite. Here's a sample, which will also count, why not, close enough, as our Thanks, Japan! moment of the day!
Monday, June 25, 2007
Thanks, Japan!: Where's Knut When You Need Him
Take note, young Knut - once puberty strikes, you won't be able to contain your emotions. You'll be growing white hair in strange places, and attacking other "polar bears" just to get a taste.
please let me take off this hat... oh please let me go home to my family!
Is it just me, or does this polar bear clip remind you of Pepe Le Peu mistaking a cat with a white stripe as a female skunk and le stalking her?
Pepe Le Peu is such a confident rapist
Today's Thanks Japan! moment provided by Dance (yes, that's her name). Got a good Thanks, Japan! suggestion? Leave a comment and I'll link to it! Domo!
Fall Out Week - Moment #5
Last week was Gwen Stefani week in honor of her concert I went to last Friday in Irvine (more on the amazingness that occurred at said concert later). The very next day I saw my beloved Fall Out Boys at The Forum in LA. As not to steal Gwen Stefani's thunder, I chose to save Fall Out Boy week for this week, since I'm seeing them again anyway next Monday in Anaheim.
My memories of F.O.B. don't go back too far compared to my decade of No Doubt - their music and pop-culture presence has only been in my life for about a year and a half, give or take. But they've quickly spread their seed into my CD collection, my rolodex of memorized song lyrics stored in my brain, and my heart. (Aww.) I'll slowly get into the reasoning for my love of Joe, Andy Patrick and Pete over the next few days, so in the meantime I'll leave you with the video for "This Ain't a Scene, It's an Arms Race", which, believe me, is oh-so-fun to scream in a giant stadium with thousands of other people. Even if the first few verses sound ripped from a Backstreet Boys album.
Sunday, June 24, 2007
Finding Emo
There's only so many funny Japanese clips on the internet... just kidding! There are endless amounts of funny Japanese clips! I will never, ever run out! The day I run out of hilarious, awkward and nightmare-inducing clips from Japanese commercials, game shows, or whatever the fuck this is, I will personally fly to Tokyo and take some home movies of dogs riding bikes and english teachers exercising while teaching you about the finer points of rape prevention (as I assume will be on every street corner).
But maybe Japanese video clips aren't enough for you. Maybe you're in the mood for something darker, something more emotional, something more, I don't know, Fall Out Boy-ish.
You're in luck! Bex has a new feature called Finding Emo - because I find emo culture mesmerizing and hilarious, and there's tons of emo things wandering around on the web.
I was goth for my entire 9th grade and the beginning of 10th grade. No, I didn't wear white face makeup or commit suicide (uh, obviously). I never even referred to myself as "goth" or "freak", if by those terms you mean "Every Other Day I Wore Black Lipstick and Thick Black Eyeliner and Okay Sometimes an Entire Outfit Made of Pressed Black Velvet (No Joke, I Totally Had This In My Wardrobe For An Entire Year With No Shame) Unless I Felt Like Phoning In My Outfit and Instead Wore Old Navy". I did write a lot ofbad mature poetry and the Lost Highway sountrack was in my CD collection.
As far as turn ons of the opposite sex go, I have always been into the "bad" boys - goth boys, boys who wore eyeliner and hair in front of their face, boys who played guitar regardless if they were any good at it or not. My last boyfriend was one of these types of boys, and it was major swoon! I guess he would be considered more "emo" than "goth", though (although he wouldn't seriously label himself as anything, just like I never called myself "freak" in high school, but that's what I was called by others).
What exactly is the difference between "goth" and "emo"? Emo is goth with a sense of humor. I think when most people define themselves as being "emo", they're really in on the joke - the whole entire culture can make fun of itself, while goth kids are really just moping around, trying to get attention. Emo kids blast their iPods and wear ripped up, tight, black clothes like a faux-rockstar to get attention - but have fun in the meantime.
I don't think the local news team reporting on emo culture are in the joke, though:
Watch out! Emo could happen to you or somebody you love.
And just because I am a shameless self-promoter, check out one of my favorite songs I've ever written about my love for boys who know how to cry - Tongue Ring in Chic. Who doesn't love a good song title pun?
But maybe Japanese video clips aren't enough for you. Maybe you're in the mood for something darker, something more emotional, something more, I don't know, Fall Out Boy-ish.
You're in luck! Bex has a new feature called Finding Emo - because I find emo culture mesmerizing and hilarious, and there's tons of emo things wandering around on the web.
I was goth for my entire 9th grade and the beginning of 10th grade. No, I didn't wear white face makeup or commit suicide (uh, obviously). I never even referred to myself as "goth" or "freak", if by those terms you mean "Every Other Day I Wore Black Lipstick and Thick Black Eyeliner and Okay Sometimes an Entire Outfit Made of Pressed Black Velvet (No Joke, I Totally Had This In My Wardrobe For An Entire Year With No Shame) Unless I Felt Like Phoning In My Outfit and Instead Wore Old Navy". I did write a lot of
As far as turn ons of the opposite sex go, I have always been into the "bad" boys - goth boys, boys who wore eyeliner and hair in front of their face, boys who played guitar regardless if they were any good at it or not. My last boyfriend was one of these types of boys, and it was major swoon! I guess he would be considered more "emo" than "goth", though (although he wouldn't seriously label himself as anything, just like I never called myself "freak" in high school, but that's what I was called by others).
What exactly is the difference between "goth" and "emo"? Emo is goth with a sense of humor. I think when most people define themselves as being "emo", they're really in on the joke - the whole entire culture can make fun of itself, while goth kids are really just moping around, trying to get attention. Emo kids blast their iPods and wear ripped up, tight, black clothes like a faux-rockstar to get attention - but have fun in the meantime.
I don't think the local news team reporting on emo culture are in the joke, though:
And just because I am a shameless self-promoter, check out one of my favorite songs I've ever written about my love for boys who know how to cry - Tongue Ring in Chic. Who doesn't love a good song title pun?
Friday, June 22, 2007
A Gwen Stefani Moment #1
And now, the top Gwen Stefani Related Moment of My Life. This is gonna have to be short because I have to leave to drive lightyears away to Irvine to get to her concert on time.
"Simple Kind of Life" is probably my favorite No Doubt song, my favorite Gwen song, and in my Top 5 favorite, most personally heartwarming/breaking songs of all time. (Also on that list: Grand Theft Autumn by Fall Out Boy (of whom I am seeing tomorrow in concert [but that's another post]), I'll Fly with You by Gigi D'Agostino, The Sound of Silence by Simon & Garfunkel and a wild card song).
This is the first song Gwen ever composed completely on her own. It's one of the most honest songs I've ever heard - at points it doesn't even care if it rhymes anymore:
I always thought I'd be a mom
Sometimes I wish for a mistake
The longer that I wait the more selfish that I get
You seem like you'd be a good dad
That entire verse isn't even concerned with being included in a song - it's just honesty that I doubt could ever have been written by a man. It's exclusively the female perspective, and it's not often that you hear that on the radio. (Mad props to Alanis and Tori Amos, while we're at it.)
I fell in love with this song while I was falling in love with one of my high school friends. We were close enough to know one another well and hang out occassionally, but not close enough to hang out that often (he was in college for most of my time spent in high school), and his absence throughout most of my days made me pine for him more, and cherish our coffee dates and movie nights. He inspired my first mature thoughts of adoration and love - the first person I ever thought I could marry, not just go to a dance with. I remember walking throughout Williams-Sonoma with my mom when I was 16, and looking at the couches and silverware and other adult-home necessities that I generally yawned over, but this time, I couldn't wait until I was old enough to have a home and come here to decorate it. With him, more specifically. Children, home, family, the works, and that was nothing something I thought I wanted.
But could I ever really have that? The life I chose for myself when I was sixteen - eventually attending film school, on my way to fame and fortune and Hollywood - didn't seem to encourage families or anything "simple". But if anything, the family part with love and committed relationships (and suburbia and humility and co-dependence) is what's complicated. Those things are anything but simple to get.
Did I mention I love her pink hair? And that I was so inspired by Gwen's dye job that I decided to try it myself?
Okay, so I didn't have the balls (or enough dye) to color my whole head pink. And yeah, Gwen did it first. But dying your hair punk colors is the sincerest form of flattery.
Again.
Thanks, Japan!: Give Me Your Wallet... and Then Do Downward Facing Dog
Are you a busy woman who wants to look good and feel good, but also learn how to defend yourself against rapists?
And, oh yeah, learn how to speak English?
Is it also the 1980s where you are?
Well, today is your lucky day! No need to sign up for pilates classes or self-defense workshops or English-speaking lessons. Just watch this video!
Does a Spanish version of this video exist? It would have came in handy when I was living in South Central LA.
And, oh yeah, learn how to speak English?
Is it also the 1980s where you are?
Well, today is your lucky day! No need to sign up for pilates classes or self-defense workshops or English-speaking lessons. Just watch this video!
Does a Spanish version of this video exist? It would have came in handy when I was living in South Central LA.
Snakes! Why Did it Have to Be Sn--- Ow, My Back, Calista, Get My Slippers, I Need a Nap
I love me some Indiana Jones. (Last Crusade is obviously the best movie in the trilogy. Disagree with me? Then start your own blog with your own opinions [or in this case, fact].) How could someone not love Indiana Jones? And I'm not talking about the movies. I'm just talking about this:
I'm here for the bachelorette party
Sweat! Scars! Weapons! A sensitive look on his face! If I had been anywhere near puberty when the Indiana Jones movies first came into theatres, I would have came into theatres.
On the flip side, what I don't love is this:
Indiana Jones and the Early Bird Special
Oh, Harrison Ford. You're still looking good for your age (roughly one billion years old) but the dusty fedora is like me trying to fit into my prom dress. And my prom was just six years ago. The last time you wore that hat with any relevance, it was 1989, almost twenty years ago. Hayden Pannetierre wasn't even born yet.
Tell me a story, Uncie Indy!
Using the age of teenage Hollywood starlets to gauge just how really old you are really puts things in perspective, you know?
(P.S. is it wrong that I want to name my (eventually, I assume) son Indiana? His nickname could be Indy, and how hipster-cute is that? I totes would have crushed majorly on a guy named Indy, had I ever met a guy named Indy. But is that really a cool boy's name to have as your own, or a curse to always be associated with a movie character? I suppose it depends on how this fourth Indy film turns out. In any respect, it's a better name than Shia.)
Sweat! Scars! Weapons! A sensitive look on his face! If I had been anywhere near puberty when the Indiana Jones movies first came into theatres, I would have came into theatres.
On the flip side, what I don't love is this:
Oh, Harrison Ford. You're still looking good for your age (roughly one billion years old) but the dusty fedora is like me trying to fit into my prom dress. And my prom was just six years ago. The last time you wore that hat with any relevance, it was 1989, almost twenty years ago. Hayden Pannetierre wasn't even born yet.
Using the age of teenage Hollywood starlets to gauge just how really old you are really puts things in perspective, you know?
(P.S. is it wrong that I want to name my (eventually, I assume) son Indiana? His nickname could be Indy, and how hipster-cute is that? I totes would have crushed majorly on a guy named Indy, had I ever met a guy named Indy. But is that really a cool boy's name to have as your own, or a curse to always be associated with a movie character? I suppose it depends on how this fourth Indy film turns out. In any respect, it's a better name than Shia.)
Thursday, June 21, 2007
Thanks, Japan!: somethingsomethingsomethingsomething POCKY!
It's been a few days without a Thanks, Japan! segment. Shenanigans! To make up for lost time, here are three highly entertaining commercials for the Japanese snack Pocky.
I got tuned onto Pocky from my sister, who lived in Japan for a year and ate these delicious chocolate sticks regularly. What's more important, I got tuned onto Pocky commercials from my sister. We YouTubed the shit out of Pocky commercials after a night of drinking in a Bahstin pub and everything was funny to us. Surprisingly enough, these commercials are just as entertaining sober!
At least she has a good personality... and she can dance!
Isn't that cute and somewhat ridiculous for a mila-second commercial? It's got its own story and character arc and dénouement*.
*Possible t-shirt: "I Went to Film School and All I Got Was This Vocabulary of Useless Screenwriting Terminology"
or
Possible bumper sticker: "How's My Formatting?"
or
Possible sandwhich board sign: "Ask Me About My Foil"
But look! There's more than just regular ole chocolate Pocky:
What's better - there's more than just one regular ole Pocky commercial! Yay!
Lemme in! My pocky's getting all wet!
I love how epic this commercial is in just thirteen seconds. Why is she so upset? Are they long lost siblings? Former lovers torn apart because of war and social turmoil? Whatever it is, Pocky makes it all better. Personally I cannot wait for the Pocky dance to take the nation by storm. It'll be like the Macarena + the Electric Slide + Hands Up, Baby, Hands up x A MILLION.
But you haven't seen epic til you've seen this:
In a world... where chocolate sticks rule supreme... one man must bite
That's like the Pearl Harbor of Japanese commercials.
Oops. Too soon?
I got tuned onto Pocky from my sister, who lived in Japan for a year and ate these delicious chocolate sticks regularly. What's more important, I got tuned onto Pocky commercials from my sister. We YouTubed the shit out of Pocky commercials after a night of drinking in a Bahstin pub and everything was funny to us. Surprisingly enough, these commercials are just as entertaining sober!
At least she has a good personality... and she can dance!
Isn't that cute and somewhat ridiculous for a mila-second commercial? It's got its own story and character arc and dénouement*.
*Possible t-shirt: "I Went to Film School and All I Got Was This Vocabulary of Useless Screenwriting Terminology"
or
Possible bumper sticker: "How's My Formatting?"
or
Possible sandwhich board sign: "Ask Me About My Foil"
But look! There's more than just regular ole chocolate Pocky:
What's better - there's more than just one regular ole Pocky commercial! Yay!
Lemme in! My pocky's getting all wet!
I love how epic this commercial is in just thirteen seconds. Why is she so upset? Are they long lost siblings? Former lovers torn apart because of war and social turmoil? Whatever it is, Pocky makes it all better. Personally I cannot wait for the Pocky dance to take the nation by storm. It'll be like the Macarena + the Electric Slide + Hands Up, Baby, Hands up x A MILLION.
But you haven't seen epic til you've seen this:
In a world... where chocolate sticks rule supreme... one man must bite
That's like the Pearl Harbor of Japanese commercials.
Oops. Too soon?
A Gwen Stefani Moment #2
We're coming down to the wire on Gwen Stefani week. Tomorrow's the concert! Squeal!!!
So, My #2 Most Beloved Gwen Stefani-Related Moment are the songs New and Cool, both in regards to my time spent in Australia. More specifically, my time spent in Australia with myex old boyfriend. (I hate the word "ex". "Ex" implies something along the lines of "well that was a mistake!" when in this case, it was anything but.)
To save the long story for my own personal Dear Diary journal entry (and therapy sessions [and poetry jams]) we met at a nightclub in Australia and it pretty much took off from there. Everything about how I felt that night, and the following months of our courtship, is pretty much summed up by this song (and somewhat the video as well):
"New"
Don't let it go away
This feeling has got to stay
Don't let it go away
This feeling has got to stay
And I can't believe I've had this chance now
Don't let it go away
New, you're so new
You, you're new
And I never had this taste in the past
New, you're so new
My normal hesitation is gone
And I really gravitate to your will
Are you here to fetch me out?
'Cause I've never had this taste in my mouth
Oh you're not old
And you're not familiar
Recently discovered and I'm learning about you
New, you're so new
You, you're new
And you're consuming me violently
And your reverence shamelessly tempting me
Who sent this maniac?
'Cause I never had this taste in the past
Oh you're different, you're different from the former
Like a fresh battery, I'm energized by you
Don't let it go away
This feeling has got to stay
Don't let it go away
This feeling has got to stay
And I can't believe I've had this chance now
Don't let it go away
Why am I so curious?
This territory is dangerous
I'll probably end up at the start
I'll be back in line with my broken heart
New, you're so new
You, you're new
And I never had this taste in the past
Don't let it go away
This feeling has got to stay
Don't let it go away
This feeling has got to stay
And I can't believe I've had this chance now
Don't let it go away
And I can't believe it
Can't believe it
Can't believe it
Can't believe it
Don't let it go away, this feeling has got to stay
Don't let it go away
So, good times. (How can you have anything but good times in a place this effing beautiful?) Unfortunately, good dating times aren't so easy to have when you live the entire length of the Pacific Ocean apart. So "New" has evolved into "Cool":
(Did I mention this is probably the most beautiful video ever shot? I'm not even talking about Gwen [although she looks adorable in brown hair and that retro dress, and the classiest lady I would ever consider sexually reassigning myself for when she's rolling around on that bed]. For reals, though, look at that scenery! Booking a flight to Italy as we speak.)
(Okay, I'm full of lies. Just watch the damn video.)
"Cool"
It's hard to remember how it felt before
Now I found the love of my life...
Passes things get more comfortable
Everything is going right
And after all the obstacles
It's good to see you now with someone else
And it's such a miracle that you and me are still good friends
After all that we've been through
I know we're cool
We used to think it was impossible
Now you call me by my new last name
Memories seem like so long ago
Time always kills the pain
Remember Harbor Boulevard
The dreaming days where the mess was made
Look how all the kids have grown
We have changed but we're still the same
After all that we've been through
I know we're cool
And I'll be happy for you
If you can be happy for me
Circles and triangles, and now we're hangin' out with your new girlfriend
So far from where we've been
I know we're cool
Just look at Gwen's dead-on-accurate facial expressions in this vid! You so know she absolutely hates this and is trying her best to be polite and friendly to her old flame and his new gal. That is exactly what I imagine my own face to look like when I inevitably go through the same thing, whenever in the future that is. It will probably happen when I'm in sweatpants, not wearing makeup, stepping off a plane, jetlagged, and not at my Italian villa when I look absolutely perfect and put together. Anyways, I'm crossing my fingers that I'll be able to be satisfied the rest of my life with just "Cool". (For the past few months it's been more akin to these lyrics. Or, ya know, from time to time, these.)
So, My #2 Most Beloved Gwen Stefani-Related Moment are the songs New and Cool, both in regards to my time spent in Australia. More specifically, my time spent in Australia with my
To save the long story for my own personal Dear Diary journal entry (and therapy sessions [and poetry jams]) we met at a nightclub in Australia and it pretty much took off from there. Everything about how I felt that night, and the following months of our courtship, is pretty much summed up by this song (and somewhat the video as well):
"New"
Don't let it go away
This feeling has got to stay
Don't let it go away
This feeling has got to stay
And I can't believe I've had this chance now
Don't let it go away
New, you're so new
You, you're new
And I never had this taste in the past
New, you're so new
My normal hesitation is gone
And I really gravitate to your will
Are you here to fetch me out?
'Cause I've never had this taste in my mouth
Oh you're not old
And you're not familiar
Recently discovered and I'm learning about you
New, you're so new
You, you're new
And you're consuming me violently
And your reverence shamelessly tempting me
Who sent this maniac?
'Cause I never had this taste in the past
Oh you're different, you're different from the former
Like a fresh battery, I'm energized by you
Don't let it go away
This feeling has got to stay
Don't let it go away
This feeling has got to stay
And I can't believe I've had this chance now
Don't let it go away
Why am I so curious?
This territory is dangerous
I'll probably end up at the start
I'll be back in line with my broken heart
New, you're so new
You, you're new
And I never had this taste in the past
Don't let it go away
This feeling has got to stay
Don't let it go away
This feeling has got to stay
And I can't believe I've had this chance now
Don't let it go away
And I can't believe it
Can't believe it
Can't believe it
Can't believe it
Don't let it go away, this feeling has got to stay
Don't let it go away
So, good times. (How can you have anything but good times in a place this effing beautiful?) Unfortunately, good dating times aren't so easy to have when you live the entire length of the Pacific Ocean apart. So "New" has evolved into "Cool":
(Did I mention this is probably the most beautiful video ever shot? I'm not even talking about Gwen [although she looks adorable in brown hair and that retro dress, and the classiest lady I would ever consider sexually reassigning myself for when she's rolling around on that bed]. For reals, though, look at that scenery! Booking a flight to Italy as we speak.)
(Okay, I'm full of lies. Just watch the damn video.)
"Cool"
It's hard to remember how it felt before
Now I found the love of my life...
Passes things get more comfortable
Everything is going right
And after all the obstacles
It's good to see you now with someone else
And it's such a miracle that you and me are still good friends
After all that we've been through
I know we're cool
We used to think it was impossible
Now you call me by my new last name
Memories seem like so long ago
Time always kills the pain
Remember Harbor Boulevard
The dreaming days where the mess was made
Look how all the kids have grown
We have changed but we're still the same
After all that we've been through
I know we're cool
And I'll be happy for you
If you can be happy for me
Circles and triangles, and now we're hangin' out with your new girlfriend
So far from where we've been
I know we're cool
Just look at Gwen's dead-on-accurate facial expressions in this vid! You so know she absolutely hates this and is trying her best to be polite and friendly to her old flame and his new gal. That is exactly what I imagine my own face to look like when I inevitably go through the same thing, whenever in the future that is. It will probably happen when I'm in sweatpants, not wearing makeup, stepping off a plane, jetlagged, and not at my Italian villa when I look absolutely perfect and put together. Anyways, I'm crossing my fingers that I'll be able to be satisfied the rest of my life with just "Cool". (For the past few months it's been more akin to these lyrics. Or, ya know, from time to time, these.)
Wednesday, June 20, 2007
Quote of the Day/Week/Month/Life
"How come I'm the one who always has to squash the bugs or fix the dead people?"
--me, to my roommates, who made me come outside last night to see if a (homeless?) person laying outside our apartment building was either sleeping, passed out or dead
I'm usually the one they come to to kill the spider hanging from their ceiling; half a year living among the bugs of Australia has made me Miss Tough Gal. But what could I possibly do to aid this situation? How could my presence help? Bring him back to life with my sarcasm and witty observations of celebrities?
status at the moment: unclear
--me, to my roommates, who made me come outside last night to see if a (homeless?) person laying outside our apartment building was either sleeping, passed out or dead
I'm usually the one they come to to kill the spider hanging from their ceiling; half a year living among the bugs of Australia has made me Miss Tough Gal. But what could I possibly do to aid this situation? How could my presence help? Bring him back to life with my sarcasm and witty observations of celebrities?
status at the moment: unclear
You Got Daft Punk'd!
So this video is circulating the web, and because I am half web (my mom's jewish, my dad is Internet Explorer) it is my civic duty to embed it as well:
how a deaf person communicates at a rave
But honestly, I am only allowing it on my blog because a) hands are awesome (as is my understanding of Edward Scissorhands) and b) I love me some Daft Punk. This song has a heavy rotation on my iPod, particularly on the treadmill. I'm glad to see it have a surge in interest today.
But in more timely news, I was watching this yesterday:
I wasn't on drugs, but I was tired, so it was almost the same lazy-eyed, sleepy-brained experience. I'm not really a fan of this kind of animation that seems exclusive to any and all animated feature coming out of Japan (years of Disney conditioning during childhood?) but I think with a blacklight and a more powerful stereo system, I would have definitely raved about it!
Bex sure does love her drug puns!
Anyway, here's the trailer to Daft Punk's lastest film, Electroma. It's probably not at a theatre near you, unless you live near the one cinema in France that they're showing it at one day a week at midnight.
long walks in the desert
+
experimental space movie that's pretty boring without drugs but features cool imagery and white rooms
+
midnight
x
robot LSD
=
Electroma
how a deaf person communicates at a rave
But honestly, I am only allowing it on my blog because a) hands are awesome (as is my understanding of Edward Scissorhands) and b) I love me some Daft Punk. This song has a heavy rotation on my iPod, particularly on the treadmill. I'm glad to see it have a surge in interest today.
But in more timely news, I was watching this yesterday:
I wasn't on drugs, but I was tired, so it was almost the same lazy-eyed, sleepy-brained experience. I'm not really a fan of this kind of animation that seems exclusive to any and all animated feature coming out of Japan (years of Disney conditioning during childhood?) but I think with a blacklight and a more powerful stereo system, I would have definitely raved about it!
Bex sure does love her drug puns!
Anyway, here's the trailer to Daft Punk's lastest film, Electroma. It's probably not at a theatre near you, unless you live near the one cinema in France that they're showing it at one day a week at midnight.
long walks in the desert
+
experimental space movie that's pretty boring without drugs but features cool imagery and white rooms
+
midnight
x
robot LSD
=
Electroma
Not So Good Luck Chuck
Remember this awesome poster?
Best places for a beej - bathroom stalls, under the table at a fancy restaurant, and movie posters
Well, it has a non-awesome brother.
Okay, I won't lie. I find Dane Cook attractive. Maybe this is because I have yet to see him do stand-up comedy - live, on TV, on a DVD, in a movie, on SNL - I've never actually seen him do anything related to comedy. (Then how come I know he exists and that he's famous at all? Oh, the conundrums of living in a civilization with pop-culture.)
But regardless, Dane Cook with tight abs on a movie poster = good.
And Jessica Alba, more than usual, looks-wise = good.
Horrible photoshopping + recreating an iconic John Lennon/Yoko Ono Rolling Stone cover for your movie that remains ambivilent about what it's even really about = not so good.
But seriously! Are they floating on a cloud? Is that supposed to be a giant California King sized bed with white satin sheets? Are they making snow angels? I'm so horribly confused it's almost a distraction from Jessica Alba's crazy head that looks misplaced.
Well, it has a non-awesome brother.
Okay, I won't lie. I find Dane Cook attractive. Maybe this is because I have yet to see him do stand-up comedy - live, on TV, on a DVD, in a movie, on SNL - I've never actually seen him do anything related to comedy. (Then how come I know he exists and that he's famous at all? Oh, the conundrums of living in a civilization with pop-culture.)
But regardless, Dane Cook with tight abs on a movie poster = good.
And Jessica Alba, more than usual, looks-wise = good.
Horrible photoshopping + recreating an iconic John Lennon/Yoko Ono Rolling Stone cover for your movie that remains ambivilent about what it's even really about = not so good.
But seriously! Are they floating on a cloud? Is that supposed to be a giant California King sized bed with white satin sheets? Are they making snow angels? I'm so horribly confused it's almost a distraction from Jessica Alba's crazy head that looks misplaced.
Nicole Richie Eats Peanut; World Thinks She's Pregnant
I for one hope she's not. No one should be brought into a world where they are forced to listen to Good Charlotte's music.
In other ridiculous celeb-baby news: Hey, look guys! Christina Aguilera is obviously pregnant.
What? You don't see it? Of course you don't see it! Her hands are in front of her stomach, masking her pregnancy! IT'S GENIUS!
But she simply can't hold her hands in front of her forever. Soon enough she'll put her arms down at her sides and her portruding belly will just POP out for the world to see! Wait for it, wait for it... NOW!
Uh huh... see how GIANT she is? How MASSIVE her stomach is? And how about this one of Katie Holmes, whose also rumored (ha! like any of this isn't absolute fact) to be pregnant:
Get it?? Okay, ignore the fact that she's a fucking stick. She's wearing a Black One Piece Swimsuit. With a BELT. Need I say more?
All I have to say is, if that's what being pregnant makes you look like, that I need to get knocked up with quintuplets, cause I want a fucking body like that.
A Gwen Stefani Moment #3
I have an Alice in Wonderland fetish. Example:
me, halloween 06
Yes, I made my own Cheshire Cat satchel. I also have a hard on for arts and crafts.
better angle, because this is my blog and I can post as many embarassing photos of myself as I see fit
I watched the Disney cartoon growing up... and then I watched it again the first time I was ever totally bonged out my junior year of college. (Comparison: not much had changed; I still didn't understand a damn thing in that movie.) I read the books (Alice's Adventures in Wonderland and Through the Looking Glass) by Lewis Carrol, and the made-for-tv movie featuring every celebrity on Earth alive in the 80s was watched on repeat until I waseight twelve today.
So when Gwen's first single off her first solo album Love. Angel. Music. Baby had an Alice in Wonderland theme... I was hooked. She knows I exist! She's doing everything according to my tastes! Either that, or Gwen knows that somewhere out there, there is a college student destined to be her BFF 4EVA. And that college student (at the time) was moi.
Anyway, here's a link to the normal, director's cut of the video. Below is a video for the remix of the song, which is mushroom-taking-tastic*.
*Posh&Bex does not endorse the use of taking psychotropic mushrooms. She much prefers these. Or really, these. Especially when she's on this.
Yes, I made my own Cheshire Cat satchel. I also have a hard on for arts and crafts.
I watched the Disney cartoon growing up... and then I watched it again the first time I was ever totally bonged out my junior year of college. (Comparison: not much had changed; I still didn't understand a damn thing in that movie.) I read the books (Alice's Adventures in Wonderland and Through the Looking Glass) by Lewis Carrol, and the made-for-tv movie featuring every celebrity on Earth alive in the 80s was watched on repeat until I was
So when Gwen's first single off her first solo album Love. Angel. Music. Baby had an Alice in Wonderland theme... I was hooked. She knows I exist! She's doing everything according to my tastes! Either that, or Gwen knows that somewhere out there, there is a college student destined to be her BFF 4EVA. And that college student (at the time) was moi.
Anyway, here's a link to the normal, director's cut of the video. Below is a video for the remix of the song, which is mushroom-taking-tastic*.
*Posh&Bex does not endorse the use of taking psychotropic mushrooms. She much prefers these. Or really, these. Especially when she's on this.
Tuesday, June 19, 2007
A Gwen Stefani Moment #4
You knew it was coming. I love this song so much that it's gotta be on the Top 5 Gwen Moments List. And not even as a guilty pleasure, as displayed by me admitting just how much I love this song in this public forum. ("Public" in this context meaning "I write, you read, and comment if you're feeling especially randy.")
Hollahback Girl, the song that keeps on giving whether you're on a treadmill, at a gay club, in a private karaoke room, or just singing at the top of your lungs in your car:
Mostly, I love this song (besides how catchy the beat is) because it's effing ridiculous. This shit is bananas? And then you SPELL the word "bananas"? That's your chorus? But it works. For me anyway. I know people who imagine hell as this song being played over and over. But, oh no. It's not this song. It's this song.
What's Published in Boston, Doesn't Necessarily Stay in Boston
I write a monthly column for INsite Boston, a monthly magazine that features celebrities, movies, TV, media, and other less-nationally celebrated, more Boston-centric forms of entertainment.
How did I get this job? Well, I'm offended you even have to ask. Obviously it is because I am such an accomplished writer and social satirist that I have developed a fan base in states I do not even reside in!
Also, my sister owns the damn thing.
Also, my friend Chris who was originally writing the column for the past year quit to go be a producer's assistant and didn't have time to not be paid to write.
But I have oodles of time to not get paid to write! So enjoy! This one puts Celeb against Celeb: Lily Allen vs. Lindsay Lohan.
I know what you're thinking. One is British (and wears insaley cute dresses that I admit to searching ebay for an hour to purchase myself), and the other is Fucked in the Head. And yet there was 800 words worth to keep the discourse alive!
Confessions of Someone Sort of Working in the Film Industry, Sorta, If the Internet Counts.
(Ed. Note-- Chris' last column was called "Confessions of a Film Student", despite the fact that he was a year out of film school while writing it, nor does he live in Boston. [Cue a round of "Boo!"'s reminiscent of the last scene from Dangerous Liasons])
And here is my first column, in case you missed it, which you surely did. Who wouldn't miss me? (Cue gagging noises.)
And if you live in the Beantown I call home about one week a year, pick up a copy of INsite while waiting for the T. Then you can either burn it for a heat source or use it to fan the sweat off your body, depending on which two seasons of the year you are currently in Boston.
How did I get this job? Well, I'm offended you even have to ask. Obviously it is because I am such an accomplished writer and social satirist that I have developed a fan base in states I do not even reside in!
Also, my sister owns the damn thing.
Also, my friend Chris who was originally writing the column for the past year quit to go be a producer's assistant and didn't have time to not be paid to write.
But I have oodles of time to not get paid to write! So enjoy! This one puts Celeb against Celeb: Lily Allen vs. Lindsay Lohan.
I know what you're thinking. One is British (and wears insaley cute dresses that I admit to searching ebay for an hour to purchase myself), and the other is Fucked in the Head. And yet there was 800 words worth to keep the discourse alive!
Confessions of Someone Sort of Working in the Film Industry, Sorta, If the Internet Counts.
(Ed. Note-- Chris' last column was called "Confessions of a Film Student", despite the fact that he was a year out of film school while writing it, nor does he live in Boston. [Cue a round of "Boo!"'s reminiscent of the last scene from Dangerous Liasons])
And here is my first column, in case you missed it, which you surely did. Who wouldn't miss me? (Cue gagging noises.)
And if you live in the Beantown I call home about one week a year, pick up a copy of INsite while waiting for the T. Then you can either burn it for a heat source or use it to fan the sweat off your body, depending on which two seasons of the year you are currently in Boston.
Monday, June 18, 2007
A Gwen Stefani Moment #5
This week is officially Gwen Stefani week here at Posh&Bex. I'm seeing her Sweet Escape concert on Friday and I shall spend the next five days celebrating that I finally get to see her perform live.
I've seen No Doubt in concert twice before, but this is different. This is MY IDOL on her own tour. I was in Australia during her last tour (damn, Australia, 7,488 miles away from everything!) and I've been bitching the last year about missing it. But finally, on Friday, I'll be heading down to Irvine to see her in concert, by myself. Naturally it's always more fun to go to concerts with somebody (there's a lot of down time in between acts where a whole lot of nothing is goes on) but at the time same time, my affinity for Gwen is best appreciated without the scrutiny of others.
Really? You like her THAT much?
Yes. Yes I do.
I bought Tragic Kingdom like everyone else who was alive in 1995. Along with Jagged Little Pill and Nevermind, everyone owned that album. The songs were fun and catchy, Gwen was attractive, the Tomboy Next Door, and their music videos were light and colorful. What's not to like?
This was during my initial songwriting and poetry writing phase, where I would read the song lyrics in every CD's liner notes and see what my favorite bands/musicians were actually talking about. I realized that songs like "Hey You" and "The Climb" were actually really well-written, with themes and opinions and more than two-syllable words! This was surprising and inspiring to me, since most songs I listened to at the time were less than subtle in their meanings. And I also discovered that Gwen wrote all the lyrics. The girl can write AND sing! I immediately loved her.
(Of course there is also the fact that the boy I was in love with at the time had a huge Gwen Stefani obsession, which effectively bearded his homosexuality I soon discovered at my 15th birthday party when I found him making out with another male invitee. But that's another life-damaging story for another post!)
Gwen, you and your music has been in my life for over a decade. Thank you.
And the countown begins! I'll start at Gwen's own beginnings, No Doubt's Trapped in a Box video.
Look how cute and innocent and unplatinum she is in the video! Not like she's an uncute, corrupt blonde ho-bag now, naturally, but she's so grundgy ska it's adorable. I wish flannel shirts would hurry up and come back into style. They were soft, easy to sinch with a scrunchie, and when worn around your waist, it could mask one's huge ass like an invisible cloak. Flannel was magic.
I've seen No Doubt in concert twice before, but this is different. This is MY IDOL on her own tour. I was in Australia during her last tour (damn, Australia, 7,488 miles away from everything!) and I've been bitching the last year about missing it. But finally, on Friday, I'll be heading down to Irvine to see her in concert, by myself. Naturally it's always more fun to go to concerts with somebody (there's a lot of down time in between acts where a whole lot of nothing is goes on) but at the time same time, my affinity for Gwen is best appreciated without the scrutiny of others.
Really? You like her THAT much?
Yes. Yes I do.
I bought Tragic Kingdom like everyone else who was alive in 1995. Along with Jagged Little Pill and Nevermind, everyone owned that album. The songs were fun and catchy, Gwen was attractive, the Tomboy Next Door, and their music videos were light and colorful. What's not to like?
This was during my initial songwriting and poetry writing phase, where I would read the song lyrics in every CD's liner notes and see what my favorite bands/musicians were actually talking about. I realized that songs like "Hey You" and "The Climb" were actually really well-written, with themes and opinions and more than two-syllable words! This was surprising and inspiring to me, since most songs I listened to at the time were less than subtle in their meanings. And I also discovered that Gwen wrote all the lyrics. The girl can write AND sing! I immediately loved her.
(Of course there is also the fact that the boy I was in love with at the time had a huge Gwen Stefani obsession, which effectively bearded his homosexuality I soon discovered at my 15th birthday party when I found him making out with another male invitee. But that's another life-damaging story for another post!)
Gwen, you and your music has been in my life for over a decade. Thank you.
And the countown begins! I'll start at Gwen's own beginnings, No Doubt's Trapped in a Box video.
Look how cute and innocent and unplatinum she is in the video! Not like she's an uncute, corrupt blonde ho-bag now, naturally, but she's so grundgy ska it's adorable. I wish flannel shirts would hurry up and come back into style. They were soft, easy to sinch with a scrunchie, and when worn around your waist, it could mask one's huge ass like an invisible cloak. Flannel was magic.
Friday, June 15, 2007
Thanks, Japan!: Come ON Already, Toshi
Do you like me? Respect me? Trust me? Good. You'll have to trust me when I say watch this video. Now. Especially if you're at work. In Japan. With the speakers up as loud as possible. And take notes!
Where is this Toshi?! He doesn't know what he's missing with this geisha gal! I hear "First Rate Cunt Lapping" and I don't need to be told twice to get my ass in bed.
Where is this Toshi?! He doesn't know what he's missing with this geisha gal! I hear "First Rate Cunt Lapping" and I don't need to be told twice to get my ass in bed.
Thanks, Japan!: He's Never Gonna Put That Fire Out on Time
So, it's a slow news week. The City of Lights is still in jail, the Firecrotch who Went To my High School (true story) is still leaving rehab to go to the gym, and Baldy McYou'reNotFoolingAnyoneWithThoseCheapAssHairExtensions is still attempting a career in comedy. Aaaaand failing. Embarrassingly.
A lone tumbleweed rolls past Hyde nightclub.
But Japan is always up to fun things! We can always depend on them. Except for when they bombed us. That was way harsh, Tai.
My favorite thing about this clip is how fucking batshit crazy the crowd is going over this dog. Or maybe it's a sheep? Who can tell anymore!
A lone tumbleweed rolls past Hyde nightclub.
But Japan is always up to fun things! We can always depend on them. Except for when they bombed us. That was way harsh, Tai.
My favorite thing about this clip is how fucking batshit crazy the crowd is going over this dog. Or maybe it's a sheep? Who can tell anymore!
Thursday, June 14, 2007
Thanks, Japan!: I'm Hungry... Let's Go To Third Base
Here's your daily Thanks, Japan moment. I wish it was filmed in night vision.
Who doesn't love something tasty and wet in their mouth? Ya know, like a penis during a blow job?....... or noodle soup. Yeah. Noodle soup. Anyway.
I like to imagine this actress talking with her parents. It would probably go something, uh-like this:
ring ring... ring ring...
Actress' Mom: Hello?
Actress: Hey, mom! Guess what! I got a starring role in a commercial!
Actress' Mom: Thank's amazing, honey! What's it for?
Actress: A popular brand of noodle soup!
Actress' Mom: I'm so proud of you!
Several months later the commercial airs in Japan.
ring ring... ring ring...
Actress' Mom: Hello?
Actress: Hey mom... it's me...
Actress' Mom: I. HAVE. NO. DAUGHTER. You have brought shame on your family.
Mom hangs up. Actress commits sepuku.
SCENE.
Who doesn't love something tasty and wet in their mouth? Ya know, like a penis during a blow job?....... or noodle soup. Yeah. Noodle soup. Anyway.
I like to imagine this actress talking with her parents. It would probably go something, uh-like this:
ring ring... ring ring...
Actress' Mom: Hello?
Actress: Hey, mom! Guess what! I got a starring role in a commercial!
Actress' Mom: Thank's amazing, honey! What's it for?
Actress: A popular brand of noodle soup!
Actress' Mom: I'm so proud of you!
Several months later the commercial airs in Japan.
ring ring... ring ring...
Actress' Mom: Hello?
Actress: Hey mom... it's me...
Actress' Mom: I. HAVE. NO. DAUGHTER. You have brought shame on your family.
Mom hangs up. Actress commits sepuku.
SCENE.
Wednesday, June 13, 2007
I Wish I Knew How to Quit You... Oh Wait, Yes I Do, You're Fired
So this douchebag
was fired for using a homophobic remark, making this guy
sad. Aww.
He released a second statement, saying, "Show me the money!" and "I see dead people."
You had me at hello, Isaiah. Actually, you never had me, I've never watched one single episode of Grey's Dr. McAnatomy.
was fired for using a homophobic remark, making this guy
sad. Aww.
Washington's rep, Howard Bragman, confirmed the news, adding that his client was informed by Grey's executive producer Shonda Rhimes earlier today that he was not being invited back to the show. In a statement, Washington, referencing the iconic line from Network, said, "I'm mad as hell and I'm not going to take it anymore."
He released a second statement, saying, "Show me the money!" and "I see dead people."
You had me at hello, Isaiah. Actually, you never had me, I've never watched one single episode of Grey's Dr. McAnatomy.
BABIES EVERYWHERE
Sometimes my own snarky comments don't add anything to something that is already hilarious to begin with. For example:
This commercial is a joke, but every guy I work with drink an elixir called "Five Hour Energy Drink" which has 4000% your B-12 intake for the day, and about seven hearty tablespoons of meth. The above ad makes me giggle (TO THE EXTREME!) but it does remind me of the best commercial in recent years:
This commercial is a joke, but every guy I work with drink an elixir called "Five Hour Energy Drink" which has 4000% your B-12 intake for the day, and about seven hearty tablespoons of meth. The above ad makes me giggle (TO THE EXTREME!) but it does remind me of the best commercial in recent years:
Thanks, Japan!: Not as Good as a New York Slice, but Definitely More Epic
Here's my all new feature: "Thanks, Japan!: Gifts the Japanese Have Given Us The World, Particularly in Media, Even More Specifically in the Genre of Commercials." Here's my all-time favorite. You'll know why around the 18 second mark.
There's romance, drama, angst, hope, and even a giant ensemble dance number. This is what a Bollywood Pizza commercial in Japan looks like.
There's romance, drama, angst, hope, and even a giant ensemble dance number. This is what a Bollywood Pizza commercial in Japan looks like.
Tuesday, June 12, 2007
New Zealand is So Hot Right Now
Good things to come out of New Zealand:
*my ex-boyfriend
*Peter Jackson (Heavenly Creatures for me, Lord of the Rings trilogy for the rest of humanity)
*Flight of the Conchords
*party pills (nope, they don't sell to the US anymore, don't even try)
*me, alive, after falling out of a plane:
*this kiwi chocolate i bought at the Auckland airport that was deeeelicious
*anything EXCEPT the zorb - i spent $50 to roll down a hill for ten seconds and get dizzy
and THIS MOVIE:
Then again, I did have multiples from said ex-boyfriend. Then again, who said I won't have an orgasm watching this?
Monday, June 11, 2007
Season Finales: Eating Onion Rings is the New Multiple Deaths
In honor of The Sopranos finale last night (which I am appreciating more the longer I think about it... which has been all freaking day long [good work toying with my emotions and productivity today, David Chase, you motherfucker]) here is the best finale of all time of the best show of all time, Six Feet Under. Time and time again, I always say, genuinely, without any hyperbole, if I could have brought the world of film and art one product, one piece of work, I wish I had given it Six Feet Under. It's that good.
Also, this finale made me openly sob, weep, that my roommate had to come in my room to make sure I was okay. You try composing yourself when people you've hung out with and cared about for six years DIE IN FRONT OF YOU. To a pretty woman's voice. During a Hybrid ad.
Also, this finale made me openly sob, weep, that my roommate had to come in my room to make sure I was okay. You try composing yourself when people you've hung out with and cared about for six years DIE IN FRONT OF YOU. To a pretty woman's voice. During a Hybrid ad.
You Can Add "Tony Eats Onion Rings; Cuts to Black Abrputly" To This Poster
Other Endings Not Ruined (But I'm Going to Ruin Them Anyway):
*she winds up with the guy from Alabama
*look behind the poster
*the boat sinks
*turns out people who blog on the internet aren't really interested in your movie, no matter how hilarious its title or how many times "motherfucker" is uttered
*they're gay; society has a problem with it
Now I Know How Those Cavemen Feel (does that mean I get my own sitcom?)
Even a woman or child could easily identify a "good" or "bad" fuse... if they weren't too busy baking cookies or getting Daddy's slippers.
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