Wednesday, April 30, 2008

The Dork Knight

Those who participated in the latest leg of the Dark Knight viral marketing trivia contest thing got more than just the opportunity to see a movie trailer a week early: one lucky audience member in each city got a 35mm print of the trailer to take home! But, wouldn't you know it, the Joker has defaced the prints, scrawling clown makeup on the stars, adding a lightsaber, and retitling the film "The Dork Knight." For being an insane criminal mastermind, the Joker has a very tame sense of humor. Couldn't he have at least taken it to subway graffiti/Perez Hilton level and drawn a penis near Christian Bale's mouth? Enjoy the post-modern revelation that Joker is aware of his own summer blockbuster:

Tuesday, April 29, 2008

Culture Schlock

George Lucas may have made a few trillion dollars on the Star Wars franchise, but that doesn't mean he didn't have to sell a few satellite dishes along the way.

Using a very loose definition of "cool", starwars.com has collected "10 cool Star Wars posters from Japan," including the above ad for the Panacolor X--a system that apparently involves both a satellite dish on a tetherball pole and a 29" television.

Besides being massively entertaining in their strangeness, the collection provides a helpful lesson in the Japanese way of thinking. In the U.S., we'd probably just do something like mount the dish on the side of Millennium Falcon, replacing the dish that's already there; you know, something that makes some degree of sense. There, the most obvious selling strategy is the unsettling image of George Lucas riding a satellite dish like a broomstick, sandwiched between Chewbacca and an Ewok, which is insane, even by American geek standards.

Monday, April 28, 2008

That Luggage Won't Shout At Itself!

Far be it from me to promote -or even watch- Deal or No Deal... but I'm just a man for Hutt's sake!



Tonight. Two hours. Eight o'clock.

Sunday, April 27, 2008

Everyone Watches!

Sometimes when you're watching a movie, you can't help but notice a fake ad for a fake product airing in the background and think, man, why didn't I get to make that commercial? Zack Snyder has heard your pleas!

The director is asking for submissions to his YouTube-affiliated "Veidt Enterprises Advertising Contest", in which you create a commercial to be featured (in the background) of Watchmen. Submissions must be 15, 30, or 60-seconds in length, advertise a Veidt product, fit the tone of Watchmen and 1985, and be "cool" and/or "awesome".

Wanna' see a couple samples?





Full contest details here.

Saturday, April 26, 2008

All In Gest

John Cusack is Igor? I don't think so. Look at that awkward grin, those sunken, soulless eyes, the perfectly smooth features, the unfortunate status of being relevant only through someone else's accomplishments. Clearly David Gest is Igor.

Friday, April 25, 2008

Just 'cause

Tanya Devereaux is some girl who claims she'll do every virgin who takes an oath of internet neutrality.
"I will make love with every virgin who defends the Internet. Certain ISP's are planning to limit internet access in a way that infringes upon internet freedom or 'net neutrality'. Description of Services: The services consist of Tania performing sexual intercourse with the applicant, the form and style of the performance will be discussed prior to the act, Tania tries to allow as much freedom as possible in this area but she does reserve the right to decline suggestions. Tania covers all her personal expenses, including travel. Any sort of recording (video, audio or photographs) of the performance is allowed for non-commercial use. Tania adheres to high standards of service but due to time limitations each performance can last no longer than 30 minutes, no exceptions will be made under any circumstance."
Wow. Then she goes on about some rules of conduct (see below), of which one particularly caught my eye: "If anywhere along the process, it becomes clear that the applicant is not a virgin, Tania reserves the right to terminate all activity." See for yourself:

Terms of Service
1. Acceptance of TermsTania Derveaux provides performance of sexual intercourse (Services) to those who request them, subject to the following Terms of Service ("TOS"). Your use of the Services in whole or in part constitutes your binding acceptance of these TOS. If you do not agree to these TOS, you should not use the Services. Some Services may be subject to additional posted rules, policies and terms. When you use those Services, you and Tania shall be subject to those additional conditions, which are incorporated by reference into these TOS (and, consequently, form part of your agreement with her).
2. Description of ServicesThe services consist of Tania performing sexual intercourse with the applicant, the form and style of the performance will be discussed prior to the act, Tania tries to allow as much freedom as possible in this area but she does reserve the right to decline suggestions. Tania covers all her personal expenses, including travel. Any sort of recording (video, audio or photographs) of the performance is allowed for non-commercial use. Tania adheres to high standards of service but due to time limitations each performance can last no longer than 30 minutes, no exceptions will be made under any circumstance.3. General Requirements and Rules of ConductServices will only be provided to those who meet the following requirements:
* applicants must be 18yrs old or above* condom must be used, except if the applicant prefers to release his semen upon Tania's body without any oral or vaginal contact* Anal sex is negotiable, although Tania will cease the performance immediately if any form of 'surprise buttsex' occurs* multiple participants are not allowed, but applicants are entitled to have an audience observe the performance* if anywhere along the process, it becomes clear that the applicant is not a virgin, Tania reserves the right to terminate all activity* applicant must be able to provide sufficient evidence that clearly shows he has been defending net neutrality (eg. a print-out of a forum post, a link to a vlog)* applicant agrees that in the event of the applicant infringing upon Terms of Service during the process of the act, Tania is not responsible for any genital injury that the applicant may suffer* Tania may deny service for hygiene reasons.

Tuesday, April 22, 2008

Quad Shift


The long-awaited third sequel to the beloved classic The Fast & the Furious finally has a title!

See if you can guess which it is:

Fast 4 Furious

The 4ast and the 4urious

2 Fast 2 Furious²

The Fast and the Furious Xtreme 480

The Fast and the Furious: 4 on da 4loor

The Fastest and Furiousest

The Fast and the Furious: 4tean Drift (ghost cars are somehow involved)

2 Fast + 2 Furious = 4Ever

The Fast and the Furious 4: Now with Vin Diesel Again!

Fast and Furious

And the answer is...
That's right, they dropped the definite articles, motherfuckahs! Just Fast and Furious now, like us!

In some ways, I feel this is stupider than anything I came up with.

Monday, April 21, 2008

Mulder, It's Me

Outside of "the truth is out there" and "hey, nerd!", few words are as ingrained in the minds of X-Files superfans as "I want to believe." The saying was clearly written on a poster in Mulder's office, and the sentiment was a running theme throughout the series. So I guess it only makes sense that creator Chris Carter has chosen X-Files: I Want to Believe as the full, lengthy title of his new movie. As he explained:

"It's a natural title. It's a story that involves the difficulties in
mediating faith and science. 'I Want to Believe.' It really does suggest
Mulder's struggle with his faith."
At first I wasn't that keen to it, but I found that it if you forcibly hold someone's hand and keep saying it to them, slowly and sincerely, never breaking eye contact, you'll start to warm up to it. Try it on the bus!

Sunday, April 20, 2008

You Gotta' Be Kidman Me!

Nicole Kidman's two children that she adopted with Tom Cruise, Isabella and Connor, are apparently ass-deep in Scientology. Nicole, who's Catholic, has had enough and wants her kids pulled out of the church that L. Ron built. And by "built" I mean made up. Page Six reports:

"At the New York premiere of Ian Halperin's film, "His Highness Hollywood,"
a Scientology insider told Halperin that Kidman "wants her kids out of the
church." Halperin beat up on the faith in his book, "Hollywood Undercover," and
said he wasn't surprised when, during the premiere, "the projector had been
sabotaged."
Nicole Kidman would rather have the kids follow a more realistic religion like Catholicism. You know, the one where a dude in a pointy hat tells people want to do from a balcony in Italy. But at least with Catholicism they don't brainwash you to give up ridiculous amounts of cash. They just guilt you into it. Huge difference.*

*Want to know what's in my coffee this morning? Controversy!

Saturday, April 19, 2008

Teach The Children Well

Anyway, Dr. Michael Salzhauer, a certified plastic surgeon, has written a children's book called My Beautiful Mommy that explains to kids about their mommy's new body parts. Ha ha, adorable! Newsweek reports:

"Salzhauer got the idea for a book after noticing that women were coming
into his office with their kids in tow. He says that mysterious doctor's visits
can be frightening for children. "Parents generally tend to go into this denial
thing. They just try to ignore the kids' questions completely." But, he adds,
children "fill in the blanks in their imagination" and then feel worse when they
see "mommy with bandages," he says. "With the tummy tucks, [the mothers] can't
lift anything. They're in bed. The kids have questions."
Amazing. My Beautiful Mommy will be a perfect companion piece to the children's book I'm working on called My Drunk as Shit Daddy. Here's an exclusive excerpt:

[Page 1]
My daddy sometimes comes home smelling like that time our cat Whiskers died behind the washing machine. I asked him why he smells so bad and he smiled then said "Your mommy doesn't understand me, or get me Hot Pockets. So daddy gets his happy juice from a bottle."

[Page 2]
Whenever I start to cry my daddy always know how to make me stop. He says "Hey, shut up when daddy's trying to nap on the kitchen floor or I'll sell your toys so I can buy a new spoiler for my Vette. I don't care if it's wrapped around the neighbor's tree again. That bitch is cherry. Gimme an animal cookie."

[Page 3]
Daddy and I play all kinds of fun games like "Here hide this gun in your toybox while daddy goes to Mexico." It was my favorite until the police showed up and made me live in a foster home until I was 18. I listen to emo music now and cut myself.

Go ahead. You can say it. I'm practically Dr. Seuss over here. I just care about the kids, you know? The precious, precious kids.

NOTE: Excerpts of "My Beautiful Mommy" on Newsweek that you've got to see to believe. Then realize this quack is hocking the book at a whopping twenty smackers.

Thursday, April 17, 2008

"What Sphinx Of Cement And Aluminum..."

HOWL

For Carl Solomon

I

I saw the best minds of my generation destroyed by
madness, starving hysterical naked,
dragging themselves through the negro streets at dawn
looking for an angry fix,
angelheaded hipsters burning for the ancient heavenly
connection to the starry dynamo in the machin-
ery of night,
who poverty and tatters and hollow-eyed and high sat
up smoking in the supernatural darkness of
cold-water flats floating across the tops of cities
contemplating jazz,
who bared their brains to Heaven under the El and
saw Mohammedan angels staggering on tene-
ment roofs illuminated,
who passed through universities with radiant cool eyes
hallucinating Arkansas and Blake-light tragedy
among the scholars of war,
who were expelled from the academies for crazy &
publishing obscene odes on the windows of the
skull,
who cowered in unshaven rooms in underwear, burn-
ing their money in wastebaskets and listening
to the Terror through the wall,
who got busted in their pubic beards returning through
Laredo with a belt of marijuana for New York,
who ate fire in paint hotels or drank turpentine in
Paradise Alley, death, or purgatoried their
torsos night after night
with dreams, with drugs, with waking nightmares, al-
cohol and cock and endless balls,
incomparable blind; streets of shuddering cloud and
lightning in the mind leaping toward poles of
Canada & Paterson, illuminating all the mo-
tionless world of Time between,
Peyote solidities of halls, backyard green tree cemetery
dawns, wine drunkenness over the rooftops,
storefront boroughs of teahead joyride neon
blinking traffic light, sun and moon and tree
vibrations in the roaring winter dusks of Brook-
lyn, ashcan rantings and kind king light of mind,
who chained themselves to subways for the endless
ride from Battery to holy Bronx on benzedrine
until the noise of wheels and children brought
them down shuddering mouth-wracked and
battered bleak of brain all drained of brilliance
in the drear light of Zoo,
who sank all night in submarine light of Bickford's
floated out and sat through the stale beer after
noon in desolate Fugazzi's, listening to the crack
of doom on the hydrogen jukebox,
who talked continuously seventy hours from park to
pad to bar to Bellevue to museum to the Brook-
lyn Bridge,
lost battalion of platonic conversationalists jumping
down the stoops off fire escapes off windowsills
off Empire State out of the moon,
yacketayakking screaming vomiting whispering facts
and memories and anecdotes and eyeball kicks
and shocks of hospitals and jails and wars,
whole intellects disgorged in total recall for seven days
and nights with brilliant eyes, meat for the
Synagogue cast on the pavement,
who vanished into nowhere Zen New Jersey leaving a
trail of ambiguous picture postcards of Atlantic
City Hall,
suffering Eastern sweats and Tangerian bone-grind-
ings and migraines of China under junk-with-
drawal in Newark's bleak furnished room,
who wandered around and around at midnight in the
railroad yard wondering where to go, and went,
leaving no broken hearts,
who lit cigarettes in boxcars boxcars boxcars racketing
through snow toward lonesome farms in grand-
father night,
who studied Plotinus Poe St. John of the Cross telep-
athy and bop kabbalah because the cosmos in-
stinctively vibrated at their feet in Kansas,
who loned it through the streets of Idaho seeking vis-
ionary indian angels who were visionary indian
angels,
who thought they were only mad when Baltimore
gleamed in supernatural ecstasy,
who jumped in limousines with the Chinaman of Okla-
homa on the impulse of winter midnight street
light smalltown rain,
who lounged hungry and lonesome through Houston
seeking jazz or sex or soup, and followed the
brilliant Spaniard to converse about America
and Eternity, a hopeless task, and so took ship
to Africa,
who disappeared into the volcanoes of Mexico leaving
behind nothing but the shadow of dungarees
and the lava and ash of poetry scattered in fire
place Chicago,
who reappeared on the West Coast investigating the
F.B.I. in beards and shorts with big pacifist
eyes sexy in their dark skin passing out incom-
prehensible leaflets,
who burned cigarette holes in their arms protesting
the narcotic tobacco haze of Capitalism,
who distributed Supercommunist pamphlets in Union
Square weeping and undressing while the sirens
of Los Alamos wailed them down, and wailed
down Wall, and the Staten Island ferry also
wailed,
who broke down crying in white gymnasiums naked
and trembling before the machinery of other
skeletons,
who bit detectives in the neck and shrieked with delight
in policecars for committing no crime but their
own wild cooking pederasty and intoxication,
who howled on their knees in the subway and were
dragged off the roof waving genitals and manu-
scripts,
who let themselves be fucked in the ass by saintly
motorcyclists, and screamed with joy,
who blew and were blown by those human seraphim,
the sailors, caresses of Atlantic and Caribbean
love,
who balled in the morning in the evenings in rose
gardens and the grass of public parks and
cemeteries scattering their semen freely to
whomever come who may,
who hiccuped endlessly trying to giggle but wound up
with a sob behind a partition in a Turkish Bath
when the blond & naked angel came to pierce
them with a sword,
who lost their loveboys to the three old shrews of fate
the one eyed shrew of the heterosexual dollar
the one eyed shrew that winks out of the womb
and the one eyed shrew that does nothing but
sit on her ass and snip the intellectual golden
threads of the craftsman's loom,
who copulated ecstatic and insatiate with a bottle of
beer a sweetheart a package of cigarettes a can-
dle and fell off the bed, and continued along
the floor and down the hall and ended fainting
on the wall with a vision of ultimate cunt and
come eluding the last gyzym of consciousness,
who sweetened the snatches of a million girls trembling
in the sunset, and were red eyed in the morning
but prepared to sweeten the snatch of the sun
rise, flashing buttocks under barns and naked
in the lake,
who went out whoring through Colorado in myriad
stolen night-cars, N.C., secret hero of these
poems, cocksman and Adonis of Denver-joy
to the memory of his innumerable lays of girls
in empty lots & diner backyards, moviehouses'
rickety rows, on mountaintops in caves or with
gaunt waitresses in familiar roadside lonely pet-
ticoat upliftings & especially secret gas-station
solipsisms of johns, & hometown alleys too,
who faded out in vast sordid movies, were shifted in
dreams, woke on a sudden Manhattan, and
picked themselves up out of basements hung
over with heartless Tokay and horrors of Third
Avenue iron dreams & stumbled to unemploy-
ment offices,
who walked all night with their shoes full of blood on
the snowbank docks waiting for a door in the
East River to open to a room full of steamheat
and opium,
who created great suicidal dramas on the apartment
cliff-banks of the Hudson under the wartime
blue floodlight of the moon & their heads shall
be crowned with laurel in oblivion,
who ate the lamb stew of the imagination or digested
the crab at the muddy bottom of the rivers of
Bowery,
who wept at the romance of the streets with their
pushcarts full of onions and bad music,
who sat in boxes breathing in the darkness under the
bridge, and rose up to build harpsichords in
their lofts,
who coughed on the sixth floor of Harlem crowned
with flame under the tubercular sky surrounded
by orange crates of theology,
who scribbled all night rocking and rolling over lofty
incantations which in the yellow morning were
stanzas of gibberish,
who cooked rotten animals lung heart feet tail borsht
& tortillas dreaming of the pure vegetable
kingdom,
who plunged themselves under meat trucks looking for
an egg,
who threw their watches off the roof to cast their ballot
for Eternity outside of Time, & alarm clocks
fell on their heads every day for the next decade,
who cut their wrists three times successively unsuccess-
fully, gave up and were forced to open antique
stores where they thought they were growing
old and cried,
who were burned alive in their innocent flannel suits
on Madison Avenue amid blasts of leaden verse
& the tanked-up clatter of the iron regiments
of fashion & the nitroglycerine shrieks of the
fairies of advertising & the mustard gas of sinis-
ter intelligent editors, or were run down by the
drunken taxicabs of Absolute Reality,
who jumped off the Brooklyn Bridge this actually hap-
pened and walked away unknown and forgotten
into the ghostly daze of Chinatown soup alley
ways & firetrucks, not even one free beer,
who sang out of their windows in despair, fell out of
the subway window, jumped in the filthy Pas-
saic, leaped on negroes, cried all over the street,
danced on broken wineglasses barefoot smashed
phonograph records of nostalgic European
1930s German jazz finished the whiskey and
threw up groaning into the bloody toilet, moans
in their ears and the blast of colossal steam
whistles,
who barreled down the highways of the past journeying
to each other's hotrod-Golgotha jail-solitude
watch or Birmingham jazz incarnation,
who drove crosscountry seventytwo hours to find out
if I had a vision or you had a vision or he had
a vision to find out Eternity,
who journeyed to Denver, who died in Denver, who
came back to Denver & waited in vain, who
watched over Denver & brooded & loned in
Denver and finally went away to find out the
Time, & now Denver is lonesome for her heroes,
who fell on their knees in hopeless cathedrals praying
for each other's salvation and light and breasts,
until the soul illuminated its hair for a second,
who crashed through their minds in jail waiting for
impossible criminals with golden heads and the
charm of reality in their hearts who sang sweet
blues to Alcatraz,
who retired to Mexico to cultivate a habit, or Rocky
Mount to tender Buddha or Tangiers to boys
or Southern Pacific to the black locomotive or
Harvard to Narcissus to Woodlawn to the
daisychain or grave,
who demanded sanity trials accusing the radio of hyp
notism & were left with their insanity & their
hands & a hung jury,
who threw potato salad at CCNY lecturers on Dadaism
and subsequently presented themselves on the
granite steps of the madhouse with shaven heads
and harlequin speech of suicide, demanding in-
stantaneous lobotomy,
and who were given instead the concrete void of insulin
Metrazol electricity hydrotherapy psycho-
therapy occupational therapy pingpong &
amnesia,
who in humorless protest overturned only one symbolic
pingpong table, resting briefly in catatonia,
returning years later truly bald except for a wig of
blood, and tears and fingers, to the visible mad
man doom of the wards of the madtowns of the
East,
Pilgrim State's Rockland's and Greystone's foetid
halls, bickering with the echoes of the soul, rock-
ing and rolling in the midnight solitude-bench
dolmen-realms of love, dream of life a night-
mare, bodies turned to stone as heavy as the
moon,
with mother finally ******, and the last fantastic book
flung out of the tenement window, and the last
door closed at 4. A.M. and the last telephone
slammed at the wall in reply and the last fur-
nished room emptied down to the last piece of
mental furniture, a yellow paper rose twisted
on a wire hanger in the closet, and even that
imaginary, nothing but a hopeful little bit of
hallucination
ah, Carl, while you are not safe I am not safe, and
now you're really in the total animal soup of
time
and who therefore ran through the icy streets obsessed
with a sudden flash of the alchemy of the use
of the ellipse the catalog the meter & the vibrat-
ing plane,
who dreamt and made incarnate gaps in Time & Space
through images juxtaposed, and trapped the
archangel of the soul between 2 visual images
and joined the elemental verbs and set the noun
and dash of consciousness together jumping
with sensation of Pater Omnipotens Aeterna
Deus
to recreate the syntax and measure of poor human
prose and stand before you speechless and intel-
ligent and shaking with shame, rejected yet con-
fessing out the soul to conform to the rhythm
of thought in his naked and endless head,
the madman bum and angel beat in Time, unknown,
yet putting down here what might be left to say
in time come after death,
and rose reincarnate in the ghostly clothes of jazz in
the goldhorn shadow of the band and blew the
suffering of America's naked mind for love into
an eli eli lamma lamma sabacthani saxophone
cry that shivered the cities down to the last radio
with the absolute heart of the poem of life butchered
out of their own bodies good to eat a thousand
years.

II

What sphinx of cement and aluminum bashed open
their skulls and ate up their brains and imagi-
nation?
Moloch! Solitude! Filth! Ugliness! Ashcans and unob
tainable dollars! Children screaming under the
stairways! Boys sobbing in armies! Old men
weeping in the parks!
Moloch! Moloch! Nightmare of Moloch! Moloch the
loveless! Mental Moloch! Moloch the heavy
judger of men!
Moloch the incomprehensible prison! Moloch the
crossbone soulless jailhouse and Congress of
sorrows! Moloch whose buildings are judgment!
Moloch the vast stone of war! Moloch the stun-
ned governments!
Moloch whose mind is pure machinery! Moloch whose
blood is running money! Moloch whose fingers
are ten armies! Moloch whose breast is a canni-
bal dynamo! Moloch whose ear is a smoking
tomb!
Moloch whose eyes are a thousand blind windows!
Moloch whose skyscrapers stand in the long
streets like endless Jehovahs! Moloch whose fac-
tories dream and croak in the fog! Moloch whose
smokestacks and antennae crown the cities!
Moloch whose love is endless oil and stone! Moloch
whose soul is electricity and banks! Moloch
whose poverty is the specter of genius! Moloch
whose fate is a cloud of sexless hydrogen!
Moloch whose name is the Mind!
Moloch in whom I sit lonely! Moloch in whom I dream
Angels! Crazy in Moloch! Cocksucker in
Moloch! Lacklove and manless in Moloch!
Moloch who entered my soul early! Moloch in whom
I am a consciousness without a body! Moloch
who frightened me out of my natural ecstasy!
Moloch whom I abandon! Wake up in Moloch!
Light streaming out of the sky!
Moloch! Moloch! Robot apartments! invisible suburbs!
skeleton treasuries! blind capitals! demonic
industries! spectral nations! invincible mad
houses! granite cocks! monstrous bombs!
They broke their backs lifting Moloch to Heaven! Pave-
ments, trees, radios, tons! lifting the city to
Heaven which exists and is everywhere about
us!
Visions! omens! hallucinations! miracles! ecstasies!
gone down the American river!
Dreams! adorations! illuminations! religions! the whole
boatload of sensitive bullshit!
Breakthroughs! over the river! flips and crucifixions!
gone down the flood! Highs! Epiphanies! De-
spairs! Ten years' animal screams and suicides!
Minds! New loves! Mad generation! down on
the rocks of Time!
Real holy laughter in the river! They saw it all! the
wild eyes! the holy yells! They bade farewell!
They jumped off the roof! to solitude! waving!
carrying flowers! Down to the river! into the
street!

III

Carl Solomon! I'm with you in Rockland
where you're madder than I am
I'm with you in Rockland
where you must feel very strange
I'm with you in Rockland
where you imitate the shade of my mother
I'm with you in Rockland
where you've murdered your twelve secretaries
I'm with you in Rockland
where you laugh at this invisible humor
I'm with you in Rockland
where we are great writers on the same dreadful
typewriter
I'm with you in Rockland
where your condition has become serious and
is reported on the radio
I'm with you in Rockland
where the faculties of the skull no longer admit
the worms of the senses
I'm with you in Rockland
where you drink the tea of the breasts of the
spinsters of Utica
I'm with you in Rockland
where you pun on the bodies of your nurses the
harpies of the Bronx
I'm with you in Rockland
where you scream in a straightjacket that you're
losing the game of the actual pingpong of the
abyss
I'm with you in Rockland
where you bang on the catatonic piano the soul
is innocent and immortal it should never die
ungodly in an armed madhouse
I'm with you in Rockland
where fifty more shocks will never return your
soul to its body again from its pilgrimage to a
cross in the void
I'm with you in Rockland
where you accuse your doctors of insanity and
plot the Hebrew socialist revolution against the
fascist national Golgotha
I'm with you in Rockland
where you will split the heavens of Long Island
and resurrect your living human Jesus from the
superhuman tomb
I'm with you in Rockland
where there are twenty-five-thousand mad com-
rades all together singing the final stanzas of the Internationale
I'm with you in Rockland
where we hug and kiss the United States under
our bedsheets the United States that coughs all
night and won't let us sleep
I'm with you in Rockland
where we wake up electrified out of the coma
by our own souls' airplanes roaring over the
roof they've come to drop angelic bombs the
hospital illuminates itself imaginary walls col-
lapse O skinny legions run outside O starry
spangled shock of mercy the eternal war is
here O victory forget your underwear we're
free
I'm with you in Rockland
in my dreams you walk dripping from a sea-
journey on the highway across America in tears
to the door of my cottage in the Western night

Sunday, April 13, 2008

And Thanks For All The Fish

In my line of work? This is what we call "a lie."

So much for "down in the valley."

Saturday, April 12, 2008

Bad Boys



Okay, I've posted this before... but it's not like it stopped being funny since. I'm busy.

Friday, April 11, 2008

Whatever A Spider Can, I Can Do Better

In a divergence from their more-standard "If _____ wrote _____" pieces examining the wackiness of if someone wrote something they didn't, McSweeney's has posted "If Michael Chabon wrote the Spider-Man 2 Script", which is a divergence because he actually did write a complete draft (and received a shared story credit). So download the screenplay, and decide for yourself whether it was a good idea to pass on the majority of a Pulitzer Prize-winner's draft in favor of a 73-year-old guy's revision.

Wednesday, April 09, 2008

What's The Slowest Mammal?

Paris Hilton recently visited South Africa with her boyfriend Benji Madden and was obsessed with the prices of things. She even set her eyes on a certain jungle cat that she wanted to take home. NY Daily News reports:

"A hotel spy tells us: "Every time Paris saw something she liked, like a
woman's dress, she would ask how much it was. That included a cheetah she saw at an animal park. She asked how much it was and said, 'If I bought a cheetah,
would it run away from me or could I keep it?' "
Okay, usually when Paris Hilton does something my knee-jerk reaction is "Wow, what a fucking idiot." This time, however, I couldn't be more on board. Paris, get the cheetah. Seriously, anyone who tells you it will kill you is just mean, stupid and trying to steal your man. You should definitely bring one home and let it run around your house. And you know what else would be super hot? Tying a steak around your neck. That Lindsay Lohan would be so jealous she'd pee herself. No fooling.

Tuesday, April 08, 2008

You Damn Dirty Apes!

A further call to action, or despair? Me? I think it's been a pretty good run, but honestly, the human race isn't doing much anymore but proving it's time to give something else a shot. Don't worry, the planet will be fine... it'll just be the lower primates' turn. Or maybe the cockroaches.

Saturday, April 05, 2008

Jedi? Hair lip!

If you're excited about the new Star Wars: The Clone Wars animated series, enjoy this first look at Obi-Wan. If you're not, just enjoy the mad look in his eyes.

Expect The Clone Wars in theaters August 15, followed by a series on Cartoon Network and TNT, followed by complaining.

Friday, April 04, 2008

There's Gotta' Be Some Way Outta' Here

I could type a bunch of clever shit, but here's the deal: Battlestar Galactica is quite possibly the best thing that's ever been on TV. I type that thinking of Bob Newhart and Jim Rockford and, yes, of Jim Kirk's Star Trek.

Seriously, if you haven't been watching, rent or stream the last three seasons now, 'cause the final fourth season starts tonight... or, starts this morning at 9:00am. Seems SciFi will be streaming the season premier here first thing in the morning... come on, Kara.

Thursday, April 03, 2008

And They Have A Plan

Hey kids! This is a picture of a scary webpage you can visit where that creepy woman there follows your cursor around and freaks you out.

It works, I am well and truly freaked. I actually got so scared that I tried moving the cursor around erratically in an attempt to break her neck. But alas, cyborgs are trickier to kill than I had initially anticipated. Give it a go yourself, but be warned: you will cry, mess your pants, and put your fist through the monitor. That, or fall in love. With a robot face on a website. In which case you need to get out more.

Wednesday, April 02, 2008

Hold Me Closer, Greedy Dancer

So we all know that Kevin Federline is still in love with Britney. Well, it turns out the two saw each other over Easter and are in talks for a getaway to rekindle their romance. Now would be a good time to buy Cheetos stock. Star reports:

"And that March 23 rendezvous went so well, insiders explain, that Brit and Kevin have agreed to take a trip far from the glare of Hollywood to work on their relationship.

"Kevin wants to take Britney away to see if there is anything to salvage between them," a family friend tells Star. "When he suggested it to her, she told him she was ready to go anytime he was."

May I recommend a location for the lovebirds? It's a quiet little place. Don't know if you've heard of it. It's called THE CENTER OF THE MOTHER*%#KING SUN! I'll provide the rocket. One of you get NASA on the line.

Tuesday, April 01, 2008

That'll Sound Great In The Volvo, Son!

New REM album this month. It's been 25 years, and by all rights I should have given up on these guys when Bill Berry left the band... but you know what? I made it through Around the Sun, so why quit now? Besides, Accelerate sounds promising. Check out the first video:



And now, remember happier days!