Be the best that you can be, unless you can be a unicorn, then totally be a unicorn. So do what you want, stand for what you believe in, and don’t let nobody tell you you can’t do what you want. I’m a unicorn, and fuck anybody who say I’m not.
Why can’t I text in italics?! Instead I have to use capital letters for emphasis and make it seem like I’ve yelled one word in an otherwise soft spoken sentence. They probably can add it, but don’t, because then it would be obvious they can also add in bolding, underlining, and size and color change. Then we’d all have that one person who sends texts that read like a geocities web page from 1998.
I don’t get why people are so against Ben Affleck as Batman.
Do people not want an Oscar winning, critically acclaimed writer/actor/director playing a superhero?
Aren’t people interested in a considered take on Batman from a man who’s proven himself capable of intelligent character development…
The fact that so many books still name the Beatles “the greatest or most significant or most influential” rock band ever only tells you how far rock music still is from becoming a serious art. Jazz critics have long recognized that the greatest jazz musicians of all times are Duke Ellington and John Coltrane, who were not the most famous or richest or best sellers of their times, let alone of all times. Classical critics rank the highly controversial Beethoven over classical musicians who were highly popular in courts around Europe. Rock critics are still blinded by commercial success: the Beatles sold more than anyone else (not true, by the way), therefore they must have been the greatest. Jazz critics grow up listening to a lot of jazz music of the past, classical critics grow up listening to a lot of classical music of the past. Rock critics are often totally ignorant of the rock music of the past, they barely know the best sellers. No wonder they will think that the Beatles did anything worth of being saved.
In a sense the Beatles are emblematic of the status of rock criticism as a whole: too much attention to commercial phenomena (be it grunge or U2) and too little attention to the merits of real musicians. If somebody composes the most divine music but no major label picks him up and sells him around the world, a lot of rock critics will ignore him. If a major label picks up a musician who is as stereotyped as one can be but launches her or him worldwide, your average critic will waste rivers of ink on her or him. This is the sad status of rock criticism: rock critics are basically publicists working for free for major labels, distributors and record stores. They simply publicize what the music business wants to make money with.
Hopefully, one not-too-distant day, there will be a clear demarcation between a great musician like Tim Buckley, who never sold much, and commercial products like the Beatles. And rock critics will study more of rock history and realize who invented what and who simply exploited it commercially.
Beatles’ “aryan” music removed any trace of black music from rock and roll: it replaced syncopated african rhythm with linear western melody, and lusty negro attitudes with cute white-kid smiles.
Contemporary musicians never spoke highly of the Beatles, and for a good reason. They could not figure out why the Beatles’ songs should be regarded more highly than their own. They knew that the Beatles were simply lucky to become a folk phenomenon (thanks to “Beatlemania”, which had nothing to do with their musical merits). THat phenomenon kept alive interest in their (mediocre) musical endeavours to this day. Nothing else grants the Beatles more attention than, say, the Kinks or the Rolling Stones. There was nothing intrinsically better in the Beatles’ music. Ray Davies of the Kinks was certainly a far better songwriter than Lennon & McCartney. The Stones were certainly much more skilled musicians than the ‘Fab Fours’. And Pete Townshend was a far more accomplished composer, capable of “Tommy” and “Quadrophenia”. Not to mention later and far greater British musicians. Not to mention the American musicians who created what the Beatles later sold to the masses.
The Beatles sold a lot of records not because they were the greatest musicians but simply because their music was easy to sell to the masses: it had no difficult content, it had no technical innovations, it had no creative depth. They wrote a bunch of catchy 3-minute ditties and they were photogenic. If somebody had not invented “beatlemania” in 1963, you would not have wasted five minutes of your time to read about such a trivial band.
I’ve been meaning to post something about The Big Bang Theory for a while now but it’s taken me ‘till now to really understand what it is about the show that makes me uncomfortable. I’m not exactly a believer in the whole “only write about the things you like, don’t trash the things you don’t” trend which seems to be plaguing comments sections in negative articles lately, but I wanted to be able to really examine why I don’t like TBBT rather than just slagging it off. My main questions being - Why don’t I like this anymore? Why do I feel uncomfortable watching it? And why do I get so annoyed when I see people sing its praises online? The thing which really sparked this post was seeing a raft of comments on Facebook, below the last round of voting in Television Without Pity’s Tubey Awards, claiming The Big Bang Theory to be “the best comedy on TV”. This made me angry so instead of posting an impulsive comment calling out their bad taste which I’d probably regret later, I decided to really analyse why seeing comments like that made me so mad when previously, although I didn’t really love the show, I’d never considered myself as disliking The Big Bang Theory.
Hell, I even have season one on dvd, it’s sitting right between Battlestar Galactica and Bored To Death in my alphabetised collection.
And here, I think, is where my problem with The Big Bang Theory lies…
Most people don’t realize you have 2 forms of currency in life.
Money AND Time.
You purchase Money with Time and you Spend Money to buy Time.
Example. If it takes you 2 hrs to clean a house, but can pay someone else $100 to do it for you. You can either A) do it yourself, thus saving $100, but spending 2hrs or B) spend $100 to buy yourself 2 hrs of time.
What you do with the time you buy is up to you. In this example if you can make $150 in the 2 hrs you just purchased for $100 your ahead. If you make nothing then you wasted $100 and 2hrs (always subjective thought). If you do it yourself you spent 2 hrs and saved $100.
It’s why you don’t see CEO’s, Lawyers etc… cleaning up (unless they have the time or like doing it) because on average spending the money to buy the time to make more money is just the right thing to do.
Bus boners. The worst. Every. Freaking. Time. The bumpy roads don’t help. And the engine vibration. And those sexy thoughts you keep trying to shut down but you just can’t.
“What are you looking at, old lady? You looking for some action? How many dicks have been inside you in your lifetime? Bet its a lot. Right now, there’s probably forty dicks that have been inside you buried all over the planet. A few back in your hometown in Iowa. Three or four in Rhode Island where you went to college. A bunch in Europe. You were a Red Cross nurse during World War II. You pity-fucked a lot back then. It gave the lads courage so you didn’t feel like a common whore. When the war was over, you didn’t immediately go back home. Instead, you stopped off in Australia for a year. There’s a baker’s dozen of penises that saw the inside of your lady parts buried in Oz now. You made it home in the summer of ‘46. You weren’t ready to settle down, though. You met plenty of boys out east of Des Moines near the Iowa State Fairgrounds off Route 65. Bobby Stanton. He always smelled like unfiltered Camels. His penis is buried in Urbandale. Richard Lombard. Always well dressed. His penis ended up in Cedar Rapids. Little Leonard Campbell’s penis made it all the way to Sioux Falls. You settled down eventually, old lady. You married Stewart Applebaum. He was a good man. Sold discount lunchpails. He moved you out to the suburbs of Kansas City. There, you raised four beautiful boys. The oldest, Jason, went to Vietnam in 1968. He never made it home. The goddamned Gooks got him on New Year’s Day, 1969 during the Battle of Hat Dich. His body was so mangled that they couldn’t bring him back. They buried his penis on the border of the Bien Hoa, Long Khanh and Phuoc Tuy provinces. Even though he was your son, technically, his penis was inside you, too. In 1988, Stewart suffered a fatal heart attack. His penis was buried in his hometown of Rochester, Minnesota. That wasn’t your last penis, though. There was Gerald T. Pendergrast. His penis was buried down the road from the retirement community you met him at up in Center Point. Well, old lady. Play your cards right and maybe you’ll get one more…shit. This is my stop but I can’t just stand up with this thing throbbing the way it is. Damn. Ok. Remember your training. I just need to squeeze my quadriceps…”