Why is there a Spice Girls reunion tour? What is wrong with our society where we would allow these evil Martian poo-beings to sully not one, but two decades of popular culture? Why aren't we marching in the streets to stop this abhorrent display of suck-tasticness?
And furthermore, who is going to these concerts? I mean, besides mental patients. "Normal" people have to be going to this and they can't all be going ironically, can they? I just don't get it. At all.
My brain hurts. I've got to go lay down or something. Is the room tilting?
So, I searched myself on Facebook, which I would not recommend. Any feelings of specialness will be instantly crushed when you find out that there are a few pages of people with exactly the same name as you. [ sigh. ] "You are not a beautiful and unique snowflake. You are the same decaying organic matter as everyone else, and we are all part of the same compost pile." Serenity now.
Also, you may find a picture like this:
This is Dylan Todd. According to the little profile search listing, he's from Las Vegas. And from what I can gather, he looks EXACTLY. LIKE. ME. Well, at least the little picture of him does. Freaky, right?
I don't think I was prepared for this. Seriously, I'm sort of freaking out. What if it's someone who's stolen my identity only instead of ruining my credit, they're gallivanting around the internets posting things as Dylan Todd in order to ruin my indie cred? If so, how did he get that picture of me bathing two small dogs? I have never done such a thing, so either it's a fake (and why someone would invest that much time into faking a picture of a guy in a bandanna bathing dogs is a whole other mind-blowing conundrum) or he's a clone. An evil dog-washing clone. Or I have a whole other personality like Dr. Jekkly and Mr. Hyde, only this Mr. Hyde washes dogs when I, Dr. Jekkly (or am I Mr. Hyde? Dude, what if I'm Mr. Hyde?! Did I just blow your mind?), eats cookies in Cleveland. DUDE! Existential identity crisis eminent!
I've got to go lie down. This is too much excitement. Serenity now.
So I'm going to meet my goal of 365 posts for 2007. This much is obvious. I'm at 349 (after this post) and would just have to post every other day in December to blow it out of the water, not unlike the Lusitania. (Zing! WW1 joke, baby!)
This leaves me in the interesting position of reworking my posting schedule. See, with the threat of not hitting my (admittedly weird) personal goal of 365 posts in 365 days (which was initially intended as a joke, but turned really serious somewhere along the line... which reminds me of sunglasses*), I have relaxed a little, post-wise. Which isn't a bad thing, what with the preponderance of holidays cominatcha.
See, it's almost 2008, which means I really need to do some Christmas shopping. It also means that I need to think about how I'm gonna attack this blog in the coming year. And I don't mean nunchucks vs. bo staff. Though that would rock it to Russia, indeed.
Here are some things I'm considering for the BRR in the 08. Lemme know what you think with your juicy, delicious comments:
* Maintain a regular posting schedule. Whether it's something small daily-ish, a Monday-Wednesday-Friday type of thing (while still continuing with a POW! on the weekend and AOK! and ...Bedside Table updates on Sunday) or a juicy, meatier once-a-week post, I'd like to settle into a regular routine. I set up a poll in the sidebar to gather your feedback. Because I love democracy. Truly I am the Thomas Jefferson of the Internets, and not only because I have a thing for white wigs, pantaloons and the writings of John Locke. (You thought I was gonna make a joke about how TJ liked the sistahs, didn't you? Well, I didn't. This is a classy joint. Now, if you'll excuse me, I have to make some jokes about animal excrement.)
* Longer pieces monthly. Whether it's a longer review, essay or a short story, I'd like to write longer pieces on a monthly basis. I don't know if it would be worth it to post it here or just link to a Google Docs/Group page as a downloadable pdf, as personally, I have a hard time reading a lot on screen and try - ofttimes unsuccessfully - to keep my paragraphs and posts short for screen reading.
* Monthly mixtape giveaways. Most likely on a first-come, first-served basis, although I'm open for suggestions. I'd make anywhere from one to five mixtapes and give 'em to the first commenters. Or should I draw names? Lemme know what you think.
*Finally, more pictures of kittens. And jokes about dinosaur genitalia. And Angelina Jolie's broad shoulders. And the fact that Barry Manilow looks a lot like what I would expect Death to look like.
Also, lots of parenthesis.
Basically, more of the same. Only sort of different. Better.
Now is your chance to make this blog better. Is there anything I'm not blogging about that I should be? Should BRR Goes To the Movies be a weekly/bi-weekly feature? Too much music criticism? Not enough? How about some esoteric art/design stuff? More comics? Less comics? Just enough comics? I'm thinking about posting a Weekly Random Comic Panel in the sidebar - what do you think? Are the Quotes For the Day posts worth it? As the "dad" on this roadtrip, I decide when we stop and we are not stopping once we get on the freeway. It's along way to Disneyland so you'd better get it all out now. Don't make me come back there. I will take my belt off.
Well, so much for being brief for on-screen reading. Until next time, Internets. Peace.
* The sunglasses involved were a pair of Elvis-esque glasses (see picture, above) that I bought on Venice Beach that ended up becoming my "real life" glasses after starting off as a goof. So, if you were driving around Vegas six to seven years ago and saw a pasty kid rocking out with giant fake gold Elvis glasses in a white pickup - that was me. I was that masked man.
Okay, this one gets a little tricky, so try and keep up. See, it all started with this review of a recent stage performance of an episode of 30 Rock, which got me thinking: "What am I going to do if this writer's strike continues and I get no more 30 Rock or the Office or [gasp!] Lost (not to mention Life, Reaper or How I Met Your Mother... all of which are worthy of your time) this season?!" (And to answer your question, yes, I even think in parentheses. It's my shtick.)
This thought filled me with dread. And also apprehension. And trepidation. And horror. And unease. And disquiet. And cookies - cookies of sadness.*
Which brings me to today's post: This writer's strike and where I stand in relation to it. because I think it's important that you know where I stand on the important issues. Like how delicious falafel (Or is that "falafels"? What's the plural for "falafel"? Oh man. Another thing I don't know about.) are. Or the fact that I am stuck on the last boss in Star Wars: Knights Of the Old Republic 2: the Sith Lords and will most likely never beat that @#$% game. Or how I think that Angelina Jolie looks very much like a man.
Because that's what the internet's for: voicing your opinion on things you're woefully uneducated on.
Anyway, the strike boils down to this: Writers are not receiving any ad revenue for their work when it s shown online. You know, like when you want to watch an episode of, say, 30 Rock and at every spot where there would be a commercial in "real life" there's an especially annoying ad for, I dunno, Chase Credit Cards where the Rolling Stones are covering the Soup Dragons' "I'm Free". Just hypothetically. And you can't skip the ad. The corporation that owns the episode is making money off of that ad. The writers are not. The writers would like a little bit of that money. Because, you know, they created it. And this internet fad is sort of sticking around, despite the claims by the studios that , "Well, it's still to soon to tell how the internet will affect us." The proper term for this sort of logic is "A bunch of crap." Or, if you're a 90-year-old man, "hogwash".
Here, this explains it a little better:
So, yeah, the writers are getting screwed.
"What?" You may exclaim. "But Dylan, you mean to tell me that you, a blue-blooded left-of-center bleeding-heart-quasi-liberal type, choose to side with creative types who are getting screwed out of money rather than mega-corporations who want to reap the benefits of the internet without paying the people who actually create the work?"
Um, yeah. Duh? Seriously though, it's sort of obvious who the good guys are here, right?
So now that I've dazzled you with my logic and rhetoric (pronounced: shown you a YouTube clip and rambled on for oh, roughly forever), you may be asking, "But Dylan, what the heck can I do to help?" Well, the WGA and the old mega-rich white guy idea thieves are sitting down to discuss this whole thing and if the OMRWGITs know the public is behind the writers, they're more likely to play ball with our beleaguered writers. So, you can do the logical thing to show your solidarity and support and send the studios a pencil.
You read that right.
You have probably noticed that I have this little thing in my sidebar. With it, you can give the WGA a buck and they'll send a box of pencils to the studio. They will stick it to the man. It's some kind of a metaphor or something. Here, read this. Just give 'em a buck, okay? Also, you can track the writers through this blog which is chock-full of the sort of pinko commie propaganda you'd expect from those Union types as well as funny videos chock full of the sort of pinko commie propaganda you'd expect from those Union types. (In case you have no sense of CyberSarcasm, uh, this is CyberSarcasm.)
¡Viva la revolución!
Anyway, so yeah, Happy Thanksgiving. I'll post more over the super extra radical long special edition director's cut weekend, now with more Greedo-Shot-First and Luke-Crybaby-Screams!
Yeah, I didn't quite get it either.
*Special thanks to my Thesaurus Dashboard widget. You rule.
"I arrived in Tokyo at 3:34 P.M. and already felt like I was coming back to life.
"Tokyo, my beloved Tokyo.
"My love for Tokyo is one of those boozy, bare-knuckled kind of loves that makes normal people uneasy. A gritty love like a kung-fu noir written by Tennessee Williams. The city and I had done a lot of damage to each other over the years, but I always came back, and she always accepted me. Dysfunctional, yeah - but with a place like Tokyo and a guy like me, how could it be anything else?"
Man, I hate the Goo Goo Dolls. They represent everything phony and middle-of-the-road about rock & roll. It's the most turgid phony baloney whiny business rock ever produced. Their catalog is like infinite versions of "Every Rose Has Its Thorn," shed of any irony and sang in such a postured, "Look at how sensitive I am. Aren't I troubled? Don't you want to reform me and my rock & roll ways?" whine.
I imagine that the Devil thinks they're like, totally awesome and plays them all of the time in "the Hot Place". He has a concert t-shirt and everything.
I am slightly car-wreck-interested in that American Idol For Sort Of Lame Bands show (dude, that Mini Me Metal Band is seriously hilarious/awesome... but that's a whole other post), but having to look at/listen to Goo Goo doll singer/professional Jennifer Aniston look-alike - Johnny Rzezzeezznijjkglik or whatever - totally kills whatever guilty pleasure I might derive from watching crappy bands do crappy covers of crappy Billy crappy Joel's crappy songs (and that's not a lot of pleasure, believe you me... also, my dislike of crappy Billy Joel is another post as well).
So, yeah. I hate the Goo Goo Dolls and you should too. because they suck. and it's the law to not like them. And I am the law.
The end.
P.S.: Also, if I ever have a band, we will be called Debate Team. Or Panther Paw. Or maybe we can compromise and name ourselves Debate Panther. Or Paw Team. Or Team Paw.
But not Panther Team. That is, as the kids are saying these days, "so played out".
* That's "Negative Infinity," for all non-math-ers out there.
It's Scott Pilgrim Eve! Volume four of the Scott Pilgrim saga, Scott Pilgrim Gets It Together is hitting shelves tomorrow! Yay!
I hope you'll be good boys &/or girls and pick it up at your local comics retailer or bookstore or online retailer or whatever. Just get it. Because it will rock thy world into itty bitty pieces. Believe it.
Big Ups to Dave for pointing out that some kind soul had uploaded Darondo videos on YouTube. Please don't let his lack of comedy chops - or his resemblance to a certain Ladies Man - dissuade you from picking up Let My People Go. Let me put it this way: his comedy chops are inversely proportional to his ability to purvey the funk. Does that make sense? Basically, he's not funny, but the dude can sing. How about that? Better?
Listen we're friends, right? And friends look our for each other. Friends - real, true friends who care - don't let their friends do things they will regret, like wear Zubas or watch Fred Claus or eat at the Boston Market (aka "the Easy Way to get Food Poisoning"). I'm looking out for your well-being, as you would look out for mine.
Cuz we tight like that.
So trust me when I tell you that you must, must get this album in your life immediately:
Darondo - Let My People Go. You must own this album. It's like James Brown and Al Green had a baby, and if you are at all familiar with the concept of radness, you will recognize this as ten kinds of rad. If not then, well, maybe we should reconsider this so-called "friendship".
However you get it into your life, get it in there. From one friend to another. You will thank me.
I am on teh Facebooks! Teh Facebooks is teh awesomes!1!!
But seriously, this whole Web 2.0/Social Networking thing had really left me cold, mainly because my first encounter was with MySpace (and we all know how creepy and hideously designed I think that site is... [shivers]) and I just couldn't get into it. At all. Then along comes the Facebook bandwagon, slowing down as it passed me on my walk to the train station.
So, I jumped on. Just to see what the fuss was about.
And... it's pretty cool. The layout is attractive, the interface is intuitive (have you ever tried to find someone on MySpace? Seriously, it'd take the combined prowess of Veronica Mars, Sam Spade, Sherlock Holmes, that fruity Poirot dude and one of the Hardy Boys - take yr pick - to ever find anybody on there... on here: easy peasy lemon squeezy, Charlie) and it's fun to dink around with. I added my Last.fm "Recently Played" widget, my pictures from Flickr and am looking into adding some sort of feed to display posts from this very blog.
I know, awesome, right?
Anyway, is there anybody out there who's on Facebook (and isn't already my "Facebook friend")? If so, look me up. We will be internet buddies. We will cyber-chill.
Anyway, I gotta go get ready for 30 Rock. Don't miss it!
I've made no secret that David Byrne is my hero, rock&roll or otherwise. I recently discovered his online journal, hosted over at his website. It you want a good dose of David Byrne awesome, check this recent post on his first trip it IKEA.
Dude is so my hero.
P.S.: Also, the Knee Plays, Byrne's score for an avant garde play, is being reissued. I purchased the LP (vinyl, baby!) while Candace and I honeymooned in San Francisco all those years ago and am pretty excited for a (relatively) new David Byrne album.
"There is no such thing as nonfiction. ... People who really know what happened aren't talking. And the people who don't have a clue, you can't shut them up. It's the same with your own stories, the ones that circulate around with your family and your friends. We're all part of the same hypocrisy."
Last night I had a dream that a deer intentionally and maliciously put its rump down on my foot and defecated on it. I think it may have even looked at me all mean-like while it was doing its business. It also scooted its poo-bum on the carpet in order to get back at us humans for whatever indignities we have heaped upon the poor, beautiful creatures.
And this wasn't normal deer poo either, all small and round like it came from a slightly large rabbit. This was nasty, thick, horse-like-but-grosser poo. Smelly and warm and ick.
I woke up immediately after and was trying to find the best way to sleep without putting my deer-poo-foot on the covers. It took me a while before I realized it was a dream and that there was, in fact, no deer poo stuck on my foot.
Weird.
Also, this is a true story, though I wish it weren't.
