It's like Being Reincarnated In The Civil War In Babylon

Watched Masked & Anonymous tonight, the 2003 Bob Dylan movie starring, well, everybody. And it's fantastic.

But then again, the deck is stacked when you discuss Dylan with me, as there is no way I can approach the man impartially, though not for the reason you're thinking of. I mean, sure, I'm named after the guy and was brought up listening to everything from "Just Like Tom Thumbs Blues" to "Spanish Harlem Incident" to "Idiot Wind." And I'm sure that has something to do with my appreciation for his work; it certainly doesn't hurt. But my love for the man is from a more unexpected source.

See, there are a few things, a few watershed moments in my life that, well, that screwed me up beyond repair. The first was a childhood obsession with Star Wars and comic books, but it progressed to discovering the Beatniks and Kerouac, Kurt Vonnegut, Woody Allen, Pynchon's The Crying of Lot 49, Philip K. Dick, Grant Morrison and Jack Kirby. But sitting in the middle of this, between the Fantastic Four and The Dharma Bums, holding court with midgets and cops and million other washed-up old criminals sits Tarantula, a mess of a book that changed my life. It quite literally blew my 15 year old mind.

Wait, no. Not literally, I guess, as my mind was not literally exploded. It just felt like it. "It figuratively blew my mind"? Yeah, that's the one. Doesn't sound as impressive though, does it?

So yeah, Bob Dylan has a soft spot in the cluttered ruins of my heart, so if I say things like "Masked & Anonymous is a great pre-apocalyptic fable full of sly social commentary, heavy symbolism and an incredible cast," or "It's I'm Not There's evil, inbred twin," you'll have to bear with me, it's just the hyperbole speaking. When I say stuff like "It's like David Lynch directing a script by Philip K. Dick and Woody Guthrie" or "It's resonant, heavy, ridiculous and highly recommended," or "Hey, Cheech is in it," just know that I can't help myself.

I yam what I yam.

Suffer For Fashion

If I were a woman, I would never shop at a place named "the Dress Barn." Why anyone thought it was a good idea to make women think of livestock when they're trying on appliquéd sweaters and stonewashed Mom Jeans (what I imagine they sell at "the Dress Barn") is beyond me.

Also, I would also not shop at the Fashion Bug. I would, however, shop at "Chico's". It sounds exotic.

We Are Going To Rock

We are going to blow out the speakers on the stereo.
We are going to tear the roof off of this sucker.
We are going to party like it is going to be 1999.
Or 1899 for that matter.
We are going to dance until our legs fall off.
We are going to party like it was going out of business.
We are going to sing songs that haven't been written by anyone on this planet, we will sing them so loud the moon will cry because its ears hurt.
We are going to kick this party out the door and then invite it back in, only to kick it out again.
We are going to throw the kind of party that you can only experience in history books.
We are going to rock like Napoleon Bonaparte.
We are going to rock like Pablo Picasso.
We are going to rock like Vasco da Gama.
We are going to party until the sun burns up.
We are going to party until we run out of music.
If there is a world record for rocking, we will break it to pieces.
We are going to rock like electric robots on fire.
Our party will rock so hard that the crust of the earth will rupture, spilling out massive amounts of molten hot awesome that will burn us all to cinders.
We are going to party like astronaut explorers being ripped apart by a black hole.
We are going to party like hypnotized donkeys.
We are going to party like breakdancing kung fu masters.
We are going to rock like Godzilla, Bruce Lee and Frankenstein teaming up to beat the living bejeepers out of Dracula, the Mummy and the Wolfman.
And Mothra.
And Martha Stewart.
And that one guy with that beard that comes out to here.
And Keanu Reeves.
We are going to kick this party like it is a bad habit like heroin or listening to Rush Limbaugh.
We are going to rock like 76 electric guitars wailing in the darkness of a scorpions heart.
We are going to rock like kittens drinking a saucer of milk.
We are going to rock like rattlesnakes who have grown to an unimaginable size.
We are gong to rock like Batman and Superman got into a fight over who their favorite Spice Girl is and they didn't speak to each other for weeks.
We are going to explode the sun with our rockingness.
Our party will become the legends of future civilizations.
Our ability to rock is second to none.
We will not be out-rocked.
Everything must be rocked.
The ottoman.
The electric can opener.
The other can opener that you have to turn with your hand.
The butter knives.
The bones of dinosaurs.
The unicorns of Norway.
The pet rock collection.
The stained glass windows depicting how we rock.
The entire set of Franklin Mint commemorative plates.
Potsy, Mouth, Richie and especially the Fonze.
They must all be rocked.
We are going to rock our faces right off of our heads and it will be so much better than that movie with John Travolta and Nicholas Cage.
We are going to rock like tube socks made from electric eels with electric eyes and electric toothbrushes.
We are going to rock with the combined power of all of Jack "King" Kirby creations.
Which is a lot of power.
We are going to party like pirates on the high seas of love.
We are going to rock like it is the law and we must obey it.
We are going to rock like the Pythagorean Theorem.
Like the Berlin Wall.
Like a baby's scream.
Like a bobcat's tail.
Like the wild blue yonder.
Like a special effect.
Like the moon on the water.
Like the ocean's tears.
We are going to rock so hard, Bigfoot will come our of hiding and regain his rightful place as King of the World.
We are going to rock because we know of nothing else we do as well.
We are going to rock because we like - no - love it.

We are going to rockrockrock.

Oh yes, indeed.

...If I can just find that Paula Abdul cassette.

Best. Sketch. Ever.

Okay, so I've been searching everywhere for this sketch. It is possibly the best SNL sketch of all time. Seriously. Finally, I have found it. Truly this is the greatest of days. Let us rejoice.

"She won't answer you. She's a bobcat."