Firstly, I added a Last.fm radio station to the sidebar. It's my radio station. Which makes me feel cool. You can pop it out and listen while you're working! Yay! I just added it (using funds from my sad little Paypal account), so I haven't had much of a chance to play with it, so if it plays weird stuff now and then... sorry.
Also, I was browsing over at Rotofugi and came across this guy:
You can purchase him here, if you have $70 bucks just laying around. I don't. [sigh] Japanese Santa Claus, where are you now? I really wanted an Big Abe Lincoln Wearing An Eyepatch t-shirt, but they are out of my size. Curse you, average-sized torso! Curse you forever!
Anyway, I still need a couple of addresses. I'm hoping to get the mixtapes out by early next week, so HURRY!
So we went to Detroit for the Fourth yesterday. Candace has the scoop over here. (I stole her picture.) It was a lot of fun.
The Spoon show was awesome. Their set was well-balanced, with tracks spanning Girls Can Tell, Kill the Moonlight, Gimme Fiction and a few from Ga Ga Ga Ga Ga, which incidentally, I figured out how to say properly.* It was a long set, too, especially for a free show. They played for a good hour and a half, with little stopping between songs. I freaking love Spoon. In a world of plasticine pop stars with empty glass eyes (Sgt. Pepper's reference... see how I did that?), it's refreshing to hear a band with honest-to-goodness soul. They're like the love child of the Modern Lovers and Motown. Also, they have a kicking rhythm section and I am a sucker for rhythm. Personally, I blame David Byrne.
And society.
Speaking of rhythm, Femi Kuti (son of Afrobeat pioneer Fela Kuti) played earlier in the evening with his backing band, Positive Force. They rocked the heezy for sheezy. The only bad part of their set was the white lady who had most likely had one too many who was dancing all skanky and trying to get all freaky-deaky on her man IN THE MIDDLE OF THE STREET. Masty. Ah, white people, when will we learn to just Stop. Trying. To. Dance?
Speaking of white people dancing stupid, there was an overabundance of hippie kids at this shindig. Now a few hippies at an outdoor event is unavoidable. Like ants. Or sunburn. Only more annoying. The hackey-sacking, the epileptic-on-fire-type dancing, the Tevas or Birkenstocks, the hemp jewelry... I hate hippy kids. It's 2007 fercryeye. Jerry Garcia is dead and, sorry folks, the Dead were boring anyway. There I said it.
Oh yeah, and Detroit is a hole. I really wanted to be surprised by it, but it's a dump of a city. I know it's Motown and all, but I wanted to be out of that place ASAP. As in, immediately. As in, like, now. Eminem, the "D" is all yours.
Anyway, go see Spoon if they come through your town. And pick up Ga Ga Ga Ga Ga next Tuesday, the 10th. I'm buying it on vinyl, by the way. Oh yeah, and the new Interpol is out, too. Seriously, music, why are you trying to bankrupt me?
*It's "GahguhguhGAAHguh," said kind of quickly. I've been over-pronouncing it and knew here was a better way to be saying it, so it was an informative show.
First off Happy Independence Day. Remember to light a sparkler in remembrance of our Founding Fathers who repelled the British and their hordes of zombie warriors and mind-controlled T-Rexes with lasers for eyes. Okay, so they didn't have either of those things, but history's written by the winners, right? And I, dear readers, am a winner.
Secondly, check the timestamp on this post. Yeah. It's late. Why am I up so late, you ask? Well, if you must know, it's all for you, baby. I'm printing up stuff for the über-rad mixtapes I'm sending out to the following people: Allen* Ben* Brooke Caitlin Candace (she would have gotten one anyway) Chanel Christina* Jenny* Jesse* Patti* Rose* If your name's asterisked ("*") that means I need you to e-mail your address to hello@dylantodd.com. I either have it and can't be bothered to look it up or I had it and lost it or I just don't have it. In any case, I need it if you want your mixtape. I am holding it hostage. And trust me, you want this one.
I'm not going to spill too much on the mixtapes, but I will let this slip: it's titled Songs For A Golden Summer. It may also be a double-disc set, but that's all I'm saying.
So, anyway, have a great Fourth. Don't lose any limbs. Keep it safe and sane and watch out for Redcoats! King George is a pansy!
I so want these! All of them! And now! They are amazingness! Please Japanese Santa Claus, please I promise to be a good boy! Pleasepleaseplease! Make all my wooden dreams come true!
Check out Ben Gibbard's recent live show from the All Songs Considered podcast. An amazing mix of songs, all of them sad as a bag of drowned kittens. Truly he is the King of Sad Sack Pop.
Here's a link to the All Songs homepage. If you're not subscribed to the podcast through iTunes, first off, what is wrong with you? and secondly, you can download the episodes from there. Because it's awesome.
From the latest issue of the Immortal Iron Fist, issue six. I vow to use "Less talking. More kicking." in casual conversation more often.
Brubaker, Fraction and Aja (as well as the guest flashback artists) have been knocking it out of the park with this series. If you love kicking, stuff blowing up and overpowering pulp hero action, this is the book for you. The first trade's out soon. Don't miss it. Or I will be forced to one-inch punch you in the Adam's apple. For reals.
Cuba Gooding Jr., what is your problem? Dude has an Oscar somewhere in his house. He's been in some good films: Boyz In Da Hood, As Good As It Gets, Jerry Maguire, A Few Good Men. He's worked with Robert DeNiro (on Men Of Honor) and Nicholson (twice!), fer cryeye. To see this man when he is on is a thing of beauty. Remember how electrifying he was in Jerry Maguire? By all accounts, he is a good actor.
So why can't he consistently pick decent scripts?
Now I know that Hollywood is a tough place for a brotha, but come on. Snow Dogs? Boat Trip? Radio? And to top it all off, Gooding will be starring in the sequel nobody - not even brain-damaged monkeys playing in their own filth - asked for: Daddy Day Camp.
Seriously people, this is some dreadful stuff. Allow me to give you some advice, Cuba: if Eddie Murphy says "no," that is a red flag. A big one. Put the script down. Run away from it if possible. It is poison. The man made A Vampire In Brooklyn. He is not someone you want the leftovers from. Do not, I repeat DO NOT pick up a project that Eddie has passed on. Please, Cuba. Do it for the children.
Daddy Day Camp is the sequel to Daddy Day Care which had Steve Zahn in it so it was probably a little better than it should have been. That said, it's terrible. It was on one night and I watched a few minutes of it and... well, I went blind for a week and could only repeat the word "no" over and over. It was pretty traumatic. In the sequel, approximately no one, including the gaffers, from the original agreed to come back. Not Murphy. Not Zahn. Not that fat guy from that one show with that one guy. You know. That one guy.
This is not a good sign.
It is also directed by Fred Savage. Yes. This Fred Savage. Wonder Years Fred Savage. Seriously, did somebody get a bullhorn for Hanukkah and decide he'd give directing a shot?
Not that former child stars can't direct. I mean, the Opie kid's done alright (though there's a continual debate whenever you get me and my dad together on the merits of Ron Howard. "He's a craftsman, not an artist. He's basically a plumber with a camera. He does good work, solid work... but it's not art." Such is my official stance on the cinema of Opie... but that's another post entirely)
Seriously, though. This movie looks terrible. It makes Ernest Goes To Camp look like friggin' Chinatown. Don't believe me? The Prosecution calls YouTube to the stand.
By now you're dry-heaving. Let it out. You'll feel better.
Cuba, to quote my boys in Franz Ferdinand, "You could have it so much better." I know a man's gotta eat, but if it comes down to doing this stuff for money, maybe you can just order off the dollar menu every now and then. Maybe you can only get the 50 foot yacht this time. Please. You'll feel better when you look in the mirror. That Oscar won't be standing on that mantle with those accusing eyes anymore. You can sleep in peace without flashbacks of Home On the Range tormenting you. Do it for Fidel. Do it for the children. Do it for your soul.
