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Satan To Finally Star in His Own Reality Show

"The Real World," "The Bachelor," "Hell's Kitchen"--these are just three of the thousands upon thousands of reality shows that for years have infested our airwaves like a humiliating venereal disease.

These shows have made celebrities out of the talentless and brainless, assuring a bovine public that they too can be successful with an 8th grader's perspective of the world, and without that, uhm, head-hurting mind-thing that, you know, involves thinking and it's all creative-like and it starts with an 'I' and rhymes with 'fabrication' and 'indoctrination'....aah, that's right, imagination.

Who wants imagination?, says the popular broadcasters and their consumers. Imagination is so not marketable, and gay. It's too much of a 'brainy thing' to create something remotely original. Plus, that's gay, too. 'Brainy things' are gay. So let's go for what's most convenient, salable, and not gay--Let's finally launch that 'So You Think You Can Fart' show we've been developing for quite a while now! People love farts! That's entertainment gold, right there! Strike one. It's a televised national competition, where only the cream of the farting crop will remain, judged by a panel of fart experts, with elimination rounds so stretched out it'll make the Final Judgment seem like a quick pick-up at a Burger King drive-thru window. Strike two. And farting is so not a gay thing, 'cause gay people don't fart! They won't allow it. It's against their lifestyle. Ever seen a gay man fart? Exactly. But true blue-collar Americans? We love breaking sweats and wind! Strike three! Bam! Out of the ball park! Home-run! Now we've got the best television show since that 'So You Think You Can Pass Gas' idea that we so sadly had to scrap because the executives thought the title was too long to read and might scare off viewers.

Surely the popular broadcasters and their consumers are as responsible for the emergence of reality entertainment as boozy mothers are for a population with fetal alcohol syndrome. But there is also someone else--someone who has created and since then orchestrated the reality television enterprise from within the mysterious and unspoken depths of the entertainment industry--who until now, at a time when really bad publicity is really good publicity, has remained silent and unnamed, thanks to an upcoming reality show made in his honor--the devourer of souls, Satan himself.

"I was actually considering that for my television name--'Satan Himself,'" says the Fallen One, as we sat and talked in between sips of coffee, mine hot, his iced. "But I'd think loyal TV viewers would immediately realize that that name is just a ripoff of 'Raab Himself', the name of one of the regulars for 'Jackass,' which became an MTV classic, thanks to me, of course."

After a century's worth of work quietly done within the past 16 years, and within the shadows and flames of the impenetrable fortress of Hell--from crafting "American Idol" into an unlikely paradigm of modern Western music, to devising the stardom of Heidi Montag--Satan has finally been given his due credit as the true king of reality entertainment with a show of his own.

"Honestly, I've been preying on many helpless souls for this moment, but for so long, I had to be hidden for fear of bad publicity; 'Oh, what would our Christian viewers think if they found out that we had made deals with the Devil for fame, fortune, and creative inspiration,' the big-name television execs would say. But luckily that fear is past us, thanks to the likes of Britney Spears, Lindsey Lohan, and Paris Hilton--I just adore these girls!--who have miraculously made bad press, and absolute depravity of mind, body, and soul, into a profitable venture, and that's something that television execs can never say no to for their lives, apparently! So, in spite of what the religious freaks may have to say about this, Fox is finally giving me my own reality show, and who knows what fruits this may bear?! Possible spinoffs on ABC? Perhaps a dating show gig on VH1? Reruns on Bravo? The possibilities are as endless as damnation itself! I love it! I'm soaking in this right now!"

When asked what his show will be about, Satan replied that it is a reality dating show where 10 men and 10 women will vie for his affections by subjecting themselves to ungodly acts of moral embarrassment and physical harm, such as walking on glass while smoking a cigarette and lifting a gasoline-drenched boulder, and eating the gonorrhea-infected penises of deceased vagrants. I told him that his show's format sounds a lot like "A Shot at Love with Tila Tequila," and before that, "Flavor of Love with Flavor Flav," to which Satan said nothing, bewildered, and darted his eyes about as if looking for an answer. Satan then tried to divert me from my question by pointing out and shouting, "Oh my! Is that that rock legend, Bret Michaels?!" But since I wouldn't turn around, and once he knew that I would not fall for such a childishly-conceived ploy, Satan gave up, muttered "Oh fuck it," swiped both my coffee and his from off our table, and the Sun Chips I had left out for a snack, and ran away.

Touring Distracts Ladytron Beauty from Pursuing Love Affair with Author of "And I Rant So Far Away"

The Bulgarian keyboardist/vocalist of electropop group Ladytron, Mira Aroyo is seen here crestfallen over the fact that no long distance phone calls can ever replace the material presence of the author of the "And I Rant So Far Away" blog.

The recent release of Ladytron's 4th studio album "Velocifero" has been bitter-sweet for Mira Aroyo.

With another promotional tour on her schedule, she is once again drawn away from addressing her romantic feelings for the author of the "And I Rant So Far Away" blog.

So saddened is she by this--another shortcoming in the cruel world of love--that she could not be reached for comment. She was either unavailable or so distraught by the issue at hand that she immediately hung up the phone, usually crying, "I don't have time for this bullshit," a surefire sign of her ironclad dejection.

The author of "And I Rant So Far Away," upon hearing this news, coolly replied, "Aw, how sweet of her, to miss her crush like that. I mean, I don't really listen to Ladytron, but she's pretty hot. I'd give that a chance."

When asked if he would attend Ladytron's upcoming performance in New York City, the only time when Mira Aroyo would ever be in close quarters to her love, the "Rant" author said "Mmhm. I don't know. Maybe. I don't want to seem like a jerk or anything, but I'm afraid that once I'm there, with her fawning over my every movement, I might touch a nerve with one of her male bandmates, or one of her male fans, and I just can't put up with jealousy and the anger that comes with it. I don't care to fight, but I don't mind to love, but I just can't do the latter in such a potentially caustic environment, you understand?"

The blog author also claimed that Ladytron's chief vocalist Helen Marnie is infatuated with him, as well. He then insisted that a list, which he was nursing in his jean pocket, of all the names of female celebrities who allegedly love him be reviewed, a gesture upon which this reporter ceased the interview and left out of a growing sense of depression.

Sonic Upset That Femme Rock Singer Looks Like Him

Sonic the Hedgehog, the veteran video game icon and mascot of the Sega Corporation, is reportedly upset that a German rock singer has copied his look.

Bill Kaulitz, the 19 year old lead singer of a German emo-rock band curiously called "Tokio Hotel," is the latest thorn on the hedgehog's side, who already has enough villains and fashion issues to deal with.

"First Dr. Robotnik, then my mohawk-and-chubby-stubby body phase, and now this," cries Sonic, while sitting through a shampoo-and-rinse treatment at a renown Tokyo salon.

"You know how many hours I had to spend in the gym, at beauty shops and at the plastic surgeon's just to look as good as I do now? To have my limbs, hands, and ears lengthened? To tighten up my stomach and chest? To get new scrunchy socks? To have green eyes, to slenderize my face, and to have my difficult spikes looking as edgy but controlled as they do? It's a heavy commitment to achieve and maintain my looks, like getting all those damn rings all the time.

And now, some teenager who looks like a lost member of the Bangles is biting my style! Dear god, it never ends. Must I continue to drive myself like a slave for the pathetic lack of originality of others?" Sonic heaves an exasperated sigh, rolls his eyes, and waves his hand to signal that he is done talking.

Numerous attempts were made at contacting Bill Kaulitz for a comment. He still has not responded.

YouTube the Top Online Platform for Stupid People and their Stupid Opinions

Besides popular weblog services like Blogger, Livejournal, and Wordpress, the uber-famous video sharing website YouTube has quickly become one of the most sought-after platforms for self-expression on the internet.

Too bad that the concept of "self-expression," when practiced mostly by a tearfully, frightfully dull public, is so overrated.

Given its arguably insurmountable popularity with those who think common sense is a rapper, YouTube is the premier forum for intense verbal idiocy, worthless opinions daily flooding commentboards like a sewage leak of biblical proportions.

Not since the writings on men's bathroom walls has there ever been such gratuitous public displays of hatred against the human brain.

"Before, whenever I'd take the family out for dinner at the local chinese buffet, I used to bring my 16 year old son into the bathroom, even if he didn't have to go, to point out to him the inane graffiti on the walls," says creative-writing professor Dean Stith of Teaneck, NJ. "No matter how vulgar or explicit the writings were, I was confident that my son was mature enough to realize that I was teaching him a lesson--that if he ever respects the concepts of 'self-dignity' and 'evolution,' than he should never under any circumstances write like that, for the public to absorb.

"To me, the walls of public bathrooms are now no longer the choice site for samples of collective stupidity. You really want to know to what extreme our dear humanity is hurting, writhing on the icy expanse of social ignorance like a clubbed seal? Just go to youtube.com and review some commentboards and video weblogs. It's faster and easier than you can say, 'God is dead.'"

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Sample Comments from miscellaneous YouTube commentboards:

*for the parody video "Billy Gilman-'Stabbed in the Face'," in which "Stabbed in the Face" by noise band Wolf Eyes is dubbed over a live performance by tween country singer Billy Gilman.
blasphemy15 (2 months ago) Show Hide
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if you wont listen how he sings for real than your stupid this shit is crap and nothing more and nothing less ok mb it is less but nothing more. billy is a telented singer. he won a lot of titels as young genius and talented singer for his 10-11 years also for his years 12-19 and this may his gonna be 20.

*for the first segment of the documentary "Jesus Camp," in which there is a scene where a stout Christian bible camp director denounces Harry Potter
stabanig (2 days ago) Show Hide
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they just deserve a fucking slap on they stupid facesand harry potter rocks this fucking fat holy shit should just shut the fuck up!

*for the video "Emo," where '1TERRORIZER' is either responding to a previous Spanish or Portuguese comment (his comment was not submitted as a reply)
1TERRORIZER (10 hours ago) Show Hide
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What kind of langage is that shit??? You're RETARDED or something [...] .aRE YOU FROM SWEDEN MOTHERFUCKER??? let me guess ... mmmm I THINK YOU'RE A MOTHERFUCKER COCK SUCKER EMO!!! DO SOMETHING GOOD FOR THE MUMANITY : KILL YOURSELF NOW!!!!

The Obesity Epidemic and the Forgotten Monster, pt. 3: Son of Gorgezilla (cont'd)

In our previous installment, Minilla, the son of king movie monster Godzilla, made it clear that being compared to a marshmallow fluff of a ghost like Casper is no friendly joke. Since 2004's "Godzilla: Final Wars," Minilla has been starving for more movie work, but as a victim of the much-debated obesity epidemic, and as an employee of an entertainment industry that rewards skinniness, he no longer reaps the joy of destroying cities and lunch carts on film sets.

Minilla: I haven't worked since "Godzilla: Final Wars" not because the film happened to be the very last in my father's series, as the stupid title would make you believe. As I said before, for the king of monsters, my father Godzilla, there is no such thing as a final war. And I haven't worked not because of what the numbnut critics and sci-fi geeks call my "limited acting potential or appeal" as a movie monster. I think that with my short size and baby-face looks, I can bring something different, something unexpected to the monster movie genre. It's always been about "big and ugly," anyway: that the bigger and uglier the movie monster, the better. With the exception of my dad, of course...though, admittedly, he has had his bad days, and I'm ok with saying that...











A haggard looking, turkey-necked Godzilla on the set of the 1962 monster movie classic "Godzilla vs. King Kong."

Minilla (cont'd): But the real reason why I haven't worked since 2004 is because, and I quote, "Toho Productions does not want a fat American kid for Godzilla's son in its films. It's 'Son of Godzilla,' not 'Son of Gorgezilla.'" And I thought, How shallow of them? And how dare they, knowing that I'm the son of their boss! My dad can fire, literally and in the regular job sense, any of them or all of them if he wanted to!

Me: Interesting that someone should see you embody the fat American kid stereotype, given that you're 1.) obviously not American...

Minilla: Oh hel..um, no. Definitely not.

Me: ...and 2.) you're not really a kid anymore...

Minilla: I'll be 47 years old this year, believe it or not. My fellow movie monsters tend to call me the "Gary Coleman of Monster Island." I hated them, and still do, for that. I mean, if it's truly necessary to compare me to an ageless, television sitcom midget, why not Webster?...

Me: Emmanuel Lewis.

Minilla: ...Sure. I mean, he's better looking and has more of a dignity to him. I don't think you'll ever catch him doing the Surreal Life or anything like that. He's too good for lowbrow entertainment, as am I.

Me: It's also interesting that you're this American stereotype to Toho especially in light of how America is usually distinguished as a fat nation by popular news media and its consumers, and the subsequent, and rather narrow-minded, thinking that the obesity epidemic therefore has no real bearing in other lands.

Minilla: Yeah, and of course, that goes to show you that it is not only in America where obesity is running rampant. Monster Island has been feeling its effects, too. My dad and I have gotten thicker around the middle. I think my dad is the worst off of us both, though. Not just 'cause of his age, but because he's bulged up basically everywhere, from his neck to his legs and especially his waist. Anguirus once jokingly asked him when is he ever going to shed his pregnancy weight? And Baragon, that silly-looking shit, once said that my dad has child-bearing hips. Like if he should talk. He's been a victim of the epidemic himself. Have you seen Baragon? He's got the body of a mutated baked potato.

Me: But isn't Anguirus and Baragon both hinting at a particular fact about your father, namely that he can reproduce asexually, as established in 2000's "Godzilla" with Matthew Broderick? So perhaps they aren't too far from the literal truth, when they say that Godzilla has some child-bearing hips and pregnancy weight.

Minilla: Well, I'm about to share a long-kept secret--the American Godzilla isn't really Godzilla. It's some cheap substitute which sources tell me is the monster god of Fire Island. He's closer to New York than my father here in Monster Island, so the Americans did what was most economical, no matter the shitty turnout. Typical. The American Godzilla was a bit of a femme to begin with. The whole pregnancy thing and his slender, ballet dancer body gave it away. So no, my dad, the real Godzilla, can't be said to have pregnancy weight, literally.

Me: So where was your dad during the shooting of that American film?

Minilla: Sitting on a boulder, drowning his sorrows in an air-delivered vat of cream cheese and Tim Horton's Timbits, because the Americans didn't want him for a movie that had his name!

Me: Because of economical purposes, as you said.

Minilla: And also 'cause they realized that my dad was getting a bit too thick. But I think it was all just a circumstance of this ongoing Hollywood Anorexic culture. The boniest gets all the exposure. I mean, that American Godzilla did look anorexic, like a giant Nicole Ritchie hopped up on nuclear radiation.

Me: And you're also saying that your father did not give birth to you?

Minilla: Yes.

Me: So you actually have a mother?

Minilla: Yes.

Me: How come nothing at all is known of her?

Minilla: That's 'cause A.) she was never really around. She was one of my dad's groupies, back in the early 60's. Once he knew that she was pregnant, he stopped seeing her and continued being a playboy. I guess that's how it was back in those free love days. Dad took full custody of me once I was born and my mom just swam off, to join some knitting cult, so I hear. And B.) She died shortly after she went away, weakened too much by numerous STD's and clogged arteries from too many Dunkin Donuts Munchkins, the precursor to Tim Horton's Timbits...

The Obesity Epidemic and the Forgotten Monster, pt. 2: Son of Gorgezilla (tbc)

It appears that America is no longer alone in the war against bulging waistbands, and, in fact, it never was alone. Popular media outlets here in the States have continually made the obesity epidemic issue seem as if it were utterly American, and therefore irrelevant to the rest of the world, who appeared free from the clutches of fat stereotypes and drive-thru culture. Yet, if the photo comparison above is any hint, the obesity epidemic knows no geographical boundaries, as it has made big bosom buddies out of the U.S and Monster Island, the famed haven for movie monsters just south of Tokyo, Japan.

One of the central residents, pictured above, of Monster Island is none other than Godzilla's son, Minilla, aka Minya, who made his feature-length debut in the aptly titled 1967 movie, "Son of Godzilla," and who has not worked since 2004's "Godzilla: Final Wars." "Don't let the title fool you," says Minilla, as he and I relax for a talk and some iced tea on one of the island's many beaches. I offer him sugar, but he just as soon shakes his head in determined refusal.

"To my father, the king of all monsters, there is no such thing as a 'final war,' so my 4 year absence from the monster movie scene can't be explained by me having starred in a film idiotically called 'Final Wars.'" There is a distinctive tone of bitterness in Minilla's voice as he says this, squinting all the while at the ocean ahead of us. Minilla then shuts his eyes. "Perhaps he's trying to collect his cool", I first thought. But he hesitantly turns his head towards my direction, as if he were drawn, in the most awkward fashion, by some unknown force. He opens his eyes, and they are on the 6 sugar packets I had left between us. After a few seconds, he squints and shifts his gaze, now looking out of the left corner of his eye, perhaps suddenly aware that I have been monitoring him the whole time. He raises his long untouched unsweetened iced tea to his lips, and, after a faint sigh, takes a second sip. Minilla signals, or attempts to signal, his refreshment with a weak lip smack, and with a laborious-sounding "Aaahh," which came off more like a resigned "Uugghh."

"The real reason why I haven't been in any movies as of late has nothing to do with my so-called 'limited acting potential or appeal,'" swiftly argues Minilla, with the acidity of a veteran actor made cynical by a notoriously fickle movie industry. "These critics would have you believe that, but what do they know about being a movie monster? What do they know about being the son of fucking Godzilla, for Christ's sake? I may be smaller than the rest of the movie monsters, and I may look a bit odd. Some asshole sci-fi nerd--American, of course--once wrote on some message board that I reminded him of Casper. A representative of Toho Productions, my father's film and commercial enterprise, told me this a while back, and I shit you not, never before in my career have I ever wanted so badly to go to the U.S., just so I can track down this nerd and stomp out his sad existence. And I had my opportunities, too, as you may already know, whenever my father travelled there for film shoots. But he would always insist that I stay behind, and have Mothra or Rodan 'babysit' me. I never really understood why the winged babysitters all the time? I hated them hovering above and around my every move, annoying beyond measure. And whenever Mothra would bring her miniature girlfriends over--you know, those two fairies with those ear-popping voices of theirs--I was always so close to calling my agent then and there to tell him that I needed to be treated for depression."

It is here that Minilla notices that he is rambling, finally pausing for a moment's consideration. "You're writing about the 'obesity epidemic,' right? I'm so sorry, it's just that," Minilla pauses again, still sparing very little eye contact, "I get so emotional about how things have turned out for me recently in the movie biz, that's all, and it has to do with what you're writing about, definitely." I catch him reaching out for a sugar packet with a surreptitious advance of his right hand, but he quickly stops, and starts to draw lines in the sand while picking up his drink to his lips with his other hand. With a third light sip, he quickly utters "This sure is great tea I certainly must have the recipe sometime" before he begins his intended discussion anew...

The Obesity Epidemic and the Forgotten Monster, pt. 1

The ongoing debate on an "obesity epidemic" here in America continues to be an extra-large one, and not without a side of controversy. Quite regularly, concerned parents and teachers struggle for healthier selections in school cafeterias nationwide, and frustrated residents fight against the encroachment of more fast food establishments in their neighborhoods. In spite of all of this expended effort in the battle against the "obesity epidemic", however, a great deal of American citizens, young and old, still can't say no to "value meals," to desserts bloated with sugar and cream, and to whatever may come from a deep-fryer, just as long as it's deep-fried.

But already too much ink and words have been poured on this subject from the copious vessel of popular news media, bathing the "obesity epidemic" in all of the rich and succulent rhetoric expected of popular news media. I, on the other hand, will have to forego the "succulent rhetoric," for I believe that the media's aim to render the obesity subject as juicy as possible for the hungry eyes and ears of their American, human viewers has absent-mindedly narrowed it. Obesity isn't strictly a national epidemic, for it indeed has quite a global reach, and it does not affect only humans, but also a lost demographic, one sorely and senselessly overlooked for decades--as the picture below clearly indicates, namely movie monsters from overseas, the lost international demographic I'd like to call the "Forgotten Monster," the subject of which will finally be given its due discussion in the next blog.

Beached whale? Sadly, no--it's Godzilla, and he has let himself go as the Obesity Epidemic, popularly known as a national and human calamity, has spread like a butter of slow death into the far shores of Monster Island, destroying all monsters with its hip-inflating power.

Brand Name Bookshops Popular Among People Who Don't/Can't Read Well

As a relatively well-read individual, assuming you are one--if you have reached this far in your reading of this sentence without quitting and diverting your attention to the umpteenth viewing today of the latest in the "I can haz cheezburger" phenomenon, then perhaps you are capable of being a well-read individual--do you ever get the feeling each time you visit a Barnes and Noble or a Borders that something false is a-dwelling, and no, I'm not referring to certain booksellers who think that H.D. is a television set; booksellers who believe that "As I Lay Dying" is only the name of some god-forsaken christian hardcore band (I'm sorry--christian hardcore? Really?? Moshing to shouted biblical references sounds like hell); booksellers who think that Ford Madox Ford and William Carlos Williams are mere creative exercises in appellative redundancy ("'Madox'? What kind of a name is 'Madox?' And sandwiching a name like 'Carlos' between two Williamses? You're having too much fun with this name game of yours, silly customer. Now let me direct you to our best sellers table, where you'll find the latest from Jeff Foxworthy." (And no, this "latest" is not the beef jerky as shown below, but I wouldn't be that surprised if B&N or Borders starts selling them along with his tragic tree sacrifices, aka books).

Unlike any other bookstore, corporate or otherwise, Barnes & Noble and Borders flawlessly attracts, and in large numbers daily, variegated packs of the American non-reader. Quite ironical, given that B&N and Borders are essentially purveyors of literature, a form of art or communication that isn't possible without the patience, the taste, and the capacity for READING. Nevertheless, those who would sooner subject themselves to another Sandler skullfuck on the big screen than to read even the name Fyodor Dostoevsky (because it's too big and complicated looking perhaps) gather at B&N and Borders, flipping through that Oprah-approved Anna Karina book by some author named Toadstool or something, while texting 20 or so friends on how the latest Mocha-Coco-Caramel Frappawhatever (the actual name was too big and complicated looking to read it through) is so good, it's worth shaving 2 or 3 years off the life of your arteries...

Cars Apparently "Best Public Place" for Discreet Nose-Picking

Now an experienced driver, I can understand what must have been only an inside secret among the nasally-conscious go-getters of the road--that one of the buttons to the driver's left does not only operate the windows of the vehicle, but it also activates a mysterious forcefield that encompasses the vehicle, shielding it and the driver from outside surroundings, as if it were a robe of secrecy thrown on by technological magic.

Truth is, however, that, like magic, this mysterious forcefield is only an illusion. Being safely enclosed within the protective coating of the car--enveloping steel frame, windows up, rooftop down, if applicable--does not support, even meagerly, the forcefield hypothesis, no matter how severely convinced the driver is by the sense of security the car promises, which he may therefore be irreconcilably tempted to dig his nose at the next stoplight, in spite of considerable neighboring traffic.

A vehicular shelter from the outside world simply does not exist, windows up or down (with the trailer being an obvious exception here). Nevertheless, cars still are the choice locale for nose-picking that must occur in public.

Having observed, always unexpectedly, vehicular noseplunging many times, I am still surprised at how the culprits seem oblivious to something that should be as blatantly obvious to them as their own visibility. I have even seen nosepicking done by some of the most unlikeliest of suspects, whether it be some cleancut businessman sweeping through lanes in his sleek BMW, or an oversexed soccermom on her way to her latest appointment with her favorite plastic surgeon.

I don't think there will even be a time of sudden awareness for these booger bandits, for it almost seems like a tradition, unconsciously, and perhaps telepathically, passed from driver to driver, that a camouflaged nosepick is only feasible once you're behind the front wheel. And as long as this tradition lives, there will always be people like me on the watch when least expected--the nosepicking vigilantes, we can be called--people who are of decent enough manners to know that nosepicking is only for the private sphere, whether it should take place while sitting on the coach, laying in bed, eating at the dinnertable, or typing some blog in your personal computer.

Bizarre Paperweight Given Out As Movie Award

Last night, the MTV Movie Awards just had its 17th year of honoring some of the most soul-destructive and braincell-paralyzing movies recent cinema has afflicted on humankind.

The question now looms over us, more ominously than ever before, like the stormclouds of guilt that build and hang above unrepentant heads--How did it ever get this far?

The last hour of this ceremony, attended mostly by the stars of this H.P. Lovecraft-worthy universe of popular entertainment, which makes the Cthulhu myth seem like a lost Telletubby segment, confirmed my suspicions of its horrorifying ungodliness, as it set embarrassing new lows in collective creativity, and celebrated the very things that make the entertainment industry the safest alternative to a traditional lobotomy.

The intermittent comedic skits proved to be as funny and witty as a wire coat hanger abortion.

Shocking that these skits should have been written by adults. The skits' 6th grader sense of humor--petty violence, poking fun at social outcasts, poopoo gags galore--forces the critical mind to wonder since when were remedial schoolchildren capable of emailing their keyboard poundings as screenplay submissions, and somehow got away with it?

The Pussycat Dolls--a group of scantily clad dancers (what's new?)--who strut and pose on stage and who, incidentally, sing. Frenetic lighting and fireworks during the performance give it a Six Flags, Universal Studios, or Disney stage experience (except, of course, that this Pussycat Doll performance doesn't repeat every 15 minutes or so to the hour before the park closes; this live performance is once in a lifetime).

A movie like Transformers wins Best Movie. A director like Michael Bay gets an award for his latest cinematic crime against humanity. I don't think I need to write anymore. The evidence for an oncoming cultural apocalypse is here in this "oxygen-flow-to-the-brain preventing" pudding known as the annual MTV movie awards.

Beards Attract Countercultural Cred, Crumbs

No. This photo isn't of the latest Myspace-breakout indie rock band that is a cross between the Decemberists, Wolf Parade, Panda Bear, Sea Wolf, Band of Horses, Wolf Eyes, Giant Panda, Frog Eyes, Fleet Foxes, Jamie Foxx, Elephant Man, Man Man, Yip Yip, Tapes n' Tapes, Ting Tings, Gnarls Barkley, Mookie Blaylock (not the basketball player, but Pearl Jam before they became big), Shaquille O'Neal (BOTH the basketball player and the rapper), and the Kronos Quartet.

But it shouldn't be at all that surprising if it was, now that beards have become a must among male scenesters today. Beards seem to be turning up everywhere, faster than you can say "Gillette." Even Spanish basketball player and L.A. Laker Pau Gasol forsook the razor. Nothing is cooler, stylish, or more sophisticated now than to have your cheeks and chin engulfed in hair.

But this Hirsute Renaissance should beg the question--How and where do beards fit into counterculture? Could it be that the basis of this literally hair-raising trend is no more than the mere stereotype of the male artist/hipster as generally being unclean? Or, in maybe more accurate, sensitive terms, hygienically-challenged? But doesn't today's male artist/hipster seem quite hygienically-conscious, comparatively? Firstly, to ruin your collection of American Apparel threads with your griminess would not only be money not well spent, but money ruthlessly shat upon.

Secondly, no chainsmoking teenage Anna Karina ripoff is going to want to shuffle and flail her limbs (hipster equivalent of dance) to 80's sci-fi B movie soundtracks (hipster equivalent of music) with you if you're as crusty as a barfly's unwashed crotch.

Therefore, the male artist/hipster of today appreciates, to an extent anyway, cleanliness, being that fashion and dance parties are too precious to drive away with bad hygiene. So again, why this trend in becoming rock and roll incarnates of Brigham Young?


Perhaps it is all a senseless following of a current fad in facial hair and nothing more. Beards can somehow bestow countercultural viability upon any guy...who happens to be skinny...and who happens to be pale...and who happens to base his existence on colorful tight clothing and Ed Banger catalogues...even if it just so happens that he is as creative as the very same popular media consumers he denounces.

Band of Lonely Outsiders (pt.1?)

Alone as usual, I went to the movies this past weekend, in perhaps one of the best sanctuaries for cinephiles everywhere--Greenwich Village in Manhattan. The IFC Center, which was once the famous Waverly Theatre before it closed 7 years ago, regularly hosts film festivals, screening some of the most bold, and theatre-chain unfriendly, productions in contemporary independent cinema. And by "independent," I do not mean to include the Junos, Garden States, or even the Little Miss Sunshines of a contemporary "Hollywood-in-Indie's-Clothing" cinema (If you ask me, there's a current trend in Hollywood moviemaking that undermines genuine independent filmmaking, but that's for another blog). By "independent," I mean cinema that does not, like the above "independents," strive for a DIY feel through big studio means, but cinema that is DIY, from the moment it is conceived as an idea on a wrinkled, coffee-stained sheet of paper, carried everywhere inside the pocket of some dude from some place who just wants to make movies he and his filmbuff friends would like to see made, to the moment where it is shipped to select locations as a limited-circulation DVD, that is, if it ever gets to DVD. And if it does, it certainly won't be in a 2-disk special collector's edition, or even a one-disk chock-full of extra features and a specially-designed jacket cover to boot.

The IFC Center, of course, is not the only moviehouse or, for that matter, the most preferable moviehouse in the Village. Film Forum, established in 1970 by two young filmlovers with a $2,000 investment, a projector, and some folding chairs, has become over these past three decades a true cultural mainstay for New York City. As a nonprofit theatre, relying on charity and ticket sales for its operating income, Film Forum sees a good deal of its financial support from its loyal patrons, local or otherwise, who can make donations ranging from $25 to $5,000, or purchase or renew a Film Forum membership from $75 to $2,500. How Film Forum was able to stay alive on its patronage, and the generosity of public and private funders, for what will soon be 40 years shows how appreciated it is as a New York cultural institution. Filmmakers regularly make appearances here, and contemporary independent features, as well as new prints of cinema classics, are screened daily.

In my first visit to Film Forum, I saw Charlie Chaplin's 1931 masterpiece, City Lights. I followed City Lights that evening with walking 4 or so blocks to the IFC Center to catch a midnight showing of a classic midnight movie, Alejandro Jodorowsky's 1973 visual and philosophical epic, The Holy Mountain. This past Saturday, I switched theatres again--Jean-Luc Godard's 1964 crime parody, Band of Outsiders (Bande A Part) in Film Forum, as a part of their Godard 60's film program; Harmony Korine's directorial return in Mister Lonely in the IFC Center. What a pair these films turned out to be...

I Missed No Fun For This?!

As a New Jersey native, there is nothing like being back home in New York City.

OK, in all honesty, I do love, and always will, New Jersey. Just as much as I love New York City.

Returning from the south to the great upnorth, for me, was especially ideal sometime before May 16th, 17th or 18th (preferably the 16th), a week after the final day of my last semester as a Tulane undergraduate.

Those three days, those three days I will never get back, were the dates set for the fifth annual No Fun Fest, a carnival of sounds created and organized by Brooklyn-based noise artist Carlos Giffoni (and by "carnival of sounds, " I don't mean an event of musical merrymaking--of people hopping and skipping to pleasing, agreeable arrangements of voice, guitar, bass, drums, etc. By "carnival of sounds," I'm referring to the 60's cult horror classic, "The Carnival of Souls." From guitars to synthesizers, from saxophones to laptops, from ukeleles to aluminum paint trays filled with small metal objects, the "music" at No Fun Fest, with its disarrangements, if not mutilations, of very much anything that emits a sound will unnerve you, assault you, disorient you, and haunt you, even well after you've experienced it.).

Before it relocated this year to the Knitting Factory in New York City, No Fun Fest unleashed its yearly maelstrom of discord in Brooklyn, with its 2004 inaugural performances housed in club North Six, and its following performances the next 3 years in The Hook. No Fun Fest has become from the very start one of the more successful independent music festivals, attracting big names year after year from the international noise scene: Wolf Eyes and Hair Police from Michigan; John Wiese and his cut-and-paste noisecore project Sissy Spacek from Los Angeles; Philip Best of Consumer Electronics, and of legendary noise and industrial pioneers Whitehouse, from the United Kingdom; Thurston Moore, Lee Ranaldo, and Kim Gordon of Sonic Youth from New York City; and Yoshimi, of the pioneering noise rockers Boredoms, Incapacitants and Merzbow from Japan. No Fun Fest's success is all the more obvious since its "music"--and this should go without saying--is not really music at all. What you hear at No Fun is strictly anti-music. A discernible melody may escape here and there, but it is the proverbial needle in this haystack made of barbwire set on fire.

All musical conventions are scrapped for aural speed, ruthless volume, and torrential ambience, whether it be the brooding atmospherics of Burning Star Core, or the relentless crackle, swish, pop and boom of the Incapacitants' electric firestorm. With musical conventions, all things audible are a step or two closer from being a crude block of sound to a handsome bust of song. Without them, the block remains, free to be chiseled, sculpted, and hacked at in any way, and with any tool, to produce anything, or nothing, as a free exploration, or exploitation, of the possibilities, and impossibilities, of sound to effect, if not represent as well, the multiplicity and complexity of human emotion and thought.

This is the main reason why I'm a fan of noise, and why I really wanted to attend this year's No Fun Fest. After learning about the festival only last year, and missing the first 2 and a half of the fest's three nights, I made it a goal to not miss No Fun at all in 2008 (this was before the show dates were announced). I never expected that another "goal" of mine--as in a goal I would accomplish not for myself, but for my family; I did not care for it much myself-- would get in the way--walking on stage to be handed my degree in Tulane University's inaugural Undergraduate Diploma Ceremony, a new addition to the university's 10th anniversary Unified Commencement Ceremony, in which graduates from all of the university's schools and colleges are all gathered and recognized, this year in a place where Tulane has not had their commencements since Hurricane Katrina, the Louisiana Superdome. May 16th to the 18th were the dates set for No Fun. For the graduation ceremony, the 17th. Was there no fun to be had at all, in those three days I waited a year for? Oh man...

Alright, 3 months...

...is a long enough time. Time to resurrect this dead puppy. And who doesn't like puppies, especially dead puppies come back to life, zombie puppies? Puppies that not only do that cute, puppy-patented tilt of the head, as if to say "My word! What in blazes is that?", that we, puppy-lovers, go bat-guano gaga over like dribbling idiots. But puppies that spin their tiny, decomposed heads 360 degrees until they snap off, tumble onto the floor, and meet your feet with their rotten yet surprisingly still sharp fangs before you even have a chance to run away and thus save your humanity.

But because you were bitten by the self-beheaded zombie puppy, you then become a zombie yourself, slowly but surely. That's just the rules, however illogical or unfair it may seem to you. So when you finally become a zombie, then, naturally, you no longer fear the ravenous puppy-head, but rather you identify with it, and thus recognize it as a part of your own undead world. You now do what you can to help out your fellow creature, for the both of you are now zombie comrades, and the both of you know this, though, naturally, neither of you cannot express this except through grunting exchanges. But the grunts involved are not the grunts we the non-undead are most familiar with, which sound caustic and thus may communicate aggression, irritability, or ill-will, as in "Eeerrrrggghhh!!!" Instead, the zombie-to-zombie grunts are, relatively, gentle, and therefore zombie codes for mutual understanding, as in "Eerrgghh" or "Urrgh" or the more simple but effectively empathetic sounding "Uuhh."

In your now brittle hands, you take the zombie puppy head, which is no longer snapping its fangs at you but is instead doing that puppy-patented headtilt I was telling you about earlier, as if to say, "My, you're so kind to me," which, in zombie-speak, should translate into "Urgh, ugh errgggh err ugh eghh." You then try to attach it back to its body, which before was limping about, knocking itself into walls and furniture, leaving corpse dust everywhere, which you normally would have been angry about, given how messy and extremely unsanitary this is, especially to a room where you work to entertain family and guests, but because now you are a zombie, not only do you not care anymore, but you haven't the slightest inkling of anything that doesn't involve either your fellow undead or live human flesh to sustain yourself with. You're no longer of the material world, far away are you from the overwhelming marathon of material possessions and desires that have once crowded you, and buried your humanity under its endless feet like so many marching boots. You are now strictly within, and thus wholly unifed with, zombie nature...

op-ed

I believe I feel I think I am of the idea that I am of the opinion that I am of the conviction that the way I see it is I imagine what I have to say about this matter is what I have to say about this issue is what I have to say about all this is what concerns me most about my view of my thoughts on my opinions about what is to me in my own words what I must express what is on my mind whatever that troubles my heart which to me I have to say I can say I must say that I wonder should I ever do what I understand to be what I take it to be as me speaking for me who thinks that I speak on the behalf of me commenting on the way that I perceive that I am writing on the behalf of me who feels that to my knowledge this which in my regard I find that I I I I I I I I must voice what I myself myself what to me me me me are my own thoughts on my own ideas of my own words on my own feelings of my own beliefs on issues that concern matters that involve things that ring true that speaks true that are true of our lives in our society in our world so that readers can know so that people can know so that everyone can know what is what what what what what?

Mongoloids

So, in a couple of days I'll be back in Tulane University, back to where a great number of our nation's beer-and-cocaine fed jocks and sorority sisters (most of which happen to be white and rich) roam like roaches when the light of mental activity and responsibility is turned, and kept, off.

I thought I would start off by mentioning this because, a couple of minutes ago, I was searching for some Devo songs that I haven't listened to in the longest while, when I rediscovered their single "Mongoloid",whose lyrics, I think, are quite ingeniously simplistic in that within its little, repetitive words there are lots said of the average American man. Listening to the lyrics reminded me of what I will be surrounded with even more than I am now once I return to Tulane. (Alright, so maybe most of my peers at Tulane are at the moment jobless, but they would surely have one soon, and sadly, from what good ol' U.S. tradition tells us, these are the people, these intellectually-underdeveloped jock types--the "go-getters" empty of real ideas but full of orders to give--that are likely to be the next bosses of many a woeful worker. Apparently, I go to Tulane for the education, not so much for the ambience.)

Devo--Mongoloid

Mongoloid he was a mongoloid

happier than you and me

mongoloid he was a mongoloid

and it determined what he could see

mongoloid he was a mongoloid

one chromosome too many

mongoloid he was a mongoloid

and it determined what he could see

and he wore a hat

and he had a job

and he brought home the bacon

so that no one knew...

mongoloid he was a mongoloid

his friends were unaware

mongoloid he was a mongoloid

nobody even cared

mongoloid he was a mongoloid

one chromosome too many

mongoloid he was a mongoloid

and it determined what he could see

and he wore a hat

and he had a job

and he brought home the bacon

so that no one knew...