Schlitz Alert

Word on the street/internet is that Schlitz is reintroducing its original formula. Learn more HERE.


As far as dirt cheap domestics go, I thought the Schlitz I'd been drinking was pretty ok. Nevertheless, I'm looking forward to the Original formula.

Also, Google Image searching "Schlitz" yields some quality results. It seems they were fond of incorporating ham sandwiches into their ads whenever possible.

at six horses

the news is on
at six
I watched six horses
standing in the snow
at seven you

asked me

about the news
at six
horses standing in the
snow is all that I
remember







(note: the idea was that timelines for experience are irrelevent and thusly, when recollecting or experiencing anything, beginning and end is - within reasonable limits - arbitrary. You can start and finish (or not finish) where ever you please and depending on where you are when you stop to look up and try and understand something, you're bound to come up with a different view than at any other given time or place. Maybe this works? Maybe it doesn't? Maybe it's a frivolous exercise, but I refuse to accept the blame for that; any language that lets one word mean more than one thing only encourages frivolity amongst its users)

Her Thumb is a _____!

Courtesy of Digital Spy: A collage portrait of Paris Hilton made from porn magazines has gone on show at a New York gallery. British artist Jonathan Yeo is behind the work, which was purchased by Damien Hirst ahead of last night’s opening.

A similar image of President Bush also forms part of the exhibition, reports The Associated Press.

A gallery spokeswoman said the Hilton portrait is titled “Paris, 2008″ and posters of it will be sold for $20 (£10.80) each.

Yeo is offering the star proceeds from the sale of the posters because she never received any money from the notorious 2004 sex video that starred her and then-boyfriend Rick Salomon, the spokeswoman said.

When trying to capture their subject, an artist is faced with the task of trying to find the medium that will best convey the vision the artist is trying to express. Hell, I couldn’t think of a better way to get at the very essence of what Paris is about: sticky pages from porn mags! The only way it could get any better would be to have a frame made out of unused condoms (because you know she doesn’t bother with those) and the packaging from Valtrex. What do you think Yeo used as glue? You decide.

To see more go to http://yeeeah.com/2008/09/26/paris-hilton-portrait-made-of-porn-collage/

I Smell Oscars.........

Doubt

Frost/Nixon

Postcard

my shirts don't fit.
i've lost weight and
i'll admit that
life is fair

and just

in case you're worried
i'll bring back no regrets

Newman's Own Epitaph

Here lies Paul Newman
Who died a failure
Because his eyes
Turned brown.
-Newman's own epitaph

Great article on Paul Newman and the transition from Old to New Hollywood. Check it HERE.

Paul Newman is dead, still great.

My favorite Newman's Own product is Newman's Own Creamy Caesar Dressing and my favorite Paul Newman movie is Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid.

You?

Buddy Bell, Topps '87

As a baseball loving boy in the early and mid '90s, I had an extensive collection of cards, some of which had considerable monetary value (at least according to the secondhand copies of Beckett that my grandfather filtered down to me).

However, despite close attention to and awareness of the fluid value of all my cards denoted by Beckett's directional arrows, I was prone to coveting cards that were worth nothing. Most of these were obscure Boston players (Bob Zupcic, Carlos Quintana, etc...) but I also became strangely enamored of the 1987 Topps Buddy Bell card (below).


I knew nothing (and still don't) of Buddy Bell beyond what I learned from the stats on the back of his card, yet I still carefully slipped at least half a dozen copies of this particular card into protective sleeves and binders.

Early signs of irresponsibility, financial indifference, and an affection for alliteration and the irrational tenets of Romanticism?

Save The Wolf

If there was a choice on this year's ballot that read simply "Anybody BUT Palin" it would win this election.

Presidential Debate (Remix)

I'm kicking myself for not knowing that this event was happening in my city! Check it out: three MIT grads remix the debate in real-time to help visualize linguistic patterns that emerge over time. It's coming to NYC and Washington DC, so maybe if you're lucky, you could get to one of the debates!

Political Dream 01

presidential debate at school
in one of those large auditorium classrooms
old-style, each candidate took the stage separately
McCain was first
before it all begain, however, i gave personally
gave Obama a copy of "Borderline Suicide"
He graciously accepted it
McCain takes the stage and for some reason i am
a member of his cadre, thus he offers me
one of the Budweisers in the minifridge
at the foot of the stage
he is already drinknig one
they are pounders
he begins his speech, which is interactive with the audience
he begins talking about the cost of war, talking about
casualties as if they were statistics
and i am somehow behind him on the stage, facing stage right
i say "they aren't for the parents of those people who die"
which doe not go over well with McCain or the audience
so i fall to the floor on my stomach and lie there
for the remainder of McCain's turn.
Once he is done, the lights come back on and intermission
starts.
I grab a Budweiser.
Then Obama makes his appearance, despite intermission not being over
thus he begins talking to a half-empty auditorium
because people are up and about
because it's intermission
the first thing he does is start reciting the lyrics
to the MW song "Obsessed With Success"
I recognize what he's doing and make eye-contact
he smiles
People trickle back in and his speech goes over well.
I cannot get over the fact that he a.) he listened to my cd
and b.) he liked my song that much.
But I also start feeling completely cheated, like it's
actually completely horrible and ironic that Obama,
as obsessed with success as anyone I know,
is reciting a song i intended as satirical.
i catch up with Obama off-stage and he is the same,
gracious, smiling, nodding, betraying ABSOLUTELY NOTHING.
no one tries to remove me, i just slowly realize
that these people, Obama and his cohorts,
are vacuous.

I Don't Drink Milk

Zachary Taylor had his milk and cherries.
One of us is still alive.

"I don't even know if there's even any black people in Alaska?"

Diddy/Obama Blog #16: Diddy's incredulity knows no limit.



Some thoughts/questions:

• Diddy saying "Alaska, motherfucker?!?!" is delightful.
• Assuming this is Diddy's backyard, does he have a merry-go-round back there? I like to think that he's riding on the shoulders of one of his assistants and that any time he wants to spin faster or change directions, Diddy spurs him in the kidneys. The prospect of him just spinning in a circle by himself in the backyard while he shouts into a video camera is also exciting.
  
• Would choosing Michelle Obama as his running mate have clinched the election for John McCain? That would have been a pro wrestling caliber strategic move.
  
• I like when Diddy gets distracted by a passing airplane in the middle of his impassioned get out the vote plea.
• This folksy DIY approach to electoral commentary is far more enjoyable than that ludicrous Vote or Die campaign Diddy ran last time.
  

Keef

I think I enjoy listening to Keith Richards talk as much as listening to him play guitar.

Please explain

What is so special about the Mona Lisa?

Long Way Wrong

Long Way Wrong
For George Oppen

1

Wrong way all along.

Who could say it?

"Confess."

What is expected tends to forget
Its own expectedness

Thus it disappoints

And we forget what
The fuss about confessing
Ever meant.

2

Suggestions, limit one per complaint

"Confess now, before my temper is
Gone for good."

So.

If something lost, to be found,
Must seek presence
And foundedness
We lost already the way we sought
And backwards we must go forever.

3

"Jesus wept."

Tissue paper for under a dollar.

Have you
Your face
On currency found?

One must be mad to think such things.

"Or brilliant."

But often I hope
That as in all difficult moments,
We tread the turbulent currents of numbers
In solitude

With vigorous ease

And weep.

4

"Perfect" is more than a word.

It's a curse

Like "Man" or "Woman" or "In" and "Out"

And without a single doubt in mind
I shake.

"Too late."

For whom?

5

Difficulty continues
To be our national shadow

To beat or be beaten

Holding sway

"Pride is a sin best punished by death."

So it is.

6

Napalm precipitates
Without our knowing
Without our understanding
That "Napalm" is more than a word in a poem

It is not understanding.

"Conflict, you mean?"

Perhaps that's what I mean.

But still I hope that what we mean
Will one day be clean

Enough to hold sway

Instead of that casual grin.

"Movies that I DIDN'T see"

Thoughts and opinions on the movies that I DIDN'T see this summer, based on assumptions I made while watching the trailers and (occasionally) reading actual reviews.

Speed Racer: I never liked/watched this cartoon growing up and my interest in the movie never really extended beyond vague plans to cash in on a free Cheerios Speed Racer cereal bowl offer; at some point I switched from Cheerios to Life and never got the box tops together. Too many bright colors, quick cuts, and closeups of Matthew Fox wearing a costume that made him look like Mega-Man. Emile Hirsch's post-Girl Next Door career has been a disappointment and Fox's hands-on-hips-taking-a-deep-breath-while-I-squint schtick really only works on Lost.

Sex and the City: Based on her stellar work in Hocus Pocus, I've always been a Sarah Jessica Parker apologist; however, this movie was garbage. Like any good television show turned movie, they would have been better off just showing the three best episodes back to back on the big screen. The only three Sex and the City episodes I've seen (long story) involved the pretty-brunette-woman-whose-name-I-can-never-remember divorcing her husband and having sex with her bald, paunchy, very hairy divorce lawyer.

Kung Fu Panda: Jack Black is an ass. Only real pandas are entertaining.

You Don't Mess with the Zohan: I wish Adam Sandler would just recycle jokes and plots from his old movies instead of trying to come up with new ideas. I would gladly fork over $8 for Happy Gilmore II. Also, goatees are neither fashionable nor funny. Ever.

The Happening: I got off the M. Night Shyamalan ride years ago when a friend told me how the Sixth Sense ended before I saw it. Since then, I've never seen any of his movies but strongly believe that all of them have been complete and utter crap.

The Incredible Hulk: I finally saw the Ang Lee version this summer on cable when the beautiful and talented Jennifer Connelly (The Rocketeer!) stopped me cold mid-channel surf. I don't imagine that I'll ever actually see this new one; Edward Norton is only half-alright part of the time and Liv Tyler isn't nearly pretty enough (maybe in Empire Records?) to slow me down when I'm power surfing through the USA/TBS/TNT/FX block of channels.

Get Smart: I have nothing against this movie. Maybe I'll see it on a plane one day.

Hancock: Oh, Will Smith, you made Independence Day and I could never hate you, but this movie was tedious, uninspired, and probably neutered by the MPAA.

Step Brothers: On the one hand, a grown man getting crushed by a poorly constructed bunk bed is hilarious, on the other hand, neither Will Ferrell nor John C. Reilly are very funny anymore. Jury's still out on this one, but I strongly suspect that it's mediocre. If we were ever at the video store together and you said "hey, let's rent this one," I wouldn't say no but I certainly wouldn't split the rental fee with you.

The X Files: I feel the same way about this as I do Sex and the City minus the weird, pre-pubescent crush on SJP (sorry David Duchovny). The only X Files episode I remember seeing involved a family of incestuous mutants living in an isolated farmhouse and I have to believe that the movie fails to deliver on that episode's creepy promise.

Pineapple Express: I have no plans to ever see this movie. If I find out that Jonah Hill was in it then I have definite plans NOT to see it. In another year or so this whole Apatow/Rogen thing will have run its course and only James Franco (maybe) and that guy who plays Darryl on The Office will have careers.

The Mummy 3/The Rocker/Mamma Mia!: I will neither remember nor regret.

Tropic Thunder: Part of me wanted to see this but an even bigger part of me thought that there was a reason that they waited until the end of August when no other decent movies were playing to release it. That said, I can only assume that Robert Downey Jr. was nothing short of wonderful.

Oscar Season is here / gay zombie movie

From Bruce LaBruce, maker of Give Piece of Ass A Chance and The Raspberry Reich:

A young zombie named Otto appears on a remote highway. He has no idea where he came from or where he is going. After hitching a ride to Berlin and nesting in an abandoned amusement park, he begins to explore the city. Soon he is discovered by underground filmmaker Medea Yarn, who begins to make a documentary about him with the support of her girlfriend, Hella Bent, and her brother Adolf, who operates the camera. Meanwhile, Medea is trying to finish "Up with Dead People," the epic political-porno-zombie movie that she has been working on for years. She convinces its star, Fritz Fritze, to allow the vulnerable Otto to stay in his guest bedroom. When Otto discovers that there is a wallet in his back pocket that contains information about his past, before he was dead, he begins to remember a few details, including memories of his ex-boyfriend, Rudolf. He arranges to meet him at the schoolyard where they met, with devastating results.

Otto; or Up with Dead People:

The Shiny Teeth Win The Race

Hollywood = Entertainment

I have always rejected the most obvious and apparent realities on the grounds of them being obvious and apparent. Entertainment designed to entertain me immediately inclines me to not be entertained. I've always, for some unholy reason, preferred metaphysical rumination to unmitigated entertainment. This does not mean I don't like to enjoy myself; rather, I am extremely skeptical of institutionalization and industry, i.e. of predefined modes of communication, or more accurately, entertainment, which is really just the facilitation of self-communication with your desires.

Professional Sports = Politics

In high school I had a reputation as a fierce debater as well as a dedicated athlete. Competitiveness was (and still is) in my blood. This is why in the year 2000, as many of us were, I was completely crestfallen when Bush won. I wanted my side, the Democrats, to win. But we didn't. C'est la vie.
But is it really? I only see the simplicity of the race in retrospect; at the time, I didn't just want us to win, I thought we HAD to win, that we were right and they were wrong. The realization I had that the righteousness I felt was so completely subjective caused my interest in party politics to completely disintegrate. Interestingly enough, around the same time, my once-intense interest in pro sports (NHL included) began deteriorating.

So what is the relationship between professional sports, politics, Hollywood, and entertainment?

Dolla dolla bills, y'all. Each industry proudly functions competely (yes, competely) detached from the harsh realities of sustenance living and resource scarcity that the majority of the world faces. These enormous industries seek only to communicate with our desires. In doing so, they have contributed to an atrociously gross inflation of the global economy while simultaneously inundating the world with unbelievably influential aesthetic modes of desire-fulfillment and identification. But this is the beauty of such a system; they are not accountable! The humans who "run" the industries are midwives at best. The consumer/voter/movie-goer is the true architect. We certainly decide what they feed us, Coke or Pepsi, but what if we don't want either? The simple libertarian answer is, "don't like it, don't buy it." But other people are, and it's an issue of principle, not of choice (which is informed, ideally, by principle). The imperative to consume, to slake, to satisfy, to choose, is what drives today's economy. This makes everyone from an ontological standpoint primarily a consumer. Looking at this fact from an ethical standpoint, there are two reactions one can have: resignation and outrage. The former entails drinking Coke while spouting some anti-corporate rhetoric while outrage is punching (or wanting to punch) anyone you see holding a Coke bottle. This creates a continuum of ethical disposition. Very often I tell myself that I should be outrage and only outrage, but the human in me is always asking, "what's the point?"

Desire Can Be Disgusting

I have very little faith in the integrity of the majority of my desires, thus I feel sick that essentially the same structure of desire-communication seems to inhere in all Western industries and institutions. It's contingent, as opposed to necessary (read: Communism), collectivist thinking. What "sells" is king. It is self-imposed oppression. It is your civic duty, your Existential responsibility even, to identify as a chooser, thus a consumer. The complete appropriation of all vital resources on this earth make rejecting this responsibility basically an impossibility, so DRINK UP!

Damien Hirst has created a pickled unicorn

First off, I kind of wish I could afford to buy something at this auction, specifically the unicorn.
Secondly, I definitely recommend seeing Hirst's preserved tiger shark (titled "The Physical Impossibility of Death in the Mind of Someone Living")the next time you're in the MET.

Blondie has kickin' beats

Truth.

If Blondie is a New Wave band then Blondie has the kickinest New Wave beats.

If Clem Burke is Blondie's drummer then Clem Burke is the kickinest New Wave drummer.


If Blondie isn't a New Wave band then Clem Burke is still the kickinest drummer in whatever kind of band Blondie is.

See "Dreaming" for support:



Clem Burke swings from the shoulder.

Cat Fight

Two fat 'n spoiled cats locked in an epic battle for the LazyBoy.

Back 2 School Blues

I don't remember my dreams very often, and when I do, I have either a hard time piecing together a narrative because my dreams are often so chaotic I can't put them into words, or I don't have the attention span to focus long enough to fictionalize the raw data. However, when I do have a lucid dream or a lucid episode, I take note.
This is why I know now that despite struggling with the notion of returning to academia for the entirety of my short leave of it, I am clear on one thing: I never want to take a foreign language class again.
Last night I dreamt that I had returned to school and my first class of the semester was German Idealism in Ham-Smith 19. Equally excited and suspicious (characteristic of my love/hate relationship with the field), I am waiting patiently for the Professor to show up. After a few minutes, in walks a man who looks a lot like Professor DeVries but much less substantial (clearly reared on corn flakes as opposed to schnitzel). Not three steps behind him is an even shorter man with black, thick-rimmed glasses and a mane of white hair.
To my surprise, pseudo-DeVries proceeds to just stand in front of the class, slightly to one side, jovially saying and doing absolutely nothing as the other man, nameless, begins writing on the blackboard. I quickly become anxious and confused and realize that the man is writing an elaborate schedule on the board that is beginning to indicate that a.) I would be spending more time in this class than I had intended or wanted to, and b.) this probably isn't a German Idealism course. I raise my hand and not-pseudo-DeVries calls on me.
"Isn't this German Idealism?" I ask.
"This is Spanish class," he viciously responds.
Taken aback by the misunderstanding, I promptly blank out and the next thing I know I am watching porn in my dorm room.

Scenes from a Prison Dream

*Recent dream recreated from notes and memory and punctuated for narrative effect. Any resemblance to real people or actual events is purely coincidental*

I was sent to prison on a technicality. Apparently the now defunct college I was working for last winter was involved in some dubious financial practices and when it folded, all of us former employees were convicted of insider trading. Ouch.

I bore my incarceration as stoically as possible. Taking a page out of the Avon Barksdale book, I resolved only to count the first day and the last day; no use worrying about what you can't change. Prison wasn't so bad. I seemed to spend most of my time wandering around the common areas (cafeteria, exercise yard, etc...) and trying to avoid any confrontations with my fellow inmates.

The food was terrible. At one point an inmate who bore a striking resemblance to this kid Matt I had 10th grade gym with offered to make me a sandwich out of some substance he called "yurt." I was grateful and offered to supply my own bread. He looked annoyed and made me a sandwich using his own bread.

Dream yurt tasted just like tuna fish. I don't eat tuna fish and ended up throwing the sandwich out. I rummaged through a refrigerator looking for something else. I couldn't find anything, so I picked the yurtwich out the trash and ate the soggy bread. Being a vegetarian in prison is hard.

At some point I was raped by a short, unshaven man with long, greasy hair. It wasn't so bad, just another unpleasant but inevitable part of life inside - the prison equivalent of paying taxes or getting a cavity filled.

I think the rape even broke the ice with the other prisoners. I heard a rumor that the greasy guy was planning to rape me again. I went to his cell to get it over with and he was face down on his bunk with a shiv in his back. I had friends, apparently.

I stood watching some inmates steal a basketball from the juvenile inmates we shared recreation space with.

"That's terrible," I said to my friend, who looked like Portland Trailblazers center Greg Oden, only with beaded cornrows.

"Hey, man, you know you'd do the same damn thing if you was out there," dream-Oden replied.

"Half those kids are bigger than me," I gestured at my skinny, suddenly shirtless chest for emphasis, "If I was out there, I'd be the one getting robbed."

"Hehe, you right, boy, you right," dream-Oden chuckled, "Fuckers'd be ON you."

Inside, I smiled. His approval meant a lot to me.

Play to Win

Most of the time I find Jon Stewart and the Daily Show unamusing and obnoxious. This is not most of the time:

Holy Alaska!

Does humor belong in music?

The straight-out-of-the-still essence of probably the most important art form of the last century:

fare thee well, Inez

I only spend about three minutes of my lunch break actually eating (peanut butter sandwich and a baggie of cheeze-its) and the remaining twenty seven I dedicate to day dreaming and staring absentmindedly into the trees beside the parking lot. Every now and then I have a good idea and I jot down notes on little scraps of paper, the idea being that later I'll find the note and remember to do something I thought was important.

The system rarely works, at least not in a timely fashion. Today I found a note from last week on a yellow post-it neatly folded in half: ISABELLA/HELENA(?) disappears into the woods ... Aguirre WATCH.

I followed the note's instructions and tracked down the clip in question:



I don't remember what made me think of this during that particular lunch break. Maybe I imagined myself silently slipping into the woods (taking a permanent half-day) whilst my malnourished, half mad coworkers licked the ground for salt ... but there were no native arrows raining down and no one else eats lunch outside, much less licks the parking lot for essential minerals.

Inez (Helena Rojo) disappears from the film's narrative after this and I can only assume she perishes somewhere in the jungle, perhaps on her own terms, perhaps on the jungle's.

fare thee well, Inez

love joshua

Zoo Babies

Occasionally, boston.com updates their photo gallery of zoo babies; it always makes me smile.