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Hey, remember this dick? Well somehow this brilliant ad slipped under the radar, at least for me. But now, I will share it with you.
I've been imagining various execution scenarios for Mr. Zonday, or "Tay", and I believe I've settled on one.That goes for you too, Advertising.
I'll bet you want to pay $10 to go to The Rave at Supreme Trading next weekend? Well, Friday, April 4th will be your lucky day. RSVP here and PLUR it up for only $5.
The big deal is The Glass, a vocal electro project from New York Brooklyn. But not only that, there's "more to come!" Word is the kitchen sink will not be in attendance.
I found myself in tears today. And they weren't tears of joy because Jesus Christ (who decided to die three days prior for my sins) miraculously rose from the dead on this day 2008 years ago.
No. These were tears of sadness because a recent Software Update from Apple decided to crash on the Safari 3.1 install, and corrupt all of my applications that "talk" to The World Wide InterWeb. Which is basically all of them.
Look, I'm no Einstein, but you can read about the problem here, and here.
I found the solution here. Just follow the instructions. The problem? The Safari 3.1 install crash corrupts and Essential System Software Base System file called "WebKit.framework". Thanks Yzmotoxer807! You're the real Savior today.
Oh, and you'll need this shareware application called Pacifist.
Drive-ins rank just above a slide show in terms of viewing pleasure, but old cars are cool. And who would have thought such a combo existed in Manhattan?
Grand Opening is some sort of arty revolving project thing whose current endeavor is plunking a '55 Ford Falcon "Convertible" into a gallery space with a video projector and a pop-corn machine. The project is called DRV-IN..
Recently, my man came to visit so we got some beers and watched Napoleon Dynamite, as evident by the High Resolution Photography I've posted. For you gearheads, the owner said something about how there was never a '55 Ford Falcon Convertible, but there was a '55 Mustang Convertible, so the Falcon guys modded a Falcon and tried to get Ford to produce it so therefore this car is a one-of-a-kind. Or something.
Whatup Fisto?
Special prize to anyone that can answer this Masters of the Universe question:
"Who was the robot dude? He had interchangeable weapons for his arm...?"
THE EVIL HORDE HAS NO FRIENDS!
***UPDATE: The Answer is Trap Jaw. Thank you.***
Proximity, free admission, and a couple of Margaritas made conditions right for me to finally visit the fancypants new New Museum last night. The current four-part exhibit is called Unmonumental.
It cost nothing to get in, but I paid in other ways. Mostly, the art I saw left me feeling old and square. In my head, I repeatedly asked myself either; "this is art?" or more often simply,"what the fuck is this?" I ambled from piece to piece feeling not unlike a confused old man lost at the mall.
On a few occassions, I sensed brilliance, as in Rachel Harrison's Huffy Howler (shown above.) And yes, that is a printout of Mel Gibson from Braveheart at the "head". In fact, I believe it was this very image right here. There, print this out hang it on some shit, and you too can be a cutting-edge artist. Since I know you're interested, other Harrison work can be found here, and here.
This looks like something the side ponytail chick from Napoleon Dynamite would have in her bedroom.
I never realized that all laundry mats were really mini-galleries and my closet was really a vault containing millions.
I thought I saw a few homeless dudes burning this around the corner on Stanton. They must have been artists.
The museum did make me think, however, and maybe that's the point. I wondered what it takes to be a professional artist nowadays. How does one secure a show? With what sort of yardstick is your work measured? As we were coralled out onto The Bowery, my eyes itched from having the wool pulled over them and I envisioned the graduation ceremonies of future MFAs as they are handed with a wink pairs of large, fuzzy dice instead of diplomas.
My man (with sunglasses) recently shared these touching photos with me, taken during a recent Mac and Sleaze shoot. He explained to me that they "did the 2macs1cup." I'm not really sure what Mac and Sleaze or 2macs1cup is since the site is about as useful as a third nut. But I'm pretty sure it's something improper and perhaps criminal.
Oh, by the way, my man will soon be looking for a position as an account planner for a blue-chip, Fortune 500 company in the Advertising Industry. He is eager to provide 360 degree solutions for his clients both above and below the line. Specifically, he is seeking to specialize in Viral and Viral Video which come in under the radar to leverage the client's existing assets with new, out-of-the-box creative. He describes himself as a "people-person" who is young, and outgoing and has many hobbies and interests outside of the industry.
You may remember the misfortune my man endured recently.
Well, he's on the road to recovery, and, as this as always been an informative and constructive posting, I would like to offer The Top 9.667 New Career Choices For The Postpartum Digit Survivor. Here you go, Mr. 9.667, and Happy Birthday!
The Top 9.667 New Career Choices For The Postpartum Digit Survivor
1) Elevator Button Operator
2) Magic Finger Guillotine Volunteer
3) Finger Spinning Pioneer
4) Batter Taster
5) Semi-serious Acquisitor
6) Electric Socket Safety Demonstrator
7) Future "Fat-Key® Keyboard" Inventor
8) Suos-chef Special Teams: Chopper
9) Motivational Speaker for the Digitally Impaired
9.667) Ear and Nose Excavation Foreman
Ever disturbed by the state of contemporary music, I will now explain why the mindbogglingly popular band Ghostland Observatory simultaneously sucks and blows ass.
OVERVIEW
There are many reasons this band sucks and blows ass. For clarity's sake, I will condense the following into 3 parts. The song analyzed is Sad Sad City.
THE SINGER
It would be easy for me to say that the singer is clearly an asshole, but I won't because I believe this to be entirely too obvious. To be fair, I have never met him, or entrusted him with anything sensitive. We have never tipped a glass together or shared a sad tale.
Speaking of tales, let me tell you a story. When I was 15 and in a hardcore band called PLR-1, I would sometimes wear a thrift store sundress and Doc Martins while I played. Why? Because I was a dumbass teenager, and I thought such a brazen act of assholery was punk. In a similar sense, the singer (an adult) thinks that it's cool to style like a hippie Pocahontas while ripping off Mick Jagger's and Robert Plant's best moves. Why? Obviously he knows that he needs to compensate for this music's total sucking. Jagger and Plant strutted because (at their zenith) they knew their music was the shit. I'm sure the air at their concerts was thick with an electricity that only excellent and earnest live music can ignite. As Jagger and Plant's rock star legacy soared during their careers, they certainly earned the right to strut and posture. This singer, however has earned no such status; and since the music completely blows ass there is no way that he could be physically or emotionally so moved as to jump around afool. His mannerisms are lies.
THE KEYBOARDIST
Why would you don a stupid cape as worn by the keyboardist? Once again, it's completely transparent that he knows he has to up his game because the music just doesn't cut it. Worse, the cape is a comical caricature of what a real cape should be, evident by the too-high (read: silly) collar and poor material quality. What is that hour-glass-like shape poorly crafted into the back of the cape? Is it the Ghostland Observatory logo? No, because they don't have one. Is it meant to hype black widows? No, because if so the hour-glass shape should be red. The only logical explanation is that the cape provides a sense of security for the keyboardist in that it acts like a protective barrier or a safe visage to hide behind. The cape is a mask if you will, to hide from his untruth. Akin to the singer's antics, the keyboardist's faux look of intensity is clearly a falsehood because the music being played is pre-programmed and simplistic. There is nowhere near enough compositional depth or sonicism that would warrant such a high level of concentration. Like the singer, the keyboardist is a liar.
THE MUSIC
This song, Sad Sad City, is lazy. Even the most amateur musician could compose this song in 5 minutes or less.
Here is the recipe:
1 x kick
1 x bassline
1 x melody
1 x bundle of hackneyed lyrics
Directions:
Program the kick to hit on every quarter note. Repeat for the duration of the song. Be careful not to color the kick sample or make it unique. Write the most uninspired bassline and hold each note for a whole measure. Make sure not to vary the bassline, or add other basslines. Repeat for the duration of the song. Write the most obvious melody your can pick out. For this, it's good to use the initial notes your fingers hit when first checking the keyboard to make sure your synthesizer is powered on. Do not over think the melody or try to build on it. Repeat for the duration of the song. Unpack the bundle of hackneyed lyrics and add to the mix. While singing them, become excited and animated. Pay no attention to the fact that the lyrics allude to pain, alienation and lost love. Make sure to overly repeat the chorus; "Well I need you to want me, to hold me, to tell me the truth. Ain't no party in a sad sad city."
Empirical proof that the song, Sad Sad City sucks and blows ass can be obtained as follows. Go to the video on YouTube (or elsewhere). Wait for it to load completely. Use the scrubber bar to jump to various locations in the video and release to let play. Notice how the song remains the same over it's whole duration. It never skips a beat. It's as if one measure was hastily written, then repeated till the end. In fact, this is the case.
CONCLUSION
Music is the greatest of all art forms, and the ability and opportunity to perform for an audience is a privilege. Therefore, it is a gross insult to create lazy, sub-par music (hence; sucking) and attempt to convince your audience that it is great through gimmick and pantomime (hence; blowing).
Why is this party called Bad Decision? Who knows? But the underage zombie holding the logo assured me that Blacklight Paintball Tourneys are "totally going to go all night, man." Two of my boys are throwing this party, and two of my other boys are spinning it. Boys. Birthday parties. Boys.
Vladislav Delay and Kate Simko are playing at Galapagos tonite.
There is another Aloft party with Soundpool tomorrow. The first 50 people in the door get their new CD. Advance tickets are available on the InterWebs through PayPal via MySpace.
Thank you.
Well, it looks like the best thing ever actually happened, and while I'm not sure if I want to cough up the $50 + $10.25 + $2.50 to see The Verve this summer, I am sure I will find myself at one of Swervedriver's two NYC dates. Probably this one.
I have always been a Big Fan of horror movies, especially "good" ones. I use the term "good" loosely though, because I usually like the bad ones too.
So when I hear that there's a movie about a teenage girl with teeth in her vagina, I can only imagine that it blows past the "good" rating right on to "outstanding". The movie is aptly named Teeth, and it truly is outstanding.
Sure it's a bit uneven sometimes, but it's a hell of a second directorial effort by Mitchell Lichtenstein, who interestingly is Roy Lichtenstein's son. Stellar performances by Brooklynite Jess Weixler as the "heroine" and especially John Hensley as the asshole brother make this pitch-black comedy GoodTimes to watch.
As in-your-face as a castrating, voracious vagina is, the movie is packed with loads of subtlety. For example, Weixler is hot, but she's also weird looking. Her Austin home is straight out of Anywhere, USA — save for the nuclear cooling towers that loom behind it. There is gratuitous male nudity, not female, and Weixler's teenage character and her victims are all prudish abstinence-preaching Neo-Christians.
Most importantly, I wish my penis had an extra something. Like maybe an extra set of hands, so I could have it answer my cell and take calls, or play Xbox with me and such.
My man injured his finger while knuckleheadedly cleaning his track chain with a hanky-wrapped index finger. It looks like the little guy didn’t make it. The fingertip that is, my man escaped with his life. Previously, my man has this to say:
(the quote has been altered to reflect proper grammar, and protect the innocent)
Hello Everyone,Just to inform everyone, after next Tuesday [my wife] would like me to be referred to as “9 2/3”, “Stubby”, or “9.65” (editor’s note: I believe he means 9.66 or 9.667) since I am having 1/3 of my finger removed. It’s been a nice almost 33 years but it’s got to go. I hope this will not be too hard of a change.
Later,
[First Name] “9 2/3” [Last Name]
My friend turned me on to Imeem, which yet another social networking site. Imeem’s angle however is peer-to-peer file sharing, not swapping. Imeem’s angle is that it’s a rip of YouTube but for “authorized” audio.
Why should you care? Well, I've decided to upload an assload of mixes, some of which have been recently digitized from cassette. Yes.
Here’s one of my favorites:
(Psst. Rumor has it you can actually download it for your Zune, or Rio, or whatever kids listen to the music with these days.)
Actually, Imeem sucks because you can only listen to 30 seconds of each song unless you’re authorized to stream the whole thing. One becomes authorized by registering the song (or mix) with some ASCAP sort of shit. Lamo Lamenstein.
Actually, I don’t know what the fuck is going on. I guess you can stream the mix, but you can’t download it. Sometimes, The Future doesn’t work how we’d like it to work.
There may only be two people giving a shit about this, but I stumbled over this tutorial for the brilliant, Ableton Live 7.
I can’t believe how easy it is to MIDI map a sample now. More importantly, the drag and reorder MIDI note triggering seals the deal. Back in the day, you’d have to slice this shit up to grid and manually (read: destructively) re-order the samples, or dick around funky sampler mapping.
I spent last weekend upstate with my beautiful girlfriend, and a couple good friends. It was a blast.
We rented this property which is just outside of Woodstock. That’s right, that Woodstock. Well, actually the house is in Saugerties, but you get the point.
We basically did Jack + Shit. It looked something like this, after the jump...
(It snowed.)
(There was a dog.)
(We made a fire(s).)
(We ate...)
(We played American Idol for Wii, to mixed results.)
