January 30th, 2006
People aren’t as dumb as you think. They’re dumber. No, I’m not referring to the fact that Big Momma’s House 2, had the second-highest January box office gross ever (this is a different blog for a different time). No, I’m referring to the exercise in stupidity and pretension known as the Ecstasy: In and About Altered States exhibit that is currently running at MOCA’s Geffen Contemporary Museum.
Now from my daily rantings and ravings one might not get a sense that I maintain a legitimate though slightly uneducated interest in art (I imagine that one would more likely get a sense that I sit in an isolated cave with an Internet connection, a television set, and a handy collection of rocks that I use to throw at said television set). However, while my knowledge of the art world may be cursory at best, I’d like to believe my sense of what’s good and what isn’t is finely honed. Additionally, I’d also like believe that my knowledge of the drug world is fairly comprehensive, as the majority of my college years were spent in a frantic pursuit of any drug I could get my hands on that you couldn’t inject or snort. (Don’t tell the Scientologists, they’ll get very upset with me and I’ll never make OT-VII).
So naturally when I heard of a MOCA exhibit that combined the world of drugs and the world of art, I only had one thought going through my mind: that this would inevitably be the best combination that the world had seen since the day Tom Hanks and Peter Scoleri donned women’s clothing and a show called “Bosom Buddies” was born.
Understandably, last Saturday, when I showed up the Geffen Contemporary in the rapidly gentrifying Little Tokyo neighborhood (by the way, the Starbucks there…best) I expected a dazzling show that would entertain me more than any early 80s sitcom ever could (save for Diff’Rent Strokes).
Accordingly, some marijuana was in order to fully appreciate a drug art exhibit that advertised, nay encouraged, the use of drugs in order to fully appreciate the work involved. So smoke I did, rapidly burning through a thick joint and making my addled way inside the museum.
Aesthetically speaking, the Geffen Contemporary isn’t much to look at. Though designed by Frank Gehry, who has designed some staggeringly beautiful buildings throughout Los Angeles and the world, the site still feels like what it originally was intended to be: a police garage. Immediately, after entering the building, I felt the watchful eyes of the Gestapo-like museum security force scrolling all over me. I told myself, be cool, it’s just the paranoia. But as usual, I was right (more on this later).
Within seconds, I realized that this exhibit caters to two types of people: pretentious museum and contemporary art snobs who will inevitably find it edgy due to the subject matter. These types will have very little experience with the actual states produced by intake of hallucinogens or if they have any prior drug usage in their past, the last time they got high was sometime during Nixon’s second term. The other people this exhibit would cater to were stoners with very little knowledge of anything remotely artistic, save for the movie “Half Baked,” which I will defend to the death of me as a work of true comedic excellence.
As usual, I fit neither categorization and found myself quickly wanting to throw rocks at some of the exhibits (if only I hadn’t left them behind in my cave). In particular, Roxy Paine’s “Psilocybe Cubensis Field” stood out as one of the most inane things I’ve ever seen in a museum. Intended to be a simulation of 2,200 “magic” mushrooms installed as if they are growing out of the gallery floor, I’m not sure exactly what deeper message this artist was trying to present. But if you’re out there Roxy Paine, here’s a tip that might help guide your future, gluing a bunch of clay mushrooms to a floor doesn’t count as art, it only counts for ensuring your eligibility to perform in the Special Olympics. Personally, I have the artistic talent of a drunken wallaby (and for the record many drunken wallabies have more talent), so if I’m capable of doing the same thing that a professional artist can, she really needs to have the word “con” placed in front of her name.
Then I came across “Super Nova,” by Takashi Murakami, which featured images of mushrooms in kaleidoscopic colors on a frieze-like surface, suggesting a psychedelic version of reality. Essentially, this seemed vaguely cool, but sadly, it wasn’t. To make it clear, pretty colors are nice and charming, but perhaps if the artist had any actual talent, he might’ve been able to come up with something more creative than making statues of mushrooms. I get it Takashi Murakami, mushrooms are cool. If you eat them, you see things. I’ve eaten them before and you know what, if I had eaten mushrooms the last place I’d want to be would be at an art exhibit, surrounded by grimacing security guards, pretentious Angelinos buzzing about, blathering about how “magnificent the artist’s range was,” Anyone who’s ever taken mushrooms can attest that the last place they want to be is around other people. And if you’re on ecstasy I’m willing to bet that most people would rather be a party, with loud music blaring, then trapped inside a claustrophobic warehouse in Little Tokyo. I’m just saying.
Right after passing the “Super Nova” exhibit, I decided to join a lengthy line of people patiently waiting to enter an unmarked room. Having no idea why I was waiting in line, I got someone to hold my place to check out what exactly was behind a door that a museum security guard kept opening and closing with the utmost secrecy.
After vainly attempting to see inside, to see nothing more than a room covered in white felt, I walked back to my spot in line. But apparently, I tread a trifle too close to the ceramic mushrooms in the “Super Nova,” exhibit, for a burly security guard who obviously had way too much time on his hands, rapidly blocked my path.
“Excuse me, sir,” the swine said in a gruff tone.
“Uh, yeah, excuse me. I’m just going back to my space in line.”
“Well, you’re getting a little too close to the exhibit.”
The “exhibit” was surrounded by a ring of tape, a ring that I was clearly a foot or two away from.
“What are you talking about?” I said with more than a little bit of attitude. “There’s the line. Here I am. I’m nowhere near that exhibit.”
“We’re worried you might damage it.”
“Well, sorry to burst your bubble, but I AM capable of the little known art of walking. I’m 24-year old. I know how to avoid statues!” I said, sarcasm dripping from my voice.
“Are you sure?”
“No, you ARE right. I AM incapable of walking on my hind legs. The truth is I’m actually partially retarded. That’s the only way I could explain going to a museum exhibit as stupid as this.”
He brushed me off and I continued my path back to my spot. But then he stepped over the tape ring that protected the exhibit, to again block my path.
“Around.”
To which I rolled my eyes and barely restrained myself from unleashing a string of profanities. There were children around.
Cue another 15 minutes of waiting to get inside the mystery room. Then I notice the same security guard talking to another security guard and pointing at me. Within two minutes, the new security guard comes over to and begins mouthing off to me.
“Sir, I just wanted to tell you that you must keep two feet away from the exhibit of all times.”
Now at this point, I was roughly 45 feet away from the exhibit in question and was getting extraordinarily irritated.
“Yeah…Did you not get the memo, I’m oh yeah, what’s that phrase, ‘not retarded’ and I’m clearly capable of not bumping into those mushrooms that look like the science project of a stoned 8th grader. So I think I’ll just be fine.”
“Well, we wanted to make sure that you don’t get too close.”
“I’m aware. Your little Neanderthal friend over there just informed me of that fact 10 minutes ago. You know I’ve been to a museum before. Once!!! (said as sarcastically as humanly possible). And I managed to get through it without breaking everything into pieces!!”
He walks away. Cue 15 more minutes of waiting before I get to the door, stare inside, and still see just a white room. Then yet another security guard instructs me and the person I was with to take off our shoes.
“Why?” I ask.
“Museum rules!”
Deeply disturbed at the nuisance of having to take off my shoes at a museum, I decide on principle to lose my place in line and continue bumbling around the museum.
With the exception of a series of oil paintings by an artist named Glenn Brown, every single section of the exhibit was painfully juvenile. No amount of drugs was able to salvage the long lines and the “art” completely devoid of any substance or meaning.
Finally, I get to the last main portion of the exhibit, where the stupidity of the exhibit takes on an entirely new dimension. I notice a trio of placid cow women carrying expensive handbags, ogling a table standing in the middle of a cavernous room. On the table stand a vase, a plate, a dish, and a glass. The women are examining the objects as though they constituted the Mona Lisa of kitchenware. I crept closer to see if there was something that I hadn’t noticed. For a full five minutes, I analyzed this mundane array of objects, before I realized that all they were looking at was the shadows that the objects cast off onto the table, meaning that some jackass artist had managed to convince a museum curator and thousands of people that by placing a series of tableware in a way that produced shadows on a table, it was not only art it was breathtakingly new and avant-garde.
To make things worse, the only thing that this trio of hags could keep on repeating was the phrase: “That’s amazing!! That’s amazing!!”
At this point, I had to be forcibly restraining from screaming, “No, what’s amazing is that you’re actually dumb enough to think this is art. It’s a fucking dinner table, you morons. Buy a fucking clue!!” And they say that marijuana calms you down.
But it took two more things to fully drive me out of the museum’s doors (just 1 hour after entering). Next, I saw another serpentine line twisting its way across a room, so that two at a time, people could enter a sparkling egg-shaped spaceship with glittering mirrors placed inside of it. From the facial expressions of the people exiting this giant egg, you would’ve believed that they’d finally uncovered the secrets to life, rather than just having sat inside an egg shaped object that more resembled the interior of a prom limo with a rotating disco ball than a work of art.
But perhaps it was Francis Alÿs’s “Narcoturismo” that made me understand the full brunt of people’s lack of ability to separate true artists from no-talent ass clowns. This “exhibit” allegedly traced the experience of walking through various neighborhoods in Copenhagen, under the influence of a different narcotic substance each day on his visit, through an 8×10 inch framed typed text piece that matter-of-factly lists each of the drugs taken.
All this guy did was take seven drugs for seven days, type up a couple of sentences about what it felt like (barely legible sentences mind you), and frame them. Then he sold it to a museum for large sums of cash. Someone, I don’t care who, needs to be hung for allowing this type of large-scale fraud to persist. I don’t care who has to die, only that it occur in a public meeting place where I can throw heavy blunt objects at their decaying corpse, to fully mete out the punishment that they deserve. And not a moment too soon, I decided to run out the doors of the museum, into the smoky January twilight, hopefully never to return to the Geffen Contemporary for the rest of my life.
And if you’re keeping score, here’s how this lovely Saturday excursion ultimately turned out
Dollars Spent: $8
Hours Wasted: 2 (including driving time)
Time Spent in Line: 45 minutes
Security Guards Fought With: 2
Artists with Talent: 1
Artists Without Talent: 123 (give or take)
Brain Cells Lost: The majority of them.
Happy Monday Everyone!
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January 27th, 2006
When Neil Young asks if you’re passionate you’re damn right that you better answer in the affirmative. And when Jeff Weiss asks you the same question, you better look at him and ask him how much he’s smoked today. The answer of course, is nothing, being the faintly responsible employee that I am, but hopefully that will change as the hours grow closer to the Of Montreal concert that I’m attending tonight. If you don’t know who Of Montreal is then you should check them out (I recommend both of their last two albums, Satanic Panic in the Attic and The Sunlandic Twins), they pass all of the Passion of the Weiss criteria (what these are I’m unsure, but I can imagine it involves sounding good while under the mixture of vaguely hallucinogenic drugs.).
Oh yes, there will be hipsters galore this evening. That I can tell you. For I’ll be at the Echo in Echo Park, a hipster mecca if there ever was, doing my best efforts towards gentrification and trying not to savagely impale any American Apparel-clad pig fuckers with my fists or pointed barbs (because nothing my friends hurts a hipsters feelings like a pointed barb…except telling him that “the man” is really not evil).
Today is also a day of mild celebration, as it’s my last Friday on the job. Soon I will be reveling in the sweet sounds of unemployment, which to the untrained observer will probably include a great deal of indie rock and the clattering of keyboard typing as I try to compose the great American novel. (trust people, The Alchemy of Innocence, hitting streets in 2007, as the famed poet Juvenile might say, it will be dropped as though it were hot…very hot)
But enough with my jibber-jabber, it’s time for a post of more substance, of more quality, of exuberance, of evil. And as it’s friday, I bring to you a tradition more sacred than finding the Afikomen on Rosh Hoshonah and infinitely less rewarding (though if you were in my family finding the afikomen was about as lucrative as a print journalism career). I bring to you, this week’s Links.
When giving a speech at Kansas State University this week, George Bush was asked if he’d seen “Brokeback Mountain.” He replied (and this is a direct quote) I haven’t seen it. I would be glad to talk about ranchin’ but I haven’t seen the movie… I’ve heard about it… I hope you go.. you know.. heh, heh.. I hope you go back to the ranch and the farm is what I was going to say… I hadn’t seen it.”
Immediately, after this bizarre comment, Karl Rove whispered in his ear. Bush then proposed a constitutional amendment to ban the film. Part of the amendment would include a provision for “Brokeback” screenings to be replaced with film reels of the Matt Leblanc film “Ed.” Bush then went on to say, “I just found the movie adorable, particularly the camaraderie between the former “Friends” star and the monkey. I like monkeys. Heh Heh Heh.”
A knife-wielding man dressed in a spiderman costume tried to rob a convenience store in Ontario last week, but was nabbed (yes…I too can use the word nabbed) by the store’s clerk. Forget the fact that this guy was dressed in a Spiderman costume. How dumb do you have to be to rob a convenience store in Ontario? Honestly, what was he hoping to find, a package of chewing tobacco? Some old beef jerky? $12.93 in the cash register? It’s Ontario for christ’s sake. Those people don’t even have teeth. (disclosure: some Ontario-residents have teeth…but most don’t, luckily they also can’t read so they prolly won’t be checking this blog)
A study finds that bats that have larger genitals have smaller brains and vice versa. And for once, I’m grateful for my mind-numbing stupidity.
Rosie O’ Donnell is developing a sitcom in which she will play a gay newspaper reporter who will have lost her lover to breast cancer. And while writing her weekly column, she will talk to her dead lover. Okay, so let get the math straight: lesbians+newspapers+breast cancer+talking to the dead. This is comedic gold. Why hasn’t someone thought of this idea sooner? And who says there are no original ideas anymore.
The Sadamn trial has plunged into deeper disarray. But I don’t buy it. That sounds nothing like the wacky and zany Iraq that I’ve come to know and love. Disarray? Iraq? When will these limosine liberals stop their drumbeat of negativity. Remember, pessimism never created a job or won a war.
This study says that there is no evidence that Echinea cures colds. Somewhere in a Whole Foods, an aged hippie with a ponytail and a hackysack is curled up in the fetal position screaming, “No!!!!!!!!!” Stupid hippies, will you ever learn. And by the way gingseng and goldenseal, are also bullshit. So sayeth the Passion. For all the money that you hippies spend on placebos you might actually raise enough money to elect a Democrat for President. Just a thought here, people.
Clay Aiken? Gay sex claim? The only thing about this that surprises me is how long it took for this story to break. Are you fucking kidding me? People actually thought that he was straight? If you thought Clay Aiken was straight than you probably also believe that the Black Eyed Peas hired Fergie to boost their musical capabilities, Michael Jackson had sleepovers with little boys just because, and that intelligent design is a valid theory. IE, you’re a retard.
Oh and by the way, if you believe Clay Aiken is straight, you probably also believe that this isn’t a blatant cover-up as well.
Black Face Jesus: The Interview When asked why he wears Black Face, BFJ responded, “Black Face Jesus is a movement of peace and love in a world filled with hate and anger. I portray Jesus as dark-skinned because that’s exactly what he was. People of that time and region were dark-skinned. ” Deftly dodging the only true answer to this question: “I’m a fucking psycho hipster who was beaten up daily for six years. My father hates me. I want my mommy. Somebody hold me.” Fucking hipsters.
According to this article, Paul McCartney’s wife made him quit smoking weed as a prerequisite for being allowed to marry her. Dear Paul, let me give you a bit of advice. Here’s what you should’ve said when your then-girlfriend said that. “Oh, hey Heather, are you forgetting the fact that I’m Paul Fucking MacCartney and you’re some nobody with one leg. I don’t care if I’m freebasing crack, you’ll still marry me. Why? Because I’ll be dead in 10 years and you’ll be 40 years old and worth $12 trillion dollars. How does that sound to you?” And you know what, she would’ve said yes too.
The headline of this story reads, “Good Charlotte rockers see Future in film.” Okay Good Charlotte, you’re also getting some helpful hints. The only thing that anyone sees in your future is being on VH1 Where Are They Now Specials. Additionally, I see a future of Hillary Duff dumping you the moment that you’re revealed to be a complete no talent-ass clown (which will occur about five minutes from now, enjoy it while it lasts, chumps!)
Ghostface Killah: the doll. The perfect Valentine’s Day gift for that special someone.
Drew Barrymore wants to be a journalist. Isn’t it cute when an actor likes to pretend that they have other interests. It’s too bad that in order to work as a journalist, one needs to be able to read and write at above a third-grade level (except for Joel Stein). Therefore, 99.76 percent of actors are disqualified.
Check it out: it’s a monkey….and he’s on ice skates!!! It works on so many levels.
And I’m out like Aiken.
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January 24th, 2006
The other day I was driving a conservative 80 miles an hour when I decided that my lane was moving much too slowly for my tastes. Understandably, I veered into the adjacent lane where I subsequently cut off the driver of a maroon Nissan Sentra. But instead of him peacefully allowing entry into my preferred thoroughfare, the driver of the Sentra had the audacity to honk at me and give me the finger. I couldn’t believe his nerve and all I could do was stare at him with complete befuddlement. How did he think he had the right to do such a crazy thing? Didn’t he know who I was and what I was driving? I’m a good person damnit! I drive a Prius!
Ever since I got my Prius, people tell me all the time how fabulous it is and how special I am for what I’m doing. I’ll be honest, it was agonizing to have to wait for my car for a full three months and then to have to pay above the sticker price for a car only marginally attractive at best, but boy it’s worth it. Goddamnit, I’m doing my part to save the world! Are you?
I’m quite certain that if everyone on earth drove a Prius, all the ails of humanity would soon be cured. People would become smarter. The Red Sea would soon part. Jesus would return to earth and form a new kingdom of heaven and you know who would be one of the leaders of this new world order: Me. Why? Because I drive a Prius, fuck yeah!
If you don’t want to drive a Prius you’re obviously too stupid to live. Perhaps you went to some school for dumb people like UC-Santa Barbara. That would make sense. After all, I went to Stanford and I’m clearly smarter than you are. I listen to my iPod and play my Death Cab for Cutie albums and just rock the fuck out, all while in my Prius. Every now and then I park in a handicapped spot too. Sometimes, a meter maid will come, but she’ll never ticket me. In fact, she’ll usually wait for me to come back to my car so that she can give me a high five and tell me how awesome I am. Occasionally, she’ll offer me oral sex, because she wants to know what it’s like to perform oral sex on someone who drives a Prius (I’ll give you a hint, it’s fucking amazing).
That’s why it was so strange the other day when that evil driver in the Sentra flipped me off. Most of time when I cut off other drivers, they laugh and flash me the thumbs-up. Clearly, they understand that I’m a perfect human being and that I make the world a better place. One time, I even ran over an 8-year old girl while driving 65 miles per hour in a residential neighborhood. But instead of crying and yelling at me and threatening to kill me, the girl’s mother just gave off a hearty laugh and told me to go on my merry way (she also offered me oral sex, but I declined telling her I didn’t feel right considering that I had just nearly killed her daughter, ultimately she agreed).
Yet the more I contemplate the Sentra driver’s actions, the less sense everything makes. I mean, if the driver of the Sentra had been piloting a SUV, I might’ve understood. After all, anyone who drives a SUV is clearly a terrible human being. In fact, one of the darkest secrets of my past is that I once drove a SUV for about four months. Luckily, the moment I got my Prius, an all-consuming wave of peace and serenity swept over me. I understood what it was like to see God (he’s a short Asian man with Buddha-like Zen compassion; he likes to be called Charlie).
Yes, life is perfect. Woman want me, men want to be me and Osama Bin Laden is one step closer to being defeated, thanks to me and my super-sweet Prius. But if you want to know another secret, sometimes I hope that no one else ever gets a Prius and that Ford and General Motors never ever get their heads out of their asses and start making hybrid cars. After all, then I wouldn’t be as special and everyone would be just like me. But hopefully that day will never come and then I’ll always get to be the most amazing person in the entire word. Oh, thank you Toyota and your incredibly efficient lean manufacturing ability. Thank you Charlie for making a world so perfect that a Prius could be a part of it. And fuck you Nissan Sentra driver for not recognizing that I’m a good person because I drive a Prius. It is you who will forever burn in Hell, while I sip Tom Collins and recline on a hammock in heaven, reading a copy of esoteric philosophy while being hit-on by beautiful women. Dear Mr. Nissan Sentra owner, the joke is truly on you.
Sincerely,
One Proud Prius Owner (and one very good person)
[Editors note: While it cannot be proven whether or not Prius owners are indeed better or worse people, it has been scientifically proven that if you drive a Hummer you are in fact an asshole and in all probability, you have a penis the size of a chapstick]
Posted in The Fakest News in Town, Best Of | 12 Comments »
January 23rd, 2006
One week after the fashion mix-up heard around the world, Ethiopian villagers from the tiny town of Adado continue to report that they still are distressed over Chanel’s gross negligence in lending Reese Witherspoon a dress that had formerly been worn by Kirsten Dunst.
“I’ve been over it so many times in my head and yet I can’t make sense of the whole thing,” 12-year old Ademu Yesfanyu said. “We have no television sets in my village so I only found out about this disaster a few days ago, yet I haven’t slept since I heard the news. How could Chanel have been so negligent?”
Indeed all of the inhabitants of the perennially impoverished Ethiopian nation have been severely devastated over Chanel’s snafu. Though the famed fashion house denied having knowledge of such a mix-up, the gown that Witherspoon wore to this year’s Golden Globes Awards had been worn by Dunst to the same awards program in 2003.
Sadly, Witherspoon believed the gown — in a champagne color with metallic trim on the bust — was vintage, her publicist, Nanci Ryder, was reported as telling the New York Post in Wednesday’s editions.
But as the inconsolable villagers of Adado can tell you, no amount of apology and contrition can make up for Witherspoon’s embarrassment.
“Reese Witherspoon is the preeminent movie star of our time,” Desta Amhara, a 72-year old Adado villager said. “Have the people from Chanel not seen Witherspoon’s powerful work in movies such as “Sweet Home Alabama” and “Legally Blonde?” Just last year, most of the people in our village walked hundreds of miles to the capital city of Addis Ababa to watch the marathon of Legally Blonde 1 and 2 that ran non-stop for a week straight during the week of the Winter rains. In our country, Witherspoon is a God and worthy of extreme veneration. Chanel has not just disgraced the good name of Witherspoon. It has disgraced the mighty village of Adado. It has disgraced the sacred nation of Ethiopia.”
Upon hearing word of the Ethiopian villagers distress, Chanel representatives issued yet another public apology.
“It was never our intention to disgrace anyone,” Pierre Bonsoir, Chanel’s media representative tearfully remarked. “We really did think it was a vintage gown. And for the Ethiopian people to be this upset, we feel even worse. In fact, we’re going to donate 5,000 luxury ballroom gowns to the village for their people to wear. Despite the fact that 81 percent of Ethiopians live below $2 a day, they need glamour too.”
But some of the villagers of Adado continue to feel otherwise.
“We don’t need gowns. What am I going to do with a gown?” 37-year old subsistence farmer Abebe Adan said. “Is Chanel going to pay me for the week of crops that I have been unable to cultivate? I haven’t been able to do a damn thing since I heard the news. I completely understand why my brothers and sisters in America have been so outraged over this issue. I’m so happy that the international news outlets have jumped on this story. It is not just a matter for the Americans. It is a matter for the entire globe. I hope the UN takes action against these rogue clothiers.”
Witherspoon’s publicists agreed that this dress mix-up may indeed be a matter for the United Nations.
“Reese has been handling this matter with the utmost dignity, however, she is clearly emotionally ruined,” Josephine Cartwright, Witherspoon’s alternate publicist, angrily declared. “And I believe that Chanel hasn’t shown the proper amount of regret for their egregious actions. As the courageous protests by the Ethiopians have shown, the world is incensed over Chanel’s utter duplicity. Does the United Nations HAVE to get involved? I’m not sure. But should it get involved? Probably. This is an issue that cuts across race, religion and ethnicities. It is an issue for the people of Planet Earth.”
Currently, the United Nations has not yet issued a statement on the issue, although the Security Council is rumored to be on the verge of commencing deliberations over what action to take. In the meantime, the villagers of Adado have issued a statement declaring that they will give the 5,000 Chanel dresses to Witherspoon, in the hopes that she will be able to re-sell them.
“We felt that we needed to do something,” Meles Tesfai, the town’s leader said. “Hopefully, the dresses will be able to provide Witherspoon enough income to ameliorate her sorrows. Though
Witherspoon’s estimated salary of $25 million a year is nearly 10 times as much as our villagers make combined each year, we all have agreed that a gesture of solidarity is in order. If Chanel will not appease the great Witherspoon, then we will just have to take action into our own hands.”
Posted in The Fakest News in Town, Best Of | 2 Comments »
January 20th, 2006
It’s Friday, bringing with it the postive nostalgia of being 7-years old and not being able to wait to get out of school to watch “Full House” and “Family Matters” on ABC’s T.G.I.F. program. Now 17 years later, I can’t wait to get out of work to go home and watch “Dancing With the Stars.” Oh don’t laugh my friends, you know you love it. Who can resist the smooth charms of Drew Lachey, the slick tanned shininess of George Hamilton, the gams of Tia Carrere? (I’ve wanted to write the words gams in something since the 3rd grade…it’s very cathartic…try saying it out loud…gams…gams…I’ll stop, though I’m not quite sure what it means).
But before I go ameliorate my sorrows with a heaping helping of celebrity dance-offs, I now bring to you the Friday tradition of The Links…where I present the things this week that made me get crunk, jiggy and even a few that made me back that ass up. This week’s sponsor of the Links is the 1970’s legendary wrestler The Missing Link (pictured above) because what kind of a Passion of the Weiss blog would it be without arcane pop culture references that make people wonder how many drugs I’ve taken (the obvious answer being: prolly not the right ones).
The Missing Links
According to a Hawaiian cabdriver, the Black Eyed Peas’ Fergie isn’t the only celebrity fan of public urination, because now Paris Hilton has also been accused of losing control of all of her bodily functions in the backseat of a taxi (at Occidental, we called this pulling an Anastasia…ask me that story some other time). The sad thing is the only reason why she’s upset is because she wasn’t the first one to start the trend. Luckily, for her she will always have started the trend of celebrities being celebrities for no apparent reason. Congrats, you swine! And if, as I earlier claimed that since peeing in your pants is cool, you can consider Fergie, Miles Davis. Since you’re the last to jump on the bandwagon of peeing in your pants, then I consider you Paris Hilton to be the Killers.
Also in the world o’ Hilton, check out this deposition where her english speaking ability reminds me eerily of Ralph Wiggum.
First wench Laura Bush has attacked Hillary Clinton’s claim that the Bush White House is run like a plantation where all dissent is quickly stifled. “Silly, Hillary Clinton,” Bush said. “It’s not like a plantation, it’s more like a Soviet gulag, where all dissenters are bound, gagged and shipped off to Siberia for torture.”
Website, Allhiphop.com runs a Q&A with golddigger/rapper/Rhodes Scholar Kevin Federline.
The last question of the interview asks, if you weren’t here right now, where you be? Federline responded: “On Mars.” This is actually incorrect. What it shoud’ve read is: sucking dick for coke on the Streets of Fresno. Allhiphop.com regrets this typographical error.
UPN is currently debating whether or not to greenlight a reality show about the post-N’ Sync lives of Lance Bass and Joey Fatone. Luckily for UPN, I can summarize their lives quite succintly and thus there’s no need to broadcast this program: Lance Bass fucks men. A lot. (can’t prove this one but seriously, c’mon, look at the guy). And Joey Fatone eats. A lot. The end.
50 Cent is getting sued by former 2Live Crew frontman, Luther Campbell for copyright infringement for allegedly stealing the chorus of “In Da Club.” This proves my theory that 50 Cent is in fact, slightly mentally retarded and therefore incapable of thinking up something as original as “We Gonna’ party like it’s yo’ berfday, sip bacardi like it’s yo’ berfday/but you know that we don’t give a fuck it’s not yo’ birthday.” But to be fair to Fitty, not even Shakespeare could’ve thought of a couplet so brilliant.
ABC takes my advance, cancels “Emily’s Reasons Why Not” after one episode. They blamed their decision on a mysterious illness that no one at the network had ever heard of before. The doctors said it was baffling new virus known only by as integrity. Luckily, they found a cure within hours and the masses were safe to watch celebrities dance. Thank fucking god.
This study finds that couples that have a television in the bedroom have half as much sex as those that don’t. http://news.yahoo.com/s/nm/20060116/hl_nm/sex_tv_dc Millions of men everywhere rejoice that now they don’t have to blame their lack of sex on sexual incompetence. It’s the tv’s fault. Yes, it’s all the television’s fault. Of course, I’m shocked, I would’ve thought that nothing would’ve stirred a couple’s passion more than a couple of back-to-back “Frasier” re-runs.
Another study comes out discovering that men enjoy watching people suffering whom they consider “bad.” And to think, all those millions of dollars they inevitably spent on that survey, when they could’ve just pointed to this blog as clear-cut evidence.
New Orleans Mayor Ray Nagin says that Katrina hit his city because of God’s wrath. In other news, he also announced that him and Pat Robertson are taking a holiday vacation together and have become new b.f.f.’s. UPN immediately tries to sign them up for a reality show called “Ebony and Ivory.”
Irish scientists have discovered the nation’s most fertile male, a man named Niall of the Nine Hostages, who was a 5th-century warlord and head of the most powerful dynasty in ancient Ireland. Apparently, 3 million men are among his off-spring. Oh, you wacky Catholics, who are you guys going to knock up next?
Ricky Martin doesn’t understand why people are questioning his legitimacy to do charity work after an interview with Blender Magazine in which he says “I love giving the ‘golden shower.’ I’ve done it before in the shower. It’s like, so sexy, you know, the temperature of your body and the shower water is very different.” Ricky went on to say, “I’m open to everything. There are moments for soft, gentle sex. And there are moments for a good spank in the butt.”
Martin also said that he doesn’t understand why bears hibernate in the winter, why mosquitoes are attracted to the light and why water is wet. No, actually he understood the last part…quite well. I take that back.
Eminem re-marries Kim. No one fucking cares.
According to the British paper, The Daily Mirror, Sean Lennon is dating Lindsay Lohan. He said that he was doing it to continue his father’s legacy of dating completely untalented and unintelligent women. The ghost of John Lennon is said to be very proud.
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January 10th, 2006
“Everybody, everybody, let’s get into it.
Get stupid.
Get it started, get it started, get it started.
Let’s get it started (ha), let’s get it started in here.”
If you haven’t been hanging out with me lately that’s what I’ve been singing non-stop: The Black Eyed Peas’ “Let’s Get it Started.” Why am I singing it? Because the Black Eyed Peas are all sorts of awesome. And I know that the song’s a bit old but even a deaf man could get down with its devilish groove (mad devilish, yo).
I’ll be honest, I confess that when they first debuted way back in the late 90s, I wasn’t much of a fan of the Peas’ early work. All that talk about how fresh their lyrics were and how real they kept it, it just felt a little contrived, a tad forced. But now with the addition of Fergie for their last two albums, they’ve really begun to hit their creative zenith. And the best part about it is that the world has really begun to take notice of the greatness of the Black Eyed Peas. It’s strange because normally only people who sell-out become incredibly famous out but not the Peas, they’ve kept it real from the get-go.
But just because they keep it so real doesn’t mean that they haven’t attracted their fair share of detractors. Everyone wants to hate on them for changing their songs’ content, adding Fergie to the group, doing tracks with various former boy band members, and performing in a slew of commercials, the Democratic National Convention, the Super Bowl, the Grammy and the Emmys, but if that’s selling out than I’ll damned. I mean, they didn’t do the Tony Awards. THAT would totally be devoid of artistic integrity. I mean, just check out this quote from Peas frontman Will I. Am. defending himself against these unfounded attacks.
“He tells MTV, “We don’t do anything that doesn’t fit with the music. We kinda lend ourselves to benefits so we did the Democratic National Convention to get people out there to vote. And then we’ll do a Best Buy commercial ’cause they sell music. Then we did the first iTunes commercial. We did the NBA ’cause it’s like, who’s not gonna do the NBA?
“We did the Super Bowl, ’cause who ain’t gonna do the Super Bowl? And if they asked you to do two years at the Grammys, you ain’t gonna do it? And then we did the Emmys ’cause they said, ‘Ain’t nobody ever did the Emmys.’
“We’re just trying to push boundaries, but a lot of times when you are the first, you get flak for it. People say ’sell-out’. That’s one thing I don’t get. That’s some dumb s**t, because it’s like we ain’t frontin’. I ain’t got crazy gold or being something that I’m not. A sell-out is somebody who’s one way with their mom, and then when they with their homies.
Take that haters! And everyone wants to make fun of Fergie for pissing in her pants (see this article here, she actually admits to it towards the bottom of the story), but I think they’re just being mean. I mean haven’t these people seen the classic comedy film, “Billy Madison.” Peeing in your pants is cool and you can consider Fergie, Miles Fucking Davis.
But it’s not just Fergie’s insistence about flouting convention by publicly urinating, because everything about the Black Eyed Peas screams integrity. Take the talented poet Will I. Am’s description of the torments of the creative process that wracked his brain while thinking up the words to the lyric poem, “My Humps.”
“Fittingly, the song stemmed from a conversation Will was having with a friend when a beautiful woman walked by. When the rapper asked, “Whatcha gonna do with all that junk,” his friend replied, “You should turn that into a song.” He got a second opinion when he crossed paths with the woman again and stopped her.
“I was like, ‘Hey, my homeboy told me I’m supposed to make a song about you,’ and she said, ‘Oh yeah, well how’s it supposed to go?’ ” Will recalled. “I was like, ‘What you gonna do with all that junk, all that junk?’ And she was like, ‘That’s probably the best pickup line I ever heard.’ I was like, ‘No, I’m not trying to pick you up!’ ”
Damn right, that’s the best pick up line she ever heard, because Will I. Am. is a fucking genius, the brightest western mind since Voltaire (take that Benjamin Franklin.)
But the best news I’ve heard in months came yesterday when the Peas announced that they’re going on tour again starting in March (thank God). And the tour has such a creative name too: The 6th Honda Civic Year. Methinks there are going to be a lot of satisfied Pea-podders this springtime.
Even more kickass is that the Peas have created a custom Honda Civic Hybrid featuring metallic paint designs, Peas-themed graphics, XM satellite radio, a special PA system and Dunlop sport tires, among other features. The car will be awarded to a lucky fan at the conclusion of the trek.
How cool is that? Boy, I’m going to pray every night that I’m that lucky fan. I mean, how could any woman resist a guy in a Black Eyed Peas-themed Honda Civic. I wouldn’t just be getting it started in there, I’d be finishing it, AND I’d be getting to see all the ho’s humps (to use the parlance of our times). All I can say is quote Wayne Campbell and just endlessly repeat the phrase: it will be mine…oh yes, it will be mine. Needless to say, come this July, I’ll be rolling on chrome, Black Eyed chrome that is.
Sincerely,
Justin Timberlake (I’m not just their collaborator, I’m a fan too)
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January 4th, 2006
“I mean, sure it can be depressing at times,” the ghost of Mark Twain revealed to the Passion of the Weiss, when considering the last physical incarnation his soul has taken since it first left the earth in 1910.
“Why can’t I be placed into the body of a hot 19-year old girl? Why is it that God always wants to put me into the body of a decrepit white-haired old man. No one likes old people. Everyone likes 19-year old girls. Well, except for Ryan Seacrest,” Twain’s soul said.
Of course, Twain the immortal author of such classics as Huckleberry Finn and Tom Sawyer has had a lot of time on his hands, since the passing of Patrick Cranshaw, this weekend, the venerable character actor best known for his role of Blue in the film “Old School.” However, a little known fact that went unreported by the “mainstream” media was that Cranshaw was the reincarnation of Twain, a fact evidenced by their identical physical appearance.
“It was certainly hard to go from being the most famous writer in the world to being a guy who was only remembered by drunken frat boys who would go up to me four times a day and scream ‘you’re my boy, blue.’ Then they’d laugh uncontrollably as though I’d never heard that one before,” Twain’s soul said.
Twain also went on the record to the Passion of Weiss to explain why he decided that he wanted to focus on acting in this most recent reincarnation.
“I felt that I’d said all that I had to say, although I must admit, it’s a lot harder to make it today as an actor than it was to make it as a writer. Apparently, you have to give tons of blowjobs to various Hollywood executives, and I wasn’t exactly up for that sort of thing. No pun intended,” Twain’s soul said. “Think about it, would you go from being one of the leading abolitionist novelists read by every child in America, to sucking off some closeted vice president of production in his Jaguar, in the parking lot of a studio in Culver City? It just wasn’t for me.”
Twain’s soul blamed this failure to prostitute himself as the primary reason why his Cranshaw-self never progressed beyond niche character roles. He also repeatedly indicated that he will be pressing God quite hard to become a “nubile young lass” in his next reincarnation.
“I feel as though I didn’t conquer the world of acting in the same way that I conquered the world of writing, and in my next lifetime I still have the burning desire to do so” Twain’s soul said. “I think that if God can put me in the body of a super-hot chick then I can definitely make in Hollywood this time. I like that Angelina Jolie girl, maybe I’ll ask to look something like that. After all, it’s Hollywood, who needs talent when you can be really really ridiculously good-looking?”
Nonetheless, fans of Twain/Cranshaw are heartbroken at the news of his passing and many wished him the best.
“I know that Blue’s up in heaven smiling down on us, holding a 40 and telling us that shit’s all good,” Chazz Lucas, a senior at USC and a member of the Gamma Alpha Epsilon Fraternity said. “It’s like I saw Old School 42 times and Blue’s performance got better each time. He was a legend. And I tried to read Tom Sawyer once in the 7th grade, but that shit was boring. You’re my boy, blue!”
Donations can be made to the Mark Twain’s Soul Memorial Fund at the Forrest Hills Cemetery. Sources close to God expect for the next incarnation of Twain to be announced within the next two weeks. They would not indicate whether or not Twain’s latest request to be super-fine would be honored.
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