Pop Culture Blog: Music, Movie and Humor

Leveraging low-hanging synergies outside the vertical fruit box since 1999.

Friday’s Quizzlet: Ambiencognito.


in Monday's Quotelet

Appetizer: Approximately how many times per day do you yawn?
Probably 25. There are many variable contributing factors. Like boredom, sleep deprivation and self-administered ether.

Soup: What was your most memorable school field trip?
I went to a mushroom farm in Ottawa in about grade 4, and we spent a lovely afternoon running around in a warm, dark cave like barn covered in manure. A field trip of this sort would never take place today, because we all know now – that sort of unhygenic behavior is racist.

Salad: Fill in the blank: I was extremely ________ this week.
Sweaty. See previous entries, and also my doctor who is currently adding me to some sort of Guinness medical record book.

Main Course: Which color do you associate with “soothing”?
Is Ambien white, or off-white?

Dessert: Name something you could save up the money to buy in 1 month?
Wow – not your best work, quizzlet. Pop, chips and a bar? I will be fairly incognito until the middle of next week as we’re off to Canada at 3pm. Have a great holiday, everyone – and I’ll see you on the flipside.

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This Is The Story Of The Hurricane.


in

Some friends and I ran into The Hurricane at SideBar a couple of years ago, and without going into too much detail out of respect for the man’s once decent accomplishments, I’ll just say that we had a great time with him. I was very sorry to have just been sent this article from today’s news. Oh how the mighty – Tyson, Pete, etc. – have fallen.

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Where For Art Though, Art?


in

I mentioned my friend Art’s new travel blog a while back. It had a false start, went down for a week or so, but it’s been back up and he’s doing a great job maintaining it while keeping it very interesting. Art has a penchant for running into famous, or at least extremely interesting people, and he tells two sorta related stories in one of his new posts. As it includes snippets of our reckless youth together, I thought I’d link to it and give him a little exposure at the same time. I’ve told the same horrific Inka story here before, but it’s worth another gander from two different perspectives. And my version includes horror movie worthy answering machine sound clips that are a must-cringe.

Moynihan and his much better half arrive from Sweden this afternoon, and this evening is sure to be a doozy. It will be a girlish giggle fueled night of old-friend-I-haven’t-seen-in-a-year-revelry before the long drive we’re all making up to the motherland tomorrow night. If you’re downtown and you care, give me a call.

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Hit Me On My Celly. Then My Back So I Can Burp.


in

Wee Madeline is in full effect rollin’ in her hooptie, making plans to throw back some breast milk and holla at her peeps down at the spot. I assume the spot is a maternity center of some kind. Maddy G. is my friend Tanya’s bebe, and these photos she sent me this morning are definitely worthy of some early Quotelet action. Be gentle. She’s only 1.

“Teletubbies ain’t shit, bitch. You get the Wiggles on stage, or you get my Timberland size 2 in yo’ punk, preschool ass.”
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Shave And A Haircut, Two Bits.


in Musical

Shave and a Haircut, and the associated response, “two bits”, is a simple musical couplet sometimes used at the end of a musical performance. the tune became associated with a profane insult in some Latin American countries, particularly Mexico. Whistling the tune or using a car horn to play it is considered highly offensive. The insult is “chinga a tu puta madre,” “go fuck your whore of a mother.”

I was walking home recently, through the Financial District late on a Thursday night, when I came across a pack of wild bachelorette creatures. They’re all the same: dolled up, inappropriately drunk and leading around an invariably heavyset friend in a veil – all of them chewing on little plastic penis straws. They’re also all overly pleased with themselves and completely devoid of any self-awareness as if they invented this pre-marriage ritual and have the keys to the city or something. At least men are prone to renting hotel suites so their antics can’t readily be traced back to them. That’s what I’ve been told, anyway. Maybe there was one exception. Alright two.

Regardless, I assure you, nobody that didn’t gain 30 pounds living in a freshman dorm with Cindy fucking cares that it’s Cindy’s bachelorette party. Ever.

Especially not anyone working on the 5th floor of a Boston office building trying to conduct business at the ungodly stag/stagette party hour of 5pm on a Monday evening. A few times a week, some silly local party bus drives around and around my block blasting the ‘shave and a haircut’ beat on their insanely loud horn. They come up Boylston to Tremont, turn right, make another right at the 7-11, head back around that block to Boylston and then do it all over again. Again and again, without pause. It is excrutiating, excessive, and I think if I were on that bus immersed in the revelry, I’d still walk up to the driver and ask: “Are you frigging autistic, or what?“

Back to my riveting tale. One of the young friends stopped two scruffy-looking forty-something dudes in the middle of the sidewalk ahead of me and threw out her arms: “Guess what dudes? Where you headed? Bachelorette party!” They just snickered and walked around her. I burst out laughing and had to cross the street. My weeks of auto-horn torment suddenly somehow vindicated. Or maybe I just wish she’d asked me.

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