Pop Culture Blog: Music, Movie and Humor
Leveraging low-hanging synergies outside the vertical fruit box since 1999.
Van Halen and The Police both recently announced reunion tours. I honestly believe I have seen this stated as fact on TV, radio and the internet… but it can’t really be true. I must be continuing to spiral downwards into the cuckoo’s nest.
On the off chance I’m not actually an Earth-bound vessel for a powerful alien named Zenochandragar, Sting and the boys are reuniting for the first time in over 20 years tonight on the Grammys.
Kids, if you have yourself one of them new fangled Digg accounts – or even if you don’t – please go here and give me some love. It took me a few days to write and I’d like to get it in front of as many people as possible. It’s my first official attempt at link-baiting. Fingers crossed.
Appetizer: Have you been sick yet this winter? What did you come down with?
I spent 11 hours in the emergency room in December, but that wasn’t due to sickness. I usually get way sick once a year, so I’m due. But I guess I also get sick when I’m wailing on my axe.
Soup: What colors dominate your closet?
Green, blue and black. I asked the yellow family to leave as they refused to respect the ‘no smoking’ ordinance. You can also change this answer to “Whatever Janet buys me”.
Salad: How would you describe your personal “comfort zone”?
My apartment I suppose. I keep a baseball bat beside both doors which adds to the comfort level. If I might quote Duran Duran for a second: “City Living, heavy trouble. City living rough. We are given angry hearts, but anger’s not enough”. Wait – Can I change my answer to Spike’s?
Main Course: On which reality show would you really like to be a contestant?
Tourette De France. No really, it’s a show. This Scottish kid named Charlie goes on a trip to Paris and along the way shouts the most remarkable things. I guess it’s not really possible to be a contestant on this show, so I’ll have to change my answer to I Love New York where there is at least the same staggering degree of prevalent mental illness.
Dessert: Which holiday would you consider to be your favorite?
Definitely Thanksgiving. It’s a time for old friends, deep-friend turkey and to stand around and scratch your head at how quickly another year has passed. I suppose I’m feeling a little old today because last night my friend’s daughter asked if she could call me ‘Uncle Dave’. She’s 37.
A firm believer in original content, I rarely quote OPP (other people’s penmanship) at length. But I saw this woman recently kicking ass on a news show, discovered her blog and have been meaning to at least mention the whole Boston bomb scare in passing. I wouldn’t make a better point than this:
I’m sorry Mario’s fabulous travel plans abroad may somehow be ruined by this “embarrassing” Boston incident. Shouldn’t he stay stateside and offer his considerable “bomb recognizing” expertise to Homeland Security?
Watching two 27-year-old “artistes” (one of whom is seeking “refugee status” from some slime hole) acting like children, I can’t help but think of guys and gals in the US armed forces 10 years their junior, in charge of billion dollar equipment, generally comporting themselves with considerably more maturity.
This incident, like Columbine, reveals deep generational fissures. And I’m on the side of the grown ups this time. I for one am relieved to discover that Boston’s first responders don’t waste their spare time watching unfunny Adult Swim cartoons.
Amen, Ma’am. Sure it was silly – but I definitely felt relief too. Yeah you know me!
I never remember my dreams. My sleep issues run so deep that my brain doesn’t have time for REM by the time I actually manage to get to snoozieland. But I took a cat nap today and had visions that were so strange and disturbing that I realized I should probably finish my Toronto story as means of exorcism. But first, I have to tell you about this fucking dream.
I was at my Grandmother’s house, which had been transformed into a building which was a cross between the movie House and various other naughty structures. Rickety, dark, old, evil smelling, foreboding – an uncanny resemblance to the real thing. My Grandmother was gone, presumably already in ‘the home’, and she had a large variety of animals left behind. All of which had to be killed. By me.
My sister was there, but she was busy packing stuff up and getting ready to leave for Boston. My task was domestic housepet genocide, and I was expected to do it by others in the house as casually as they were cleaning, organizing and inventorying. There were cats which I neck-wrung without difficulty (which is ridiculous because I love cats). A rabbit which I stomped. I think I drowned at least one hamster. A giant furry beetle which I tore into pieces and fed to other furry beetles before then massacring his buddies, too. But when I got to the attic there was one pet left which I could not bring myself to assassinate.
A large-eyed dog, some sort of terrier, was cowering from me up there, behind 30 years of curio crap. I picked it up, brought it downstairs and pleaded with my sister to quietly put it in her car and take it to Beantown with her. She eventually agreed, and I started taking loads of trash to the dump like I’d spent the morning re-arranging a sock drawer.
What is the worst or most bizarre dream you’ve ever had? Should I just check into an evaluation facility right now?