Pathos

In the past, I have expressed some amount of rage about pathos-laden cartoons. Pixar is down the street, so I really shouldn't say this, but I don't give a shit about anything they do, and this opinion, informed in some part by the few of their movies (Cars, the one with the balloons) which I watched, is mainly informed by the fact that I am an adult interested in the complexity and gamut of human emotions. So fuck cartoons. Cartoons are for kids. Now that that's out of the way, Hollywood made a 3d Yogi Bear movie? What the what? And the actual animators involved with the movie did a painstakingly well-crafted fake ending for it, parodying the near-ending of the incredibly awesome and criminally underwatched The Assassination of Jesse James by the Coward Robert Ford. Except the parody is actually just a faithful rendition of that haunting scene and is a total pathos fest. The eyes of these two bears -- holy shit. And when it's all done Yogi gets turned into a rug. Everything that's happening in this parody is better than every movie nominated for the NAACP Image Awards Golden Globes, says the guy with a newish baby who has been to one movie in the last seven months.

Music Video of the Day -- Dirty Projectors, "Stillness is the Move"

This is not a real post, I'm aware, but I've been commenting more than blogging these days, and I feel the need to break E's uninterrupted reign, so here's Dirty Projectors' "Stillness Is the Move."

There was a movie that came out a couple of years ago called Bulworth, in which Warren Beatty played some kind of white liberal politician whose mask was slipping, and then he met Halle Barry, and he was all like "You're a gangbanger. Let me tell you about the Black Panthers." And she's all like I know about the Black Panthers. Go fart into a Slanket while I play this song by Ol Dirty Bastard and the third person from the Fugees (ed's note: three people were in The Fugees? Knowledge) . And he's all like, "What? There is a thing called hip hop which allows me to say "fuck" in public and also wear ski caps." Let me put down my Arnold Palmer, and rap my thoughts and feelings. And then he says something about how we should all fuck each other and this will erase racial distinctions, and basically solve acid rain and the problem with the o-zone layer (ed's note: 90's environment references, people). If I were to describe this movie in one word it would be "gangsta." If I were to describe this movie in two words it would be "Snoop Dogg."

Anyway, what does this have to do with Dirty Projectors? Very little. Except while it's interesting that Warren Beatty thought embarrassing rapping would lead us to the racial promised land, in fact, there was some truth to his gangsta, homey-dogg philoso-jazzing. White people music, Black people music. So different in 1998, so not different in 2009, maybe? Dirty Projectors are about as white a band as you can find, and they've recorded what is to my ears an absolute R&B club banger, which Beyonce's sister has re-recorded, and which is, in fact, now an absolute R&B club banger. Jay-Z and Beyonce go to Grizzly Bear concerts; The Magic Numbers covered Beyonce. And meanwhile people in the Bronx and people in Williamsburg wear the same skinny jeans and throwback multi-colored Nikes. And blipsters is a word.

You know, I remember a time when I was DJing in college and there was some discussion about whether or not I should be playing Gang Starr during our somber indie broadcast.

The question would be absurd today.

The question is the truth.

best story of the week

seriously!

A Death Row Pardon Two Minutes Too Late

I was going to mention that while cancer is never funny--never--isn't it just a little Alannis Morissette that the guy who married the Noxzema girl got skin cancer? But then my attention was drawn to the newly acquired facial hair of our country's most notable politicians of Mexican extraction. (Actually, I say "newly acquired," but I don't know when Fredo got his cookie duster.) The comments page is open for you to discuss their new relative sexiness. Or not.

Separated at Birth: There Will Be Paella

Genius, auteur, master of the masterpiece-undermining gimmick ending (spoiler! sort of), one-time paramour of the magnificent Fiona Apple, Paul Thomas Anderson, and newest LA Laker, former Memphis Grizzly, grizzled Spaniard, Pao Gasol.

Conflict Resolution

In the battle of people dressed like waiters covering Grizzly Bear's masterwork "Knife," the little kids above kick the asses of the big kids below. As blog non-reader Natalie says, "I heart headband kid."

Blogger E, keep the faith. A capella is a scourge sprung from the Inferno. I came to know this that first day of college when Speak of the Devil came to my dorm's common room and sang Dave Matthews Band's "Crash Into Me" to a sea of applause. I've never really fully recovered.