Bea Arthur, 1922-2009

Sometimes there are no words. There are only sweet, sweet memories.

Look At This Fucking Hipster

I don't know if this website is already passe or what, but I have one thought about lookatthisfuckinghipster I want on the record: How many of these shots were taken by Iphone cameras, presumably by other hipsters, in Brooklyn subway stations or in trains traversing the rails in, around and beneath Brooklyn? I say a lot, so that means hipsters are selling out hipsters. Damn. End times.

waterloo

i totally forgot that it's time for the eurovision song contest, the annual seizure-inducing orgy of lights, choreography, and nonsensical lyrics. the thing is, i am fairly certain that the only notable group to emerge from this spectacle is abba, back in 1974. nevertheless, the tradition continues and eurovision is entering its 54th year. although 42 countries are represented, all the singers sing in english, sometimes to hilarious effect. this czech rap group's alter ego? the baroque cadillac crew. no, i'm sorry, baroque is the least intimidating era ever. okay fine, it's marginally more thug than rococo, but with so much history to mine, why not something like "the cossacks" or just go for the obvious, "the velvet revolution"? totally street.

anyway, to give you an idea of what's to come, check out the winning song from 2008. just when you are thinking to yourself, "why is richie sambora playing the violin?" wait til 1:53 when the lead singer for def leppard inexplicably starts skating feverishly on a teeny patch of ice.



apparently this dude is the frontrunner this year. i say if history is any guide, anoint this lad already--crazy dancing? check. violin? check. the suspense will continue until the finale on may 16.

Must Desi TV

Hey, everybody. There is a hot new blog on the scene. Thoughtful vivisection of television done by brianiac grad students, Tubatv is the half brainchild of devoted reader Thumbu Sammy, who this past week makes the rather astute observation that all four of the shows comprising NBC's comedy lineup last Thursday, The Office, Parks and Recreation, The Office, and 30 Rock featured South Asian people. Yay for pop cultural presence! Boo for the fact that the South Asian people in question (pictured above)-- Aziz Ansari, Maulik Pancholy, and Mindy Kaling -- played characters named Tom, Jonathan, and Kelly respectively, just like that lady from Texas wants.

Aziz Ansari, who has been a personal favorite of mine since occasional reader Sweet Daddy Purns introduced me to him in the summer of 2005 at the Upright Citizens Brigade theater (right before his killer "Aziz Ansari Punched a Wall" show), has always eschewed the rather limiting ethno-centric style of lesser comedians, but Tom Haverford? Desi, please...Still, I hesitate to condemn after one episode; he struck gold with his "I'm what you call a redneck" line in the otherwise mediocre pilot of Parks and Rec, but gets several demerits for the following statement, which while funny and self-undermining, does nothing to explain really why the fuck he can't be of Muslim heritage on TV: The cold hard fact is that dark-skinned people with funny-sounding Muslim names just don’t make it very far in politics...Yes, OK, fine, Barack Obama, Why does everyone always bring up Barack Obama?

Bin Laden Didn't Blow Up the Projects, Tell the Truth, Ninja

Remember when Chris Rock made that joke about how weird it is that the best golfer in the world is black, and that the best rapper in the world is white? Yeah, me either. Anyway, he did. Then Tiger Woods decided to throw everyone's African American Studies 101 paper into a disrepute and point out that he identifies no more with black culture than with his Chinese or Thai roots, to say nothing of the splash of Native American and Dutch he has in him. And now the other shoe has dropped. Actually, it dropped when Eminem rapped the following Proustian cerebral outburst, Shady Records was 80 seconds away from the towers. Some cowards fucked with the wrong building, they meant to hit ours...But for real, sons, it has dropped: Above, Eminem attempts at pop cultural and zeitgeisty relevance with his new video (Sarah Palin is a sexy hypocrite!) and his Final Four celebration(?)/maudlin and simultaneously saccharine carnival of Detroitsplatation. (Dudes, why has no one, preferably some effete Europeans done a shocking photo expose of blight in Detroit that we can all post on our Facebook pages?!).

The point is, I was overdue for a blog post and Eminem is the worst. Also, he looks like Psycho T's slightly more cavernous-headed brother. Congratulations, UNC! When you're done celebrating your deserved win, can you remind your vicious fan base to post some more videos reminding me I and my ilk are a bunch of gay-ass homos. Just kidding. America's team! Obama! Change! Freedom Fries! Keep our troops in Iraq. 9-11. Never forget.

Lemon, out.

this parody works

i actually didn't like the trailer for where the wild things are. oh i dunno, because my heart is made of stone. the forced nostalgia, the arcade fire, the spike jonze...all of it just seems cutesy and cloying, and aimed at everyone who lives in my neighborhood. (even butthole surfer dude?) oh wow, everything has just changed so much. our lives, our world...are so tough. kids nowadays have to grow up so fast that they can't even take that carefree trip to europe at age 16! what can alleviate such suffering? what can help me return to my optimism of yore?

(haha, i know, i'm annoyed by everything. what did you expect? if you wanted puppies and rainbows, you should have gone here.)

anyhoots, here's a hilarious parody.

what is on my mind grapes?

you know, alec baldwin sounds so thoughtful in interviews that you sometimes forget that this man is permanently on the brink.

the interview was supposed to be about his new movie called "lymelife," co-starring two of the many culkin brothers (not macaulay, sorry), but of course, most of the questions centered on 30 rock. nothing too new to report, except this unexpected tidbit:

I went to an event the other day for NRDC [the Natural Resources Defense Council] and Jack Welch was there. When he told me he watched the show, I was like, "You do?" We've got to get him on the show.

hope he's better than salma hayek.

tangent: was i the only person who found most of the g20 related photos/videos totally hilarious?

the queen reprimands berlusconi:


then this kerfuffle:

hillary's reaction reminds me of angela merkel:

gordon brown can't contain his bromance:

huh what?

rush limbaugh has a place in nyc??

The Daily Show With Jon Stewart	M - Th 11p / 10c
Rush Limbaugh Leaves New York
comedycentral.com
Daily Show Full Episodes Economic Crisis Political Humor

oh the hijinks of this barbershop quartet!

depressing news of the day

i have to confess that i listen to "wait wait don't tell me" every week. i know, can you believe that isn't the depressing news of the day?

in case you don't prefer to learn about the news in a nerdy quiz show format, wait wait don't tell me is...well, a news show in a nerdy quiz format. to give you an idea of how nerdy, you don't win money or even an npr tote bag--you get an answering machine message recorded by carl kasell. each week they also invite a famous (or not so famous, in the case of stefan fatsis--who? yeah, c4ts, you've read his last 5 books. i know) guest, and this week was kim deal. whoa.

well, this confirmed that i am probably not their only listener under the age of 50, much to my relief. but the interview was so depressing. first, she revealed that she lives with her parents in dayton, ohio. ok, so according to her wiki entry she's taking care of her mom, who has alzheimers. yes, that is admirable. no, that doesn't make it any less depressing. second, she tried to make some joke about how nobody wants to see an old rock star...haha...ugh...

wow, geez, let me try to make it up to you. how about...this? or this?

so...what have you been up to?

i made a tribute to 30 rock. in the dark.



i cloned myself and made the worst video ever. because i hate myself.



then i tried to determine whether this video was cute, clever or just pointless.

We Fly High, No Lie, You Know This...

The gentleman passionately scratching his nether regions in this video, which was seen on internationally broadcast GEO tv, is Wasi Zafar, Pakistan's former minster of motherfuckin' law. That is all.

circle of life

i am fairly certain we've already used this title for a post, but whatevs. as c4ts re-enters the world of gainful employment, i find myself outside of it. hakuna matata or something. apparently all of my entre-employment wisdom comes from the lion king.

this reprieve has given me a lot more time to do...everything. the upside is that i've seen more friends in the past week than in the past 3 months or so. the downside is that having infinite time still doesn't make me want to go to the gym. let's hope i don't end up looking like al gore, post bush v. gore. remember when gore was in the bubble? [ed note: c'mon, that's positively bubble-esque for a politician.]

anyway, apparently we were all wrong about the mortgage-backed securities that led us down this path in the first place. (or at least what we understood from that episode of this american life explaining it to us). friends, they are not toxic, risky or even troubled. in fact, they are merely "legacy assets." get it? we inherited this shit!

excuse me while i go peruse some "legacy brothers" tchochkes.

How Can I Supposed to Carry On?

I was recently telling E. about an Igbo prayer, sometimes whispered into the ears of newborn children that I have always held in high regard and hoped would have application in my comings and goings as well: May your life always surprise you.

What I like about these words, I think, is the fact that they do not in themselves constitute a blessing, at least not as we understand a blessing to be. They do not hope for success or happiness, contentment or riches. They understand that life's narrative fails only when it fails to surprise. In this regard a life of unceasing and undisturbed contentment is something to be avoided, or at least something to be hoped against. We may be blindsided in this life, with great triumphs or stunning failures, but I think the Igbo mean to say that that's okay, that that, in fact, is what has been hoped for us.

With that in mind, I report news of great surprise: I have thoroughly mismeasured the dynamics at my office, as explained below, and -- yes, I'm burying the lead here -- just after posting perhaps my darkest post in quite some time, a post excoriating them, the Gods of capitalism, who cast me out so brutally in October, have made the surprising choice to invite me back into the fold.

On April 6th I begin a new job. A permanent one.

I have been deeply humbled by my five months in the woods of professional confusion (though I am constitutionally incapable, I suppose, of being able to adequately demonstrate humility in this forum). And I am deeply grateful -- despite my protestations otherwise -- for the chance to resume my career, or a career, in any form or fashion. The new job is with a law firm, a smallish one. It's not saving kittens from trees or anything, but it's a gig. One day yet I will find myself doing good works. That day is not today, but it will be here soon enough. For now, I go back to the private sector's teat. But fear not. Having mother's milk makes Jack a happy boy for now, but soon enough he will go back to his ungrateful, bitching ways.

I received word of this new job two Fridays ago, mulled it over for a few days, and then accepted last Wednesday. But strangely, in so doing, I found myself contending with various emotions. You see, I have spent the last few months, as you know, cultivating a deep bitterness for my "co-"workers, the alien robots who treat my co-temps and I like human vessels of the Black Death (a virulent strain of Black Death that not even aliens and robots are immune to). Augusta, Tessie, and Abigail especially have made it clear to us that we are there to be seen and not heard, and certainly not acknowledged. Given the malignant work environment I found myself in, for months I had hoped that I might have a chance to quit the job before the job quit me, a chance to give notice with great scorched-earth gusto. But the day I accepted my new job, I found a strange new feeling growing within. Like the dull pain of a toothache you push against with your tongue, like the scab that you get used to picking, the job had become -- very much to my surprise -- the sad-sack routine I was already beginning to miss.

On that Wednesday, I called the bossman at the new gig, exchanged some pleasantries, professed undying fealty, and returned to my cube, returned to an electronic batch of documents, perhaps my last, returned to my overgrown Wesley shrine, and to charts of my ever-declining metrics that Adam had sketched and affixed to my bulletin board, returned to Lindsay Poohands' soothing voice ("Linked-in is in my opinion the top professional networking site...Myspace, on the other hand, is mainly for teens."), I returned to all of this and saw that I had made a home for myself here. Unwittingly, I had turned my torment into my solace. And now I was readying to leave it all behind.

A man, I suppose, will miss anything if he is entertained.

So, I sat on the news of my immintent departure through that day. Finally, at the end, I mustered the courage to tell Adam, causing a great rift in our beautiful bromance. But still I could not bring myself to inform Augusta, or Abigail, or Ira. The next day, I told the other two reviewers, "Rookie" and Helen, and did so, weighed down with survivor's guilt. They were happy for me, to their limitless credit. But I felt like a d-bag. I was getting out, but why me? Finally, I made my way to Augusta's office, a moment I had always fantasized about, but when I told her the news, the strangest thing happened: my semi-despondency was trumped by her clear disappointment. Wait, you're leaving? You found another job? When's your last day? I mean, I can't believe it. You're going to leave? I had spent so much time hating these people for their social awkwardness, their petty pullings of rank, I had never entertained the notion that maybe, possibly, they actually kind of liked me. Augusta leaned back in her chair, bowled over by my news and told me how happy she was for me -- how genuinely happy -- and how much I will be missed, how invaluable I was to the project. I said earlier in this post that I am not always good at the humility thing, but in this moment -- quitting my limbless, lobotomized chimpanzee job -- I was deeply humbled.

And then Augusta said something that I am still trying to process. So, we're going to do a happy hour in your honor. What do you think? We can book the roof terrace where I know you and Adam like to have lunch, and we can do it next Friday, and you can bring your wife. Does that sound good? I agreed, of course, baffled. And as I got up to leave, she said, So, what's up with you guys and Wesley Snipes? I mean, you two are so funny. I looked at that [your shrines] and got such a kick. What's Adam going to do without you? We had always thought there was little we could do to make these people notice us, to convince them that we were their equals, but I was clearly wrong.

My head reeling, I returned to my desk.

The next day, which was last Friday, Augusta told Ira and Abigail of my resignation. Abigail, stoic to the last, said this to me in lieu of parting words: Umm, so your ID, remember to turn that in to the receptionist. Ira hugged me and promised to watch Let the Right One In, which I had recommended to him months ago. Adam and I were denied bromantic histrionics because he was out of town for a wedding. I put a bottle of Jack Daniels in his drawer, and consolidated my Wesley shrine with his. I packed up my cube, which took about three minutes, and put my feet up on the desk and shot the shit with the other two reviewers for a while. In these blog posts they have been bit players, but they are good people, and I very much enjoyed distracting them from their jobs.

As my melodramatic heart waxed and waned, as I considered all that happened in that space for the last three months, I was expectorated fully and forcefully back into reality. Abigail -- perhaps for my benefit -- did maybe her most what-the-fuck act of my entire tenure at _____ Consulting Group. She picked up the telephone and dialed Helen, my co-reviewer, who sits five feet away from me. This is to say, Abigail, who sits fifteen feet from both of us IN OUR OPEN OFFICE PLAN, decided to introduce a telephone into a conversation that could well have been whispered into the air. I almost died right then and there. These people. They are complete fucking disasters. All of them. Nothing they do makes sense, and I am convinced that they are an alien robot race sent from the future to confound us.

But I'm going to miss the fuck out of them. It's true.

I grabbed my coffee mug, waved a few goodbyes, promised to see them at the happy hour, and sauntered into the sunset.

Hold The Shenanigans

E., I'm not sure, but my fuckitlist would definitely include Shamrock Shakes.

f*ckitlist

i went to some random concert like six months ago headlined by stella. i was seriously underwhelmed and borderline angry for having wasted my time.

well, maybe michael ian black is working his way back to me, babe, thanks to the fuckitlist, i.e., shit you could care less about doing before you die. yes indeedy corncob, it's like a bucket list without the tedious having to do stuff stuff. unfortunately, this requires me to be on twitter, which i'm convinced is accelerating humanity's decline, so i'll just list some below, in no particular order:

- use twitter
- properly learn basic physics, y'know, like levers and force and stuff like that
- drive a stickshift
- visit arizona, wyoming, or saskatchewan (i'd include arkansas in this list too, except i have to go there for a wedding in a month)
- eat at long john silver's

any you wanna share?