Monday, January 31, 2011

No Business Like Shoe Business

I was heading up Wilshire early this morning to panhandle for bus fare to my cushy office job when I saw a startling line outside on the sidewalk.

Since this is Los Angeles I’d normally assume a line outside a set of doors was for a movie premiere or screening. But this was before 9am, and not even the porn theaters are open yet.

How do I know that? Because they're the only place to see films that adhere to the Brechtian ideals of Epic theater anymore.

"Golden Shower Highlights 3 provides the exact kind of climactic catharsis I was actually referring to."

No, this line was waiting outside the Nike Store. And why? For a new sneaker release.

I want to set the record straight about sneaker obsession. And not just to my Asian and African-American readers, but to people of all races because I’m legally obligated to I think it’s an issue that we are all responsible for.

It’s really f*cking stupid.

If the only way you can get people to notice you, is by having them stare at your feet, I think you should be spending your money on therapy and not over-priced swatches of leather and lace that some overpaid basketball player let his agent and manager work out with overpaid art designers at Nike.

These aren’t shoes he personally wore and sweat into. That I could almost understand. ALMOST, I said.

I was on line at a Foot Locker recently, wondering why they only sold basketball shorts that even the Elephant Man would find too baggy—

"But won't these fall off when I try to dunk?"

--when the guy in front of me buying the $200 pair of Lamar-whoevers that will get scuffed up the minute he steps out in them, glancing at an ad for a player’s newly dropped sneaker, was aghast to hear from the Cashier that they were selling extremely well.

“People are sheep, man. People are sheep. They’ll buy anything,” he said, shaking his head. If I thought he could wrap his head around the concept of irony, I would have mentioned it to him.

Remember when in the 90s when Reebok Pumps were the greatest things out there. So great in fact, that there was an instance of someone getting killed and his Pumps stolen.

How stupid do you think those thieves feel today? They risked the death penalty and killed a guy over SNEAKERS that would only look right if they were on display in the same antique store Marty bought the Sports Almanac from.

Friday, January 28, 2011

This Blog Was Inspired By True Events

Here's a rule--
If you're movie contains an image like this...

Or, say, a woman throwing up crucifix nails...

...Then you are not allowed to say it is "Inspired by True Events."

I'm pretty certain if an event even closely resembling this happened, I would probably have heard about it. Hell, all this guy did was have a drug habit with a deep voice and I've been hearing about him for weeks.

Horror movies are at their scariest when we believe it could actually happen. That's why films like The Exorcist and Poltergeist continue to haunt me, because they were made to feel "real."

This is also why the I Can't Believe It's Not Butter continues to haunt me. Too Real. Even though I'm succinctly told not to believe it.

Sure, if we're told in The Strangers that it's inspired by a true story, we might actually think Live Tyler still has a career.

That was its message, right?

ANYWAY, so I understand the urge to try to convince an audience that what you're presenting possibly occurred. However, a line needs to be drawn somewhere for what actually "inspired" these events.
The word itself is vague and shadowy. They couldn't say based on true events, because that would present a simulacrum which would hold some weight of reality.
To the layman: Something resembling this ACTUALLY HAPPENED.
Hell, anything can be drawn from an inspiration.
Picasso looked at a woman and was inspired to draw her as an aberration with both eyes on one side of the face.

And unless you count my last girlfriend, such things do not exist.

Tuesday, January 18, 2011

The Eyes Have It!

"Are those prescription?" the pregnant(?) woman behind the counter asked me, referring to my glasses.

I told her of course they were, because, you see, I'm not a huge douchebag.

Glasses are a handicap of sorts. You wear them because without them one cannot see very well. Yes? All agreed? Right. So then why have they suddenly become some fashion accessory that people believe make them seem more hip or intellectual? Ray Charles wasn't wearing sunglasses 24/7 because they helped define his cheekbones better.

If you wear glasses without prescription lenses as a fashion statement, they do not make you look more intellectual. They make you appear about as dumb as the guy playing bass whose head is turning blue because his blood flow is being cut off by wearing his girlfriends jeggings.

"My parents lie and tell their friends at the Club that I'm away studying in Europe."

It's getting close to the point where I expect if I ever get in a car accident and need crutches, I'll be stopped and asked by some hipster street urchin off the street if they're "from Urban Outfitters or Hot Topic??"

"OMG, can I wear that to the Echo on Friday?"

Helen Keller is not a fashion icon for a reason. Handicaps are not accessories.

"I TOLD you. No PLEATS this season!"

I agree that I look good in glasses. They take the attention away from my more...semitic...facial properties.
But wearing non-prescription ones is actually a cowardly act.'d just wear frames w/o any lenses at all. If you're that proud of how you look with black plastic wrapped across your head, and don't care that you don't need them, then just take those little glass lenses out.

Or are you keeping them in there so they'll be a guard for when people walk by and spit in your face?
And if you can't hear me tell you this, it probably means you forgot the batteries for the retro vintage designer hearing aid you picked up in Venice last weekend.

Monday, January 10, 2011

Twister Sister

Hey. Tornadoes.

Why the hell do we still study you?

I mean, sure, they look cool, but I think once I was taught that they don't actually transport me and my little dog to magical lands ruled by power-hungry singing midgets, but just crush you with 200mph winds, I pretty much think...yeah, I got it.

"We had a 4th member in the Lollipop Guild. But Earl was a diabetic and well...well, we don't like to talk about what happened to him."

So what do we expect to learn from funneling (get it?) research and grant money into studying something that we seem to already clearly sort of get? Unless there's some theory that magical AIDS-curing genies live inside tornadoes and if we could 'just get our sensors a little closer, we may be able to capture one,' I'm really not sure I understand what we're learning from these menaces of weather.

"I can supplement your T-cell count. But you have to catch me first! Aha!"

Oh sure, people will tell you that by further research they may one day be able to predict where a tornado may form and land with more accuracy. But, I mean, it seems like we can do that pretty well right about now.

Sure, if a batshit crazy tornado suddenly popped up in Malibu, I might say, 'you know, maybe some further research is needed here.'

"I thought I was the only batshit storm combing through Malibu?"

But there's an actual area called Tornado Alley. That's a pretty good place to just avoid all together and simply say, 'Hey, you know, with a name like this, maybe we should just build that Dairy Queen/Strip Club on Route 34 instead. You know, over by Generally Mild Weather Alley*? Just a thought.' Problem solved.
*P.S. Be careful of Generally Mild Weather Alley. They have a highest report of rape cases in the county there.

There's a trailer for a movie actually called Tornado Alley that I just watched recently. And the way they carry on, you'd think tornadoes were as foreign to this country as fish & chips, driving on the left side of the road, or...not being morbidly obese.

"No foreign tornado gonna make me exercise and get off my couch to safety. Tornadoes are Muslim, by the way."

I ask again, what is left to learn about tornadoes that we don't already know? It's a mass of wind and pressure, that forms with a specific weather pattern that we can pretty much predict down to a--dare I say--science? If we haven't figured it out by now with the technology we have then I just say scrap the whole project and use the metal from your vehicles to build those cool fighting robots on Comedy Central.

"Hey Bob? Why are we being shown on Comedy Central again?"

I actually have a friend who works on one of these storm chaser shows. And hey, chasing tornadoes seems dangerous and cool. I love huge storms. But that Tornado Alley movie is narrated by Bill Paxton. So, I guess since he starred in that movie about CGI tornadoes 15 years ago, I'm supposed to just go ahead and accept that he's suddenly an expert on the topic?

"Would you believe I actually do have a PhD in Meteorology? Acting was a fall-back."

I mean, I love Weekend at Bernie's 2, but does that mean I'm going to take Andrew McCarthy's word on reviving the dead with a voodoo curse??

Well, he was pretty good in Mannequin, so...probably.

Tuesday, January 4, 2011

Rip Van Weinreich

I've been criticized more than once recently for the fact that I have just a plain, standard, run-of-the-mill cell phone.
You know, one that makes phone calls, tells me the time, and on occasion receives text messages telling me to call back and leave a voicemail so they can email me back.

"Totes skype me back l8terz. ROFL, LOL. BTW. BBW. I CAN'T STOP. AHHH! SOMEONE HELP ME!

Hey, it can even take pictures. But it's NOT a Smartphone, which apparently means I'm like some extra in Medieval Times, walking around town with some archaic piece of technology that only some luddite out-of-touch with modern times would use.

"Ha! That's for calling the Droid Carrier Pigeon better than the Apple Carrier Pigeon. Dumbass!"

Gimme a break. It's not like I'm pulling a Sports Illustrated football phone out of the back pocket of my MC Hammer pants in order to make room for those pogs I just bought.

"I'm not getting any bars."

This isn't some piece of Amish hardware. I didn't whittle it out of a piece of wood while rocking back-and-forth on my porch, waiting for Eliza to bring out a pitcher of lemonade.

It's a God damn cell phone.
I shouldn't be looked at as some technological pariah, living in a forgone time, just because my phone doesn't have an app for writing music in braille while it cures HIV by downloading last night's Pretty Little Liars at speeds hitherto unknown before.

Hell, the most popular thing with that camera is hipstamatic, which ages those crummy wide-angle photos of yourself to look vintage in order for tasteless 20-somethings to convince themselves they're artistic photographers.

"I knew my parents didn't throw away all that money on my liberal arts degree."

So if anything you should respect my "vintage" cell phone as hip and a throwback, like those vinyl records you lie to yourself about sounding better.
Maybe I'll get lucky and it'll get so old and senile it'll ACCIDENTALLY delete your number.