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Wildwood: The Movie

The video above is a series of clips from the little-seen 1994 documentary Wildwood, N.J. Directors Carol Weaks/Cassidy and Ruth Leitman took to the boardwalk (and its surrounding area) of resort town/hole in the country Wildwood, N.J., in 1992, to explore the culture of the girls and women who populate it. The results are almost entirely hilarious. Even before my posts about it, I have long been obsessed with Wildwood and its unapologetic trashiness. I've always described it this way: if Jersey is the armpit of the U.S., Wildwood is a louse clinging to one of its hairs. Watching the film today, though, it's hard to say where the trashy begins and the products of the time (be they mousse or gel) end, but I'm pretty sure that halo-like scrunchies and shoulder-less button-up shirts and (maybe) lying about all the girls you've beat up and put in the hospital were never a good idea.

The film has a feminist bent (just the fact that anyone cares enough to talk to these girls about their lives and dreams bespeaks a rare kind of social consciousness) and it's moving at times, especially during a segment where girl after girl talks about her fatherless life. Mostly, though, it's a big laugh. It feels like a missing link for me, as it's full of females so similar to the ones that surrounded me while growing up just 25 minutes away from the profiled town: girls and women who know they're funny but don't quite realize that they're hilarious. Relating to those people introduced me to the strange sensation that occurs when you find yourself simultaneously laughing at and with a person. That same sensation is present when I watch and talk to people on reality TV.

Basically, Wildwood, N.J., feels like it was made for me (much love to John, who hooked me up with a copy). I don't know if people will be as amused as I am by this (some of the clips I included based on accent alone), but I figured with July 4 looming, it's the right week to find out.

Update: Wildwood, N.J., director Ruth Leitman contacted me to say that she's thrilled about the attention this unreleased gem is receiving and that she's going to start to sell copies of the film via her site within the next few days. Here's what Ruth says about procuring your own copy (which I [South Jersey Accent]soooooooow[/SJA] reccomend):

I am really excited that so may of you asked about the film. Because of this I am mastering a new DVD and you can order via PayPal. As we speak, I am having my web designer add a button for this shortly on my website (Ruthless Films). It's $22.99 including shipping & handling. We were in the process of a re-design when this all came up, so that is why there is so little on there now. After you've purchased please allow 3 weeks for delivery.

Below, some screen shots to celebrate the fashions of the time/location...

Get the point? Good. Let's dance.

Hey look, here's a mix:

Pop Dance

Track list:

1. Phoenix - Lisztomania (Holy Ghost! Loves Paris Remixomania)
2. Peaches - Lose You
3. Annie - Anthonio
4. Little Boots - Mathematics
5. Röyksopp - The Girl And The Robot (Joakim Remix)
6. Tiga - Shoes (Mr. Oizo Remix)
7. Felix Da Housecat - We
8. Woolfy - Oh Missy (In Flagranti's Xenon Mix)
9. Permanent Vacation featuring Kathy Diamond - Tic Toc
10. Faze Action - Goodlovin'
11. Tom Trago - On the Side
12. Heartbreak - We're Back (Vitalic Remix)
13. Miss Kittin & the Hacker - Suspicious Minds
14. Puzique - Don't Go
15. Madonna - Into the Groove (Sidechains Remix)
16. Boys Noize - Jeffer
17. MSTRKRFT featuring Lil' Mo - It Ain't Love
18. Remute - Ouahahaha (Edit)
19. Blue Pearl - Naked in the Rain '09 (Sidechains Remix)
20. The Juan MacLean - One Day (Surkin Remix)
21. Saint Etienne - Method of Modern Love (Cola Boy Remix)
22. Sally Shapiro - Miracle (Instrumental)

It's been a while, you know? I recently sat down to compile a mix that's a little more retro and much more focused on a particular sound, but while doing that I realized how much recent stuff I've been loving and decided to play around with that stuff first. Even when I'm procrastinating I'm working ("working"). Anyway, I didn't set out with an agenda, but I did come to realize that a lot of what ended up on this thing is extremely poppy as dance music goes -- lots of vocals and hooks and people who straddle the fence (I still can't wrap my head around what kind of artist Little Boots is -- pop? dance? singer-songwriter?). Since I've spent quite a bit of time writing about how dancey pop has become in the past few years, it only follows that the inverse is true.

As usual: work out to this shit. It's summer! Get off your ass! And pay special attention to Felix Da Housecat's "We," because it's seriously making my life right now.

We can rock forever

Michael Jackson's best songs are pop-culture islands. They're able to exist alone and free of context, which is amazing for the image-inherent world of pop music and especially so being born of someone who wound up so scarred and bizarre. No matter whose bones he collected or whose boner he allegedly fondled, Michael's best pop music is too transcendent to be bogged down by such earthly matters. "Billie Jean," "Thriller," "Off the Wall," "Human Nature," "PYT," "Rock With You," "Smooth Criminal," shit even, "Butterflies," "Ben," "Scream," "In the Closet" and "Remember the Time," and so many more are too precious to tarnish. They're Scotchguarded with perfection, utmost examples of art that demands to be separated from its artist. And one of the most heartening phenomena I've observed in the population's relationship to art has been its ability to do just that. I'd never give the public that much credit if I hadn't observed countless examples of the unmitigated joy that results en masse when anything from Thriller is played at a party, no matter the attendees, no matter the occasion and still to this day.

I think for everyone who's upset about Michael's death for whatever reason -- guilt, regret, a general sense of loss, disappointment that he'll never get the chance to come back and prove us doubters wrong -- can take solace in the resilience of his work. If all the shit that he went through couldn't knock Thriller, Off the Wall, Bad and, to whatever degree, Dangerous and HIStory out of our hearts, minds and asses, a little thing like death isn't going to, either. Even when the groove is dead and gone, you know that love survives. 

I suspect that we'll be hearing a lot about Michael Jackson in the coming days, months and maybe years. Usually such fond reminiscing seems grossly insincere, but in this case I consider it retribution. Whatever Michael did (and I'm actually in the minority that never believed he actually molested boys, that could see the possibility of him being strange enough to relate to them in an infantile, affectionate and utterly abnormal but sexless manner), we who scorned and ridiculed the man we had previously worshiped, did just as bad (if not worse). Our morbid fascination with celebrity and falling from grace and the prospect of bouncing back had the effect of public quartering on an individual who was so fragile and underdeveloped. That's showbiz, and his lackluster output of the past decade absolutely plays a role. He wasn't blameless, and no matter how alien he seemed, he was always human to a fault. (He wore his narcissism and detrimental insecurity next to the chains and insignias and Swarovski crystals on his sleeve.) But, at the very least, his untimely death and the void left by his now permanent inability to make a comeback should remind us that it's important to appreciate the geniuses we still have around, even if they're weirdos. (In fact, they probably aren't really geniuses if they aren't weird.)

Below are two of my favorite Michael remixes. The "I Want You Back" remix by Pizzicato Five's Konishi Yasuharu is so innocently exuberant, it seems like an appropriate musical antidepressant. Frankie Knuckles' "Rock With You" remix places the disco classic in a late-night house (circa '95) template, keeping all the good parts (those glorious strings!) while angling for something a little deeper. If only all tributes could be this respectful and poignant!

"Download I Want You Back (Konishi Yasuharu Remix)"

"Rock With You (Frankie Knuckles Favorite Club Mix)"

Is pee or isn't?

 

We're aware that last week, a new R. Kelly leaked (!) a new track, "Number One," right? And we're aware that "number one" is kindergarten code for pee, right? And we're aware that R. Kelly's pee and its tendency to land on underage girls on film (allegedly!) is a close second to his music in defining his legacy, right?

Is he aware of all of this? Who knows anymore. Certainly, the phrase "number one" is used in the song to describe the superior nature of the sex he's having and there are no other traces of urine. But I suspect that these words that flirt with referencing his questionable character have been chosen for a reason. Talk about legacy, he's been doing that since he sang, "So show me some ID before I get knee deep into ya," in 1994's "Bump n' Grind" remix. He'd go on to marry a 14-year-old Aaliyah later that year.

His questionable motives and intent are what keeps him fascinating, even when his material is sub-par. It's why I never get bored of writing about him. But beyond the potential salaciousness, "Number One," is a great song, an energetic baby-maker with Keri Hilson that flips into a double-time house track a few bars before each chorus to show you just how fast of a slow jam it is. Unlike the albums he did with Jay-Z, this is the best of both worlds that Robert the alien inhabits: the out-of-this-world comedy and the down-to-earth crooning. I hope it rockets to the top of the charts ("Number One" for No. 1!). To put it simply with another excretory metaphor: this shit is gold.

He who must not be paid attention

All that Perez Hilton shit nauseated my Monday. Forget about his turning assault into a plea for attention -- that's to be expected from someone who comes off like a Garbage Pail Kid translation of Madonna (as if there weren't one already). It's the "faggot" thing that bothers me. For all his complaining about being socked in the face, he shot himself in the foot before that even could happen. This fool, who's given a national platform for no particular reason beyond serendipity, goes and hurls that word at another person as if it's something to be ashamed of. This, coming from someone who turned Carrie Prejean's worth-ignoring ignorance into would-be crusade for gay rights. This, coming after that crusade resulted in a showcase for his inarticulation and inability to win an argument with even a complete idiot who equated not welcoming girls to the Boy Scouts with not allowing gays to marry. That shit drove me crazy because he seemed oblivious to the obvious points (like something as basic as, hey, our values can change as a society as we learn more, particularly about the nature of homosexuality). I didn't write about it, nor have I written much about him in general (despite the very pronounced feeling of bile flooding into my mouth that he regularly produces), because if you say something disparaging about someone who has the same job as you and who's infinitely more successful (numbers-wise, I mean), you end up looking jealous, or at least of dubious motivation.

But I don't care about that at this point, because I couldn't be less jealous of him especially given the current circumstances. I just kind of want to throw up my hands (or in my hands) and call out this character, this persona, this online half-person for what it is: bad for the Internet, bad for gay people, bad for the world. I can't help but feel like everything would be better off without him. I know that's a harsh and extreme point of view and believe me that I paused before typing that to actually consider him and his contribution to society. I'd go as far as to say I racked my brain and I've still come up with absolutely nothing positive or pro-social that he has brought to the world, at least on a public level (and keep in mind that I'm not following his every move, so I could have missed an act of philanthropy or two). But not even the "entertainment" he provides is to be commended, as it ultimately lowers the very low standards of the Internet. Forget the rich and famous, if you are a human being, Perez Hilton makes you look bad, no MS Paint necessary.

And yesterday, that got me down. It's just like, what's it going to take to break this damaging enchantment people have with him? Does he have to hurt someone? Kill them? Actually ejaculate on them? Like, what? But as the day unfolded, it seemed like the overwhelming majority of people who gave a fuck to say anything about this nonsense were calling him on his bullshit. Certainly this was so at Gawker and ONTD (but that's to be expected) but also on Twitter (where Perez's look-at-me's made their debut this time). Kelly Clarkson, that little pop cherub, spoke out against his shit. And then GLADD issued a demand for an apology that summed up his error as succinctly as accurately as possible. It reads, in part: "These are vulgar antigay slurs that feed a climate of hatred and intolerance toward our community. For someone in our own community to use it to attack another person by saying that it is 'The worst possible thing that thug would ever want to hear,' is incredibly dangerous. It legitimizes use of a slur that is often linked to violence against our community. And it sends a message that it is OK to attempt to dehumanize people by exploiting antigay attitudes."

All this backlash gives me hope. We're doing the right thing. We're making ourselves look good. Way to go, everyone. Take back the Paint!

Winston isn't normal

Out of boredom or stupidity or whatever, I recently checked out Wikipedia's entry on the Exotic Shorthair cat. I joked with my boyfriend that almost nothing in the section on character applies to Winston. He joked back that a video illustrating Winston's deviance from his breed would be a funny thing to make. And so we did. And it's below.

Make no mistake, though: I wouldn't want him any other way. Abnormals unite!

Not asking; telling

This week, PBS ran the documentary Ask Not, which chronicles the history of Don't Ask, Don't Tell and the increasing resistance to it from those that it affects. It was enlightening and infuriating as you'd expect, but I was shocked to find myself better understanding the perspective of those who are against out gays (or any gays) serving our country. See, one of the poster-children for the anti-Don't Ask, Don't Tell cause is this able translator who was thrown out of the military as result of the policy...

 

...and you know if someone as hot as Alex Nicholson...

...with a body and ass like his...

...was allowed to serve as an open gay man, other lonely soldiers sick of the sole outlet of masturbation would start to get ideas they normally wouldn't when around dudes of lesser hotness, and start to see Nicholson as the sexual prospect that he is. And then it'd all turn into a big, sweaty orgy of masculinity and all these guys would be pregnant because you know how gays hate birth control. What a lubey mess!

Oh, and his bf isn't too bad, either...

 

 

Playing with food

My friend Edith does this insane food art that's been regularly amazing me. She is patient beyond my comprehension, for one thing. And also funny, but I already knew that. Anyway, this shout out is long overdue, but whatever. Here it is.

My favorite is Alien in My Closet:

 

I think it proves that like anyone, aliens take a while to come to terms with their sexuality. Or something. Shut up. Look at Edith's stuff.

Wild, colorful and fun, but slightly tragic

All you need to know about this week's Paris Hilton's My New BFF is that this exchange took place:

 

Oh, and a girl was persecuted for dressing up for a red-carpet challenge as though it were a pageant (even though the winner of said challenge was eventually named Miss Paris), the plus-size girl got kicked off for basically being bigger than the rest and the other girl that got booted ("Bowhead") cursed at Paris when she was let go. It was kind of epic, except not at all.

Oh, oh and one more thing! She asked another one (the boy) what his favorite planet is. It's Venus. "'Cause it rhymes with your favorite thing in the world?" Paris wondered. No, bitch, because it rhymes with your favorite thing. You know they're all lemmings following your every cue and BJ.

Not quite

“Why you so obsessed with me?” is the question central to Mariah Carey's new event single, "Obsessed." And here I thought she existed to be an object of obsession! Isn't that why she's applied a thin but decided layer of the hitmaking Autotune to her voice here? Isn't that why she's created a "Blame It" retread that will nicely fold into radio playlists across formats because there's nothing at all sonically distinct about it? Certainly, you won't confuse "Obsessed" with catharsis -- as a dis record it is passive-aggressive at best. (I mean, "Why you so obsessed with me?" Seriously? You can't turn a question mark into a dagger no matter how you twist it.) This is just anonypop that's barely pointed because, dahling, Mimi's lounging and couldn't possibly be asked to lift a finger. She's too fabulous to get all common and actually explain what she's talking about.

I suppose there are good kinds of obsessions and bad kinds and good is the type that fuels your G-V and bad is the type that makes you feel sad or infringes on your chaste persona. Where you start drawing the line can be tricky, though. Ostensibly, "Obsessed" is an answer record to Eminem's recent "Bagpipes from Baghdad," a song too nonsensical and irrelevant to even get worked up over but whatever. (Sample Em lyric: "Nick Cannon better back the fuck up/ I'm not playin' / I want her back you punk / This is Hello Kitty bedspread satin funk.") Mariah should thank him. His ire gave her not just something to talk about and occupy her time (after all, aren't we all just looking for an activity?), but something to turn into a launchpad for a new album. She's obsessing about his obsession while giving pop fans something to obsess about. Cute, right?

Despite paling in comparison to almost anything on the hugely idiosyncratic E=MC² (the most Mariah of Mariah albums, thus my favorite), the Mariahisms abound. She'll do her till the day she dies, and doing her will primarily involve quoting Mean Girls, as she almost does in the spoken intro of "Obsessed." "And I was like, 'Why are you so obsessed with me?'" she says in Rachel McAdams' exact intonation. The line in the film actually begins, "And I'd be like..." but whatever. Precision has no place here. Mariah's disses are about as intimidating as Scrappy Doo's shadowboxing ("I'm the press conference / And you a conversation," or how 'bout, "Seeing right through you like you're bathing in Windex"?), thus hilarious. And if there's any pop singer who could work "Napoleon complex" into the chorus of a single, it's Mariah. At times like these, I get the feeling that she does it because she can.

There's a great track somewhere in here, but it feels sanitized. The horns sound when they should blare. An insistent piano line that should drive this thing only pops up at the end for a cameo. I wonder if this is Mariah refining The-Dream and Tricky's wilder sensibilities from a banging track to a Mimi showcase. What I love about Electrik Red's album is how far out Dream and Tricky's sound goes, but it's a lot easier to experiment with puppets than with people with actual imput (imput informed by a perpetual fear of diminished relevance). I now worry about the results of this album-long collaboration between them and Mariah (Memoirs of an Imperfect Angel). As for the Autotune: JESUS CHRIST POP SINGERS ENOUGH ALREADY. YOU'RE GONNA MAKE ME LOVE SOMEBODY ELSE FOR REAL. ALL OF YOU. She does employ it more creatively than 99 percent of the people who use it (i.e. everyone) when she does this pre-chorus, "Oooohoooowooohooowaw," sounding like she's aiming to overload the computer. Again, though, she does this because she can. And that's exactly why she doesn't need Autotune -- that little curlicue would be just as impressive without it.

I'm increasingly awful at predicting hits (especially with Mariah, since I love her so much that I'm just so biased), but it's my sense that "Obsessed" will do exactly what it's supposed to and gain the love of the land. People seem to be enjoying it, if the Internet is any indication (it isn't). Despite its electronic nature and the fact that it almost feels like a second chance for E=MC²'s shoulda-been single "Migrate," the Mariah-liteness of it all harkens back to the refined The Emancipation of Mimi. This isn't the woman in the hilariously jiggly flesh, it's a projection of her all blown up and translucent for everyone's viewing pleasure. And given Mariah's obsessing over obsession, projection is such an appropriate motif.

How's your nuns?

This is just a little endorsement of Inquiring Nuns, a 1968 hour-long documentary, which unleashes a pair of nuns (Sisters Marie Arné and Mary Champion) on the streets of Chicago armed with a cameraman, a mic and a simple question: "Are you happy?" The concept is based on the 1960 movie, Chronique dún été (Chronicle of a Summer), in which filmmaker Jean Rouch and sociologist Edgar Morin's had two young, non-nun women do the same in Paris.

It's fascinating to take in cinéma vérité of the '60s through our current freak-show norms. The closest thing to a contemporary sensibility is the fish-out-of-water set-up. It's generally hilarious to watch people take on a task that they don't have adequate skills for (see any songwriting challenge on any reality show) and the resulting questions that these nuns ask their subjects for the sake of investigation and/or banter at times verges on hilarious (my two favorites: "Do you think thinking happy makes you happy?" and "What do you think causes you not to do the thing that you believe you should do?"). There's a How's Your News vibe going on as well. Since the nuns were obviously asked to do this because they're nuns, the film is just as much about people's reactions to them as it is their ability. I don't know if it was the times or what, but many of their subjects seem to feel obligated to talk about God (one dude swears on the joy-distributing properties of daily communion). The Vietnam War the most talked-about subject, which is pretty eye-opening (I mean, today a lot of people care or at least will say they do when you turn a camera on them, but not this much). My favorite moments are the rare off-color ones, like when the girl in the picture above tells the nuns her band is named Bubblegum Orgy, and nuns respond with polite laughter.

Anyway, there's a clip of my favorite three-interview stretch below. The first woman reminds me so much of Sifl & Olly's Chester ("I ain't too smart at [math]," is such a crescent fresh thing to say!). The guy in the second spot is the most formal person I've ever heard talk in my life. And all I have to say about the last guy is: "I makin' living and that's all! What the difference?"

Inquiring Nuns is fun and full of amicable quirk, but what really blew me away is the 25-minute update interview included in the DVD's bonus features. Both of the nuns have since left their orders (hearing one talking about wrestling with whether she actually believes in God after obviously being immersed in faith is moving). Most fascinating is their assertion that the sisterhood made them into strong women -- the former Sister Marie Arné attributes her time as a nun to her feminism (!), since women ran everything in their day-to-day dealings. "In a lot of ways, it gave me a lot of faith in myself and my intelligence," she explains. That's a result of a devotion to dogma that I never would have expected, but I don't doubt its truth. Way to tear down the patriarchy from the inside, sisters.

Seriously, Mary?

Before yesterday, the leaked tracks I heard in advance of Mary J. Blige’s upcoming album were merely crappy – there’s “Good Love Do It Again,” bland and horny wannabe disco that matches the sunny tone of “Just Fine” uncannily, and “The One,” in which Mary tries on Autotune with the effect of a 40-year-old in American Apparel lamé leggings. Just ‘cause it works for the kids, doesn’t mean it’s gonna work for your ass, lady. But then yesterday, a track called “Stronger” surfaced. It’s the kind of MOR guitar-strummededly earnest bullshit that R&B has been tending toward in recent years (kicked off, perhaps, by Mary’s blow-hard cover of U2’s “One” from 2005's The Breakthrough). That’s not the biggest problem, though – this ode to overcoming obstacles ("We'll survive / As long as you're by my side") just happens to feature Chris Brown. Things have gone from crappy to offensive.

Look, I know it’s unfair persecute someone who’s, at this point, just an accused abuser and not a convicted one (though between the photographic evidence and Brown’s general air of entitlement and arrogance, I find it difficult not to spit when I hear his name these days). It’s also unfair to persecute Mary for a track that won’t necessarily end up on her finished album, a track that could easily date back to before Monstergate, a track that may still be in demo form and feature guest vocals that were not chosen by Mary or recorded in her presence (to wit, Keri Hilson's demo of the track also features Chris Brown).

That said, it’s nauseating to hear Mary share space with this guy, much less on a song about triumphing over obstacles, when one of Mary's very public obstacles has been abuse by the hand of, wouldn’t you know, a pop singer! Mary hasn’t minced words about how awful K-Ci Hailey was to her (Mary + K-Ci = Rihanna and Chris, 10 years earlier), and there was plenty of abuse in her life before that. How this thing even got out boggles the mind – it’s about as confusing, contradictory and disgusting as a gay sex tape starring Rick Ross. Even if this collaboration is some sort of conscious move, a public act of forgiveness from the abused to the abuser, you’d think she’d at least wait till Brown’s trial was over to side with him.

The worst case, I fear, is that in turning her abuse into a plot point in her mythology, she’s disconnected from it like anyone does when part of their life becomes a commodity (strippers and their bodies, for example). This is just a stupid crappy little song, and yet, it has the potential to taint Mary’s legacy, which has always been essential to her work (you can hear her life on her voice, which for her has always been more important than technical perfection). I hope that this thing never sees official release – it isn’t even worth the bandwidth it’s taking up.

Black Eyed poop

If you remove all the current pop trends that inform Black Eyed Peas' The E.N.D. -- the raging house beats, the electro (even though it didn't sound particularly fresh when Missy did it four years ago with "Lose Control"), the 808s and heartbreaks, the lightly Southern-fried boom-clap, the Baltimore shuffle, the '80s retrosim ("Footloose" sample, anyone? Didn't think so.), the Autotune, the filters, the stompy club-ification of Top 40-ready rock -- there would be nothing left. Nothing, that is, but will.i.am saying, “Let’s do it let’s do it let’s do it let’s do it and do it and do it let’s live it up and do it and do it and do it do it do it let’s do it let’s do it let’s do it.” Nothing but Fergie intoning in a half-assed patois, “Bitches on my dick, oh no, they on my dildo!”

Fucking Fergie, whose tastelessness trumps her talent at every turn. Fucking Fergie, who manages to over-sing a chorus that demands to be over-sung ("People in the place! If you wanna get down! Put your hands in the air! will.i.am drop the beat now!"). Fucking Fergie, who apparently has not been sat down yet by someone whose opinion she trusts to be told, "STOP RAPPING. YOU FUCKING SUCK. FEMALE RAP IS IN SUCH A HORRIBLE PLACE AND AS THE MOST VISIBLE FEMALE WHO RAPS, YOU AREN'T HELPING MATTERS YOU FLOWLESS POSEUR." The idea that she shares space on this album with Roxanne Shanté (whose Biz Markie collabo "Def Fresh Crew" is sampled in the embarrassing-even-for-BEP "Ring-a-Ling") should make me nauseated or sad or homicidal, but mostly it makes me glad that there is now something that neatly illustrates the tumble women have taken in hip-hop over the past 25 years. Saves the explanation time, you know?

The E.N.D. is dance music for people with no interest in dancing, but it's too opportunistically commercial to work as evangelism. Maybe that's why I take such offense to it and don't write it off as mediocrity in motion, as I would so much of its ilk. I care about house music like it's a person; will.i.am and his goons clearly don't if their take on it is this flavorless. Certainly they won't once the fascination with the 4/4 beat once again dies down. It will not be surprising if it turns out that they aided its demise, that The E.N.D. is the beginning of the end. With 10 out of the 15 tracks here pumping like dispassionate pistons, it at least feels like overkill. (That said, I will concede that "Meet Me Halfway" manages to be lovely, which is something that the Eurohouse it apes rarely is.)

After the party jams, so mindless they make your typical frat kegger seem like something passed down from Dorothy Parker, there's some even worse crap that attempts to be socially conscious because the Black Eyed Peas do that sometimes I guess? In "Now Generation," we're told, "We are the now generation / We are the generation now / This is the now generation / This is the generation now." Translation: we're fucked. The song sounds like a mix of "We Didn't Start the Fire" and those fakey Juno Comcast commercials (which at last answered the burning question of how to make Kimya Dawson more maddeningly cloying: create a fake Kimya Dawson!). I think my favorite line is, "All about the http, you're a P.C., I'm a Mac." But who can be sure when the song also offers the gem, "Checkin' my account, loggin' in and loggin' out." This song sounds like the soundtrack a fake-rap instructional video for people who haven't been paying attention to the past 10 years, be it because of coma or that they just can't get their heads out of their ass. The Bob Sinclar rip-off (and Bob Sinclair in his current state is nothing to aspire to) "One Tribe" is worse, but you probably got that already from its name! It is here that will.i.am hopes for color-blindness where race relations are concerned, despite the culture-obliterating consequences of that and the fact that it's, you know, impossible since we're not fucking blind! will suggests we go to a place "where the language is unity." He then suggests Pangaea, to which I say: OK, let's go. You go first, we'll follow. Promise. His ultimate answer to curing society's problems? "Let's catch amnesia!" Wouldn't just shooting ourselves in the head be easier?

Here's a tip: go through the ear.

Allison in "Fake Blood"

Here's the other video I cut with ANTM's Allison, as promised last week. It's a video to Sifl and Olly's "Fake Blood," inspired mostly by the sock-puppet banner that precedes it in this clip. I gotta say, I love this girl. I was so impressed with her willingness to do whatever and, in the process, poke fun at the whole blood fixation that helped define her on-screen persona. She took direction so well that it made me wonder if ANTM had helped sort of condition her as a conduit for other people's ideas. Or maybe she's just innately awesome and easy-going. Either way, hire this girl, big boss people. You won't be disappointed.

Slut shaming

On this week's episode of the best-worst-I-don't-even-know-anymore show on television, two girls were eliminated for acting like strippers and whores.

 

They did this in the context of a bachelor party. Generally speaking, aren't the types of women who are asked to the kind of bachelor parties that Paris Hilton's friends would throw, in fact, strippers and whores? Wouldn't they otherwise risk getting kicked out for not doing their jobs?