Over 50 different (mostly bootleg) Mogwai to choose from! I'm partial to the ones whose facial spacing makes them look like The Hills Have Mogwai. I'm not selling this hard, but these plush things are so fucked up, I don't feel like I have to.
I read (and I'm not ashamed to say, enjoyed) Kourtney, Kim and Khloé Kardashian's roman à clef, Dollhouse, for work. My review is here (the headline is, obviously, all my doing) and it explains why I was seduced by its trashy charm (er, charmlessness). Also, now that everyone hates them, I kind of love them? Predictable, but there you go.
Anyway, I thought I'd present some of my favorite sentences/passages as a supplement to my praise. They're below the cut. I'm not saying that you need to run out and buy Dollhouse, but I am saying that there are far worse ways to liquefy your brain.
Over a week ago, Paz de la Huerta appeared on VH1's talk show Big Morning Buzz and she was, in a word, halting. I think it was just early for her, really, but maybe a little diva-ish as well (she was still drinking water when it came time to answer the first question and then she took even more time actually saying something). It was, at the very least, Soup-worthy. I don't watch The Soup (not on purpose, though -- I just never get around to it!) so I don't know if they did this, but my cursory check of all the web pages suggests that no one took the obvious next step to squeeze all the absurdity out of this by slowing Paz down even further. So I did. Always count on me to do the obvious and then bitch (in my head) about always having to do everything. HERE!
I'll tell ya what, this intro to registered Encourager Liz Curtis Higgs' VHS Mirror, Mirror on the Wall, Have I Got News for You was intriguing enough to get me to watch the whole 45-minute thing. It paled in comparison, I'm sad to report.
...but your (obviously used) set didn't come with the instructional tape and you're a bit confused by Flowbee (only the best people refer to it without an article, like it's a person)? This video re-edit I did should clear everything up!
I was on the boardwalk at Coney Island this weekend and something in the distance caught my eye. "It's a puppet show!" I said (fine: squealed) to my boyfriend. And then, upon approaching, "...and I think it's religious!!!!" It was:
I think this is a wonderful metaphor (or working example, even) of evangelism's burden in 2011. No one cares and the wind's blowing too hard to pay attention, anyway.
Though it was an obvious highlight, this was not the most surreal thing I experienced on Coney Island. The Coney Island beach is pretty gross (it's more dirt than sand), but a nice thing about it is that people walk by all day selling things. This makeshift dim sum set-up is very convenient if you want ice cold water or a Corona in a paper cup or a $1 blow-up beach ball. As part of this series of nomadic peddlers, an overweight, older man with a gray ponytail that was down to his ass approached our group and held up a seashell with a pot leaf laminated inside of it. "Would anyone like to buy an ashtray?" he asked. His intonation was somewhere between music and a child-beauty pageant announcer (really, he sounded like Mr. Tim in Living Dolls when he announces that Reed Hale's hobbies include "playing in the dirt and watching Unsolved Mysteries"). Of course we were like, "No." "It's made with a realllll leaf," sang-song the man, lingering. We ignored him and he slinked off. I realized that he was probably speaking in code: his Lynchian tone and behavior were either his way of signaling that he was selling marijuana or that he would be back to murder us later. We're all still alive, so I'm going with the former!
And thennnnnn, when we had left the beach and were standing on the boardwalk, waiting for people to finish using the bathroom, two guys approached our group of eight or so and asked, "What's a douchebag?" Someone started to explain exactly what it was, but the pair interrupted and clarified: they wanted to know whether "douchebag" was more frequently used to describe men or women. The more laid-back of the two was gently trying to convince his friend that "douchebag" was typically used for cocky, boorish guys. His more excitable friend (who had what I think was a Dominican accent) was insistent that you call women "douchebags" because "douchebag is the equivalent of scumbag" (literally, that is a quote). I calmly explained that, no, the laid-back guy was right and that men are typically called douchebags. Someone else in our group said that you could call anyone anything but typically the connotation is that men are douchebags. The excitable guy began pointing at each person in our group in an impromptu poll that got him nowhere except more insistent that he was right. Then a giant pitbull with a football in his mouth walked up and distracted them. We slipped away and I got ice cream.
The literary-level irony of this is that both of these guys were total douchebags! (I can only imagine the conversation that led to this debate – it almost certainly stemmed from shit-talking a stranger, probably a woman.) They didn't know it, but they were in the middle of an existential crisis.
Anyway, the larger point is that if you go to Coney Island, you should talk to people because everyone is fucking insane.
Here is a cut I did of a Jehovah's witness propaganda VHS called How Can I Make Real Friends? Spoiler: The actual video is as incoherent as my trash compactor (a term coined by Cinefamily that I learned at Everything Is Festival -- it describes videos that take crap and show the best of it without any of the aspirations of comprehensiveness or critique found in supercuts). Spoiler No. 2: The first, dubbed French girl is a lot more gangster than you are, I BET YOU A MILLION DOLLARS.
At a Videogum show this year, Gabe read from the novelization of Waterworld and it was hilarious. It made me think that the hilariousness of novels based on film scripts hasn't been exploited to the fullest (or maybe it has -- the Internet is a big place). Anyway, it prompted me to check out the novelization of my favorite terrible movie of all time, Jaws the Revenge (my love of it is summarized in the gif above, which features text from the actual subtitle track -- yes, the shark roars). I didn't read Hank Searls' Jaws the Revenge the novel based on the movie based on the franchise based on Peter Benchley's book in its entirety (there apparently is a drug-smuggling subplot...?), but I skipped around and found a really, really good part that happens when the shark is approaching the Caribbean Island on the hunt for some Brodys while a festival is afoot:
"But it was the drums, pulsing with the rhythm torn from African roots two hundred years before, that pulsed through palm groves, over beaches, and in the gentle turquoise waters on the island's festive day.
They excited the great white shark and made his hunger grow."
So when you are being eaten by a great white shark this weekend, please remember that he loves music just as much as you do.