Wangle Dangle!!!

8.24.10

7:34 pm

I just knocked out about two months worth of Peter Fireheads.

And I feel like I've just eaten a Nutri-Grain bar.

Several of them address the coming seasonal shift.

The coming, welcomed seasonal shift.

Couple things.

First, today the new eels came out, but through some Everettian, timey wimey thing, I received my CD last Thursday and have had a few days with it.

I'll talk about that later.

Next, after watching...some movie with Chris last week, I forget which, I was reminded of the Michael Cera movie, Youth In Revolt and added it to our Netflix.

We watched that last night and it was pretty good.

Chock full of stars like Steve Buscemi, Ray Liotta, the mother from that thing, Zach Galifianakis, the guy in a bunch of Apatow movies who looks like the lovechild of Keanu Reeves and Anthony Kiedis, Fred Willard and a few others.

The problem I had with it is one of the problems I had with Juno: people the age of the characters in those movies (sixteen) are not that clever.

Especially not in America.

Ever.

They certainly think they are, but these kids weren't coming off clever to themselves and really sounding/acting like awkward lumps of unchecked hormones, they were clever.

I mean, sixteen year olds don't metacogitate and crack wise about their hormones, they try to put their penis in things.

Awkward? Oh my yes.

Michael "Reinventing The Wheel Of Awkward As A Stammering Square With Pimples" Cera is just as awkward as any sixteen year old boy with a thing for a girl could hope (or rather hope not) to be, and I believed it xmax, but clever? No. Sorry.

11th grade isn't that intellectual for anyone.

In the movie, Cera's character (Nick) creates an evil persona (which only he can see but who can pull a Tyler Durden and talk to and interact with other people and things) who does bad things in order to get closer to the girl he loves.

His alter ego, Francois, wears white pants and a hairline mustache, smokes and has bright blue eyes, not inhumanly so, just bright and blue.

With these contacts in, I am now fully convinced that Cera is somehow related to Beck.

Someone fetch me a genealogist.

Now.

I want to climb their family tree and bring down some coconuts.

Some coconuts with vacant, otherworldly stares and matching DNA.

Cear's Francois was totally different than anything I've seen him in.

As in: not awkward.

I'd love to see more like this from him, although I don't know why'd he do it as he has the Awkward thing locked down.

Aside from Youth In Revolt and thanks to the huge amount of shit on the Instant Netflix list, I have also been watching Jackass and Jackass-related stuff.

A lot of it.

That idiotic brainlessness still jerks tears from my eyes just like the first time I saw it.

Steve-O ruining his body for my entertainment?

Love it.

I won't go on much about it but, two words that will utterly unite anyone who was ever of fan of this odd phenomena or utterly deter them if they were not:

The Vomlet.

'Nuff said.

On the other end of the entertainment spectrum, I happened to turn on my radio around 9 p.m. on Sunday and I heard a simple and wonderful piano piece on WNYC.

Despite Christina's research abilities (four dots in a White Wolf campaign), she was unable to determine what it was.

So I called Listener Services and left a message, telling them what I had heard and when and leaving my name and number.

At about ten this morning, my phone rings showing "WNYC" as the caller.

I check the message and, bam, some nice lady named Loraine tells me the artist and album it was from.

Ten minutes later, thanks to stealing, I had it.

The artist is called Gonzales and the album is called "Solo Piano".

The whole thing isn't as good as what I heard, but everything on it lends a patina of class and nobility to whatever you're looking at while you're listen to it.

The subway suddenly reminds one of the romance and mystery of the worlds' railroads rather then a subterranean mobile toilet, the feces and buracho strewn trek from my stop to my job becomes a hotbed of underground poets and musicians, laboring away at their typewriters or in their makeshift home studios, creating the next amazing piece for the world to experience and celebrate, the dead-eyed retards slogging through their shifts at my job are now brave, hard-working people, struggling to raise their children up from the muck, to fulfill their potential.

Ah, the transcendent beauty and transformative magic of music...

Sliding back to the other end of the spectrum, I have watched the first and second seasons of It's Always Sunny In Philadelphia.

Goodness gracious what an offensive show!

Pleasantly so though!

Haven't laughed out loud at a whole lot of it, but a few times my mirth has burst forth.

Danny DiVito is so...fucking...short...

Sometimes I can't handle it.

One last thing: there's this angry African dude named George who works here in housekeeping.

It's not as glamorous as you'd think...

He cleans the bathrooms every night and, when he does, it sounds as if he's actually wrestling the entire room, fighting the piss and shit and filth.

It's horribly disconcerting when one wants to make a wee.

All right.

Dismissed.