With the success of Girls Gone Wild, it was only a matter of time before every sexually frustrated college student with a camcorder and a six beer buzz was making documentaries about the female form. We all remeber the subpar spinoffs such as Girls Gone to McDonald's, which included a strangely erotic scene with a tub of Big Mac Special Sauce. Of course, this voyeuristic artform reached an all time low with the DVD reality series, "Which One is My Sister?" in which unknowing young men were tricked into uncomfortable and socially unacceptable relationships. I do not feel the need to elaborate on this sac of cinematic vomit.
However, it seems the latest offering from our young filmmaking friends is rather promising: Girls Gone to the Conventions. Let's get serious, convention is a fancy word for weeklong alcohol binges in the comfort of like-minded individuals. Would it be unreasonable to assume that at some point during the debauchery there was the occasional congressional titty-slip? Whether it was voluntary or simply the result of a poorly tailored business suit, delegates can easily revert back to drunk college girls when they're in front of the camera lens. With the such high profile names making appearances on the $9.99 DVD, it should be no surprise to see a variety of lawsuits spring up in the next few months. Bill Clinton was even in the house on Monday night.
I am completely in favor of hedonistic, multi-day events to celebrate allegiance to a particular person or organization, and I think it is only necessary and arguably part of one's civic duty to document and capitalize on the exploits of these "political parties."
Monday, July 26, 2004
Saturday, July 10, 2004
The Man in the Blue Suit
This post was written under the influence of a completely clear mind:
After a few minutes of meticulous staring I concluded that the twenty-something girl sitting in front of me was indeed wearing a colorful thong under her ruffled white skirt. My conclusion was confirmed when she bent down to answer her cellphone, exposing the upper cusp of a thin elastic.
However, before my perverse thoughts reached a glorious peak I was interrupted by a man's voice. His voice seemed to soar above the afternoon traffic, and I was compelled to identify the bearer of such a powerful voice.
On the other side of the street I saw a middle-aged man dressed in a neatly-pressed blue suit. The suit was enhanced by his clean-shaven face and clear skin. He was standing behind a rickety table.
As I approached the table, I realized he was selling cassettes. The tapes were bootleg performances by a variety of notable artists ranging from Marvin Gaye to The Sex Pistols. He greeted me with a sincere smile, and when our twenty minute conversation ended, I found myself the new owner of three tapes: Motley Crue at the Roxy in '87, Neil Young's concert in Seattle with Eddie Vedder, and David Crosby Live in New York City.
My friend let me use his apartment to sample my new purchases. I put Motley Crue in first. The tape began with a generic audience applause followed by a voice, clearly not belonging to Vince Neil, welcoming the crowd to LA. As the show went on I became aware that the Vince Neil impersonator was severely intoxicated. For each song he would play the Motley Crue cd in the background and crudely sing over the music. There were intermittent pauses allowed for vomiting and incoherent ramblings. As pathetic as each rendition was, I was unable to turn the tape off. I felt connected to the man on the tape. His rawness exposed the disconnect between popular musicians and their fans. He seemed to criticize the elevated status of celebrities, and their manipulation of popular culture. This honesty, as always, was strangely refreshing.
I was sure that the drunk man on the tape was the blue suited man that had sold me the tape, and it was somewhere in the middle of "Girls, Girls, Girls," that I declared the small time businessman an artistic genius. I spent most of that night listening to the bootleg tapes and reaching for spiritual enlightenment.
The next day I passed the blue suited man again, but I didn't see a man in a blue suit. I saw the culmination of every famous rock 'n roll frontman, in his underwear, hopelessly plastered and singing along to the radio.
After a few minutes of meticulous staring I concluded that the twenty-something girl sitting in front of me was indeed wearing a colorful thong under her ruffled white skirt. My conclusion was confirmed when she bent down to answer her cellphone, exposing the upper cusp of a thin elastic.
However, before my perverse thoughts reached a glorious peak I was interrupted by a man's voice. His voice seemed to soar above the afternoon traffic, and I was compelled to identify the bearer of such a powerful voice.
On the other side of the street I saw a middle-aged man dressed in a neatly-pressed blue suit. The suit was enhanced by his clean-shaven face and clear skin. He was standing behind a rickety table.
As I approached the table, I realized he was selling cassettes. The tapes were bootleg performances by a variety of notable artists ranging from Marvin Gaye to The Sex Pistols. He greeted me with a sincere smile, and when our twenty minute conversation ended, I found myself the new owner of three tapes: Motley Crue at the Roxy in '87, Neil Young's concert in Seattle with Eddie Vedder, and David Crosby Live in New York City.
My friend let me use his apartment to sample my new purchases. I put Motley Crue in first. The tape began with a generic audience applause followed by a voice, clearly not belonging to Vince Neil, welcoming the crowd to LA. As the show went on I became aware that the Vince Neil impersonator was severely intoxicated. For each song he would play the Motley Crue cd in the background and crudely sing over the music. There were intermittent pauses allowed for vomiting and incoherent ramblings. As pathetic as each rendition was, I was unable to turn the tape off. I felt connected to the man on the tape. His rawness exposed the disconnect between popular musicians and their fans. He seemed to criticize the elevated status of celebrities, and their manipulation of popular culture. This honesty, as always, was strangely refreshing.
I was sure that the drunk man on the tape was the blue suited man that had sold me the tape, and it was somewhere in the middle of "Girls, Girls, Girls," that I declared the small time businessman an artistic genius. I spent most of that night listening to the bootleg tapes and reaching for spiritual enlightenment.
The next day I passed the blue suited man again, but I didn't see a man in a blue suit. I saw the culmination of every famous rock 'n roll frontman, in his underwear, hopelessly plastered and singing along to the radio.
Thursday, July 08, 2004
Graham Crackers in 2004
I have such magical memories of riding in the car with my mother when I was about six or seven years old. Of course I was in the back in case one of those straps securing the five tons of bananas on the back of a tractor trailer were to be disconnected from the trailer due to human error, I would not be impaled by a phallic-looking fruit. However I am thankful for my mother's protectiveness because sitting in the back gave me the chance to get an unobstructed view of my surroundings.
This unobstructed view spawned a plethora of childhood questions. Why is that man wearing his underwear outside his pants? What do the clouds taste like? Does it hurt to jump from those skcyscrapers? Is roadkill a leftist conspiracy to expose the fundamental flaws of our capitalist system and get Nader in the White House?
Anyhow, the other day I found myself riding in the back seat of my friend's car and for a few seconds I was smitten* with an overwhelming sense of innocence. Thats when I first conceived the idea of the Graham Cracker Party. I know graham crackers sound pretty pussy but trust me, its got elephantiasis balls, real big. The party, with colors pink and lavender, runs on a completely Idealistic platform. We dont say, "lets bomb this country," we say "lets bake pot brownies and send them over." We give steaks out to homeless people and beat the shit out of greedy businessmen with their own suitcases. Other plans include building an underwater city and sewing a srotum holder in men's pants so you dont have to wear underwear.
*extra points for the biblical reference
This unobstructed view spawned a plethora of childhood questions. Why is that man wearing his underwear outside his pants? What do the clouds taste like? Does it hurt to jump from those skcyscrapers? Is roadkill a leftist conspiracy to expose the fundamental flaws of our capitalist system and get Nader in the White House?
Anyhow, the other day I found myself riding in the back seat of my friend's car and for a few seconds I was smitten* with an overwhelming sense of innocence. Thats when I first conceived the idea of the Graham Cracker Party. I know graham crackers sound pretty pussy but trust me, its got elephantiasis balls, real big. The party, with colors pink and lavender, runs on a completely Idealistic platform. We dont say, "lets bomb this country," we say "lets bake pot brownies and send them over." We give steaks out to homeless people and beat the shit out of greedy businessmen with their own suitcases. Other plans include building an underwater city and sewing a srotum holder in men's pants so you dont have to wear underwear.
*extra points for the biblical reference
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