Hollywood Boulevard, the rumors are true. Today I overheard freak show performers describing it as a freak show. Okay, I didn’t really. But I did have an encounter with an old man roaming the streets in his flannel pajamas. Feeling a soft spot for the elderly and wanting to do my due diligence as a caring human being, I tried to help the senile old bastard. This was our brief exchange:
Sir, are you lost?
Did my daughter send you?
Tell her I’m looking for her.
And like that, he was gone. I went on my merry way, which I believe was the correct decision, though a part of me felt I should’ve imposed some sane logic on the situation before leaving it. And another part of me wanted to give in to the logic of the situation and ask, “Well then shouldn’t you come with me, since you and your daughter are looking for each other and she sent me to get you (even though she hadn’t)?” And still another part of me wanted to embrace the old man’s logic and walk around Hollywood in my pajamas.
This eventful non-event took place one block from where I saw a midget walking a pitbull. Which was a block away from where your child can get his or her picture taken with a man dressed up as Spiderman. Which is a block away from where your child can get his or her picture taken with a man in Spiderman pajamas. Could this be the old man’s son? Stranger logic has proven wise on Hollywood Blvd.
All this on the ten minute walk to the subway, which you would think to be a freak show but is actually really cool, to get to Universal (Studios) City, which you would think to be really cool and is actually a freak show. But there’s a movie theater there and I had free passes, so I endured the freaks in all their various habitats.
Tried to see G.I JOE but misread the listing and ended up at a showing of J.I HAD. It was a feel-good movie so, in the end, the protagonist kills himself for Allah. Eventually found my way to G.I JOE for a necessary dose of patriotic sentiment and a nap. Nanotechnology makes me sleepy. All things considered, it was a decent Summer action flick. And I’ll say this: The costumes in that movie were the coolest pajamas I saw all day. And that’s saying A LOT. Sorry, old man, you’re #2. At least now you know. Knowing, I’ve heard, is half the battle. I felt corny just typing that.
My name is Ben and I blogged this.
If there’s any more awesome spectacle than the MTV Video Music Awards I have yet to find it. And if I haven’t found it, that shit is Bigfoot, Kaiser Sose, and the clitoris: IT CAN’T BE FOUND. For I am the world’s foremost seeker of awesome, and I have turned over every leaf under every rock tucked in every crevice of every corner of every nook to uncover all this world’s awesome. If it’s awesome and it’s out there, I’ve found it. The VMAs is the awesomest, and I didn’t even have to search a cranny.
You don’t wanna know what lurks in crannies. I’ll tell you anyway. Wombats. Or maybe it’s womb rats. One of the two. Possibly both. Let’s assume both. Ooooooh, crannies.
Back to the VMAs. The Veemas, as I call it. I don’t call it that. Each year, once a year, MTV and Viacom give modesty the night off and use the time to shit in the mouths of cynicism and restraint. This musical display of pageantry is nothing short of opulence on a coke binge. Oh the money spent! Like Beverly Hills Sweet Sixteen parties, the only goal is finding a way to out-what-the-fuck the last one. In ’08, when they pranced their acts around a Hollywood studio lot, I thought they couldn’t top the year before when they staged concerts throughout a Vegas casino. I was wrong. This year, at little ol’ Radio City Music Hall in New York, I was reasonably certain they couldn’t raise the bar on last year. Then what can only be described as a burlesque circus unfolded. Wrong again, Ben.
Let’s start with the red elephant at the Veemas (I guess I do call it that). Kanye fucked up. Again. His music speaks for itself. Then he speaks for himself and his music cringes. The crowd less cringed and more loudly booed him the rest of the night. He’s the last person I’d want to be right now. He stole Taylor Swift’s Moonman virginity! It was uncomfortable to watch. Let’s stop talking about it.
Michael Jackson received the bulk of the attention, but it was Jay-Z’s show. He gave the King of Pop his last moment and then strolled in at the end to remind us who currently runs the game. Dude didn’t even show up until he was slated to take the stage and then had cameras awaiting his arrival in a limousine caravan. How played out is that, right? That’s what I thought too! Jay-Z proved it’s actually the coolest thing ever.
I’ve long said of comedy that anyone can make shitting your pants funny, comedy is finding humor in the Gastric Cancer that caused it. Jay-Z is the coolness equivalent to that. At the VMAs he proved that, to him, cliche is just a French word meaning “another lame thing I can make look cooler than the coolest thing in your life.” Our definition is shorter, but his is…cooler. Watch Hova (featuring Keys by Alicia) for yourself and count the number of times he defies triteness:
Related story about Jay-Z: I passed him on the street in New York some ten years ago and, even then, honestly considered Talented Mr. Ripleying him. I generally like being me; am comfortable in my own skin, with my own mind, with my own life. I want to be Jay-Z. Like, bad. As much as I don’t want to be Kanye.
I don’t feel like there’s any joke that can improve the perfectly-ignored drunk fan who wanders on-stage at the end of the song. She’s like someone shitting their pants: No additional joke required.
My favorite part of this clip isn’t even part of the song. It’s this brief two-shot of besties forever:
Look at Beyonce in that clip or picture. She is hard-selling it for her man. Nobody is more into Jay-Z than her. I wish I could find even a poorly-lit, well-tucked tranny who loved me half as much as she loves him. And she’s the hottest female in the world! If anyone disagreed before her performance, they changed their mind after.
Look at her, damnit! Stunning! She can call the song whatever she wants, that performance was called Viagra, because it gave me a four-hour erection. My boner has been asleep ever since.
Speaking of well-tucked trannies…Lady Gaga! (I don’t want to perpetuate the rumor that Gaga is a transvestite as it’s cruel and I don’t believe it. But this is comedy and sometimes a guy needs a segue.)
She was a spectacle in and of herself, and I loved every moment of her. Her outfits, each more redonk than the last; her acceptance speech, thanking “God and the gays;” her performance, bloodied and spastic…why don’t I just show/remind you. Check out the most burlesque of all the circus performances:
And I can’t leave out my girl Pink. She treated this “award show” like a skate park demo, whipping out tricks nobody knew were possible while proving once again that she’s the baddest dude on the planet. Check out the most circus-y of all the burlesque performances:
MTV doesn’t do a lot well these days. They make reality stars out of people so out of touch with reality it is fair to question whether they SEE stars. They may be actually the least likely place on television to see a music video. But boy do they ever nail this event. The rest of the award circuit, like Kanye West, is under the false impression people give a shit who wins awards. Nope. Opulence on a coke binge. The more opulent and the more cocaine the better.
There’s no way they can top this year. Don’t worry, I’ve grown comfortable being wrong.
My name is Ben and I blogged this.
I’ve been thinking about babies, y’all. Not in a sexual way. Normal stuff. Playing with them, protecting them, eating them. I kid, I kid. But seriously, you have to wonder what your baby tastes like. I see you nibble. I know that look. You want to eat a baby! I’ve just been thinking about having one. Not thinking about “having one.” Just what it would be like to have one. Damn, I just gave myself a scare.
I’m a nice enough dude, reasonably intelligent, alright-looking, carry no fatal preconditions. I could probably make a decent baby on genetics alone. It’s the wanting-to-raise-it part that still baffles me. Raise it to be what? I barely know how to be a human. I’d like to teach someone to be a helicopter pilot. Unfortunately, I don’t know how to fly a helicopter either. I could give lessons on how to freak out in a mall parking lot or how long is too long to hold a shit. But do I need to create a new human just to pass on those skills?
Sure, I can do a few learnable things. I can teach a kid to tie their shoes or ride a bike. 123′s, ABC’s. But just because I am capable of teaching things doesn’t mean I should. I’m an awful teacher. Prodigies can’t learn fast enough for my patience. Most of you are awful teachers. Don’t get defensive. Pause for a second and think about it…
See? I was right! For those of you still in denial, ask anyone you ever taught anything to. They’ll tell you. You’re terrible!
I figure, once you get past all that staying-alive baby stuff, I can educate a person up to five years-old. After five, I need some assistance. So what do I do? I drop the kid off in the education system so that he can be homogenized intellectually and socialized to hate me. Now I have this kid that is just like all the other kids, with two overwhelming differences: This one has all my neuroses and despises me. Normal in a bad way and idiodyncratic…in a bad way. Basically, that’s the worst kid possible. And the motherfucker is mine. He’s not the motherfucker. I am. I AM.
Logically, I’m having trouble sinking my teeth into this. I understand that most people can impart more useful skills than I can. They can teach a human to be self-sufficient. But I also know I wouldn’t be happy if I created a self and it only sufficed. If my kid doesn’t kick ass I am going to know quickly and lose interest. And it’s not like finding the best taco in Hollywood; researching on the Internet won’t help. Babies are a crap shoot. That’s why you make them with someone you love: Because if a stranger made you a crappy baby you would murder them. Seriously. Murder them. Even love can’t survive an unsatisfactory child. When someone says “It’s not you, it’s me,” that means it’s you. And when divorcing parents tell children “It’s not your fault,” it’s their fault. I’m a child of divorce. I’ve owned up to it and apologized.
If I could enlighten a child it would be different. I can’t. I can provide a dumb perspective, a couple tidbits of frat-house wisdom, and maybe a few intentional and unintentional laughs. If I turned that in as a resumé, I would be stunned to even receive an interview. Maybe you’re baby-making resume has stronger credentials. Maybe you got good letters of recommendation or did an internship somewhere. If so, by all means, spray a few in her uterus. But me, I’m gonna keep aiming for the titties. That way, though my babies might not grow up, at least they can die quick, happy deaths.
This post was a bit of a doozy. I just got fucked by celebrated a birthday. Allow me some adjustment time.
My name is Ben and this blog is the only baby I need.
For some reason I got all up in the gossip sites this weekend and now I need to share some of the things I’ve learned. Which, in turn, kind of makes this a gossip site. So don’t read that first line and think to yourself, “I would never visit a gossip site.” You’re at one, bitch.
Let’s dish, ladies!
My favorite story was the Jamie Kennedy-Jennifer Love Hewitt romance revelation. You can link to the whole article, but I am going to give you the best quotes, all taken from Jamie’s interview on the Ryan Seacrest radio show. After each one I will probably make snarky comments. I’m such a bitch!
“We have an intense connection,” he said. Making a Twilight reference, he added, “She’s my Bella. I don’t want to bite her neck, but I want her to live.”
This is a 38-year old man analogizing his new love to a teen vampire movie. The only thing worse than announcing your love to Ryan Seacrest on the radio is this quote. And she might be your Bella but you’re like her fourth Edward. You know who else thought she was his Bella? The fiance she JUST DUMPED to be with you. Next quote.
“[Hewitt is] so talented. She can sing, she can dance, she’s hilarious … and hot since she was, like, 9.”
Jamie Kennedy, that is sick and wrong. I’m glad you found yourself a nice song and dance gal, but hilarious? No, she is not. Oh, yeah, and tsk tsk about that whole hot since prepubescence thing.
“I thought something would happen in my 40s. Hollywood makes us on our own train, and it’s like I have a co-conductor now.”
That doesn’t make any goddamn sense. “Hollywood makes us on our own train” is barely a sentence. So Hollywood made you on a train? And now you’re the conductor? How did JLH get there?
Jennifer Love Hewit, I have never wanted to do unspeakable things to your cleavage less. Leave this man immediately. She probably already did. I bet it happened right after that interview and this was the conversation:
Hello my Love, did you hear me on the radio this morning?
I did. I thought we agreed we weren’t going to publicize our…situation.
I know, but I’m so in love. I just want the whole world to know.
Don’t you want the whole world to know?
About that. Here’s the thing…
Uh-oh. John Mayer warned me about this.
It’s just, I met this blogger from a site called ‘Poop or Chocolate’.
He told me I was his Rose from Titanic so I let him do
unspeakable things to my cleavage.
But you’re my Bella!?
I know, but he offered me Rose. That’s an Oscar-nominated love.
Sure, your love was nice, it even grossed well domestically,
but his love is, well, titanic. Please tell me you understand.
Seacrest is never gonna let me hear the end of this.
I hate you, Jamie Kennedy. You left your stink all over those titties.
The other story that caught my attention involved the feud between Hannah Montana and Radiohead. I’m going to save that for its own post, though. I have too much to say about “Hannahead” and I can’t short-change it. I’ve never made you wait before. This will be good for you.
I would declare this “dish” week but then I would get commitment-phobic and bail. Let’s see what happens. Wow. You’re being really cool about this. Thanks.
In unrelated news, I did the dishes for the first time in several weeks and now the kitchen sink smells like hot barf. Not normal, tepid, totally livable barf. Like summertime pavement barf. That joke makes me laugh and then gag. The sign of a true classic.
My name is Ben and this blog is a cliff-hanger.
Hollywood can’t be this afraid of new ideas?
Why does Jason Strathem get at least two shots at every movie role? Shouldn’t he do a better job the first time?
“He was dead…But he got better.” How is that not tattooed on my face already?