Categories
Shallow

Keeping It Real

bunnygamer.jpgIf Fahrenheit 9/11’s and Super Size Me’s box office numbers didn’t prove evidence enough, the recent Sundance Festival should convince you – documentaries are a hot commodity. And amid the non-fiction hullabaloo arrives The Documentary, the sizzling hot hip-hop debut from Dre’s latest discovery, The Game.
Unfortunately, The Game’s depiction of thug life stands up to scrutinous fact-checking no more than your average Stephen Glass color piece or Michael Moore agitprop. Aftermath Records? There is a Fabulist among you. Consider the facts:
Fabrication: On his rap song “Dreams,” The Game asserts “They say sleep is the cousin of death…”
Fact: Virgil considers death the “brother to sleep,” (“consanguineus Leti Sopor”) (VI.18). Cf. Heine’s Death, and his Brother Sleep. Brother and cousin represents a material discrepancy.
Fabrication: On the track “Hate It or Love It,” The Game declaims “Kill a nigga on my song but really do it/ That’s the true meaning of a ‘ghostwriter.'”
Fact: According to Merriam-Webster’s Online Dictionary, ghostwriter means “one who writes for and in the name of another” (transitive sense). No proffered definition, contemporary or obsolete, describes “killing niggas.”
Fabrication: On his hot joint “Higher,” The Game boasts “Like Dre did/ I created a buzz without a single…”
Fact: Per hip-hop resource Rolling Stone, “The Documentary” relies upon the “killer single, ‘How We Do,’ an A-list Dre tune that’s piled with hooks.” Rolling Stone is beyond reproach. Obviously.
Fabrication: On “Don’t Need Your Love,” The Game goes so far as to brag, “got all the critics watchin [sic] my pivot/ On my block in the Coupe reading [sic] kites from prison…”
Fact: To document this statement’s countless failings in source materials and matters of fact would require more space than is available. However, let it be said that New York Times critic A.O. Scott, among others, has never acknowledged watching The Game’s pivot, publicly at least. Additionally, kites, whether box, sled, delta, or winged box, are rarely, if ever, allowed in prisons.
Fabrication: According to The Game’s flow on No More Fun & Games, “Not to down Eminem I fuck black bitches, fuck white bitches, nigga I like bitches/ Them half and half Alicia Keys dyke bitches.”
Fact: There is no evidence that Alicia Keys sapphic inclinations represent only half her gender identity. The preponderance of oral history suggests Ms. Keys is entirely a “dyke bitch.”
Fabrication: On his track “Special,” The Game promises, “I’ll take you to New York City, Atlanta too/ Show you how to fly them birds…”
Fact: Thus far, The Game has not taken me to New York or Atlanta, nor has he shown me how to fly any birds. I am, however, available for promised activities – The Game can contact me here. I also like bitches.

Categories
Shallow

Damn Those Production Deadlines

From the February/March issue of Complex magazine:

Maldives in Monsoon Season
Some of the best surfing in the world takes place on this small island off the coast of India as winter comes to its stormy end.
“The Complex Dozen: Things that matter in February and March”


Related: Tsunami, a Long-Term View

Categories
Shallow

Overheard During Intermission of Last Night’s “Hurlyburly”

If I wanted to watch a bunch of people sitting around doing coke and talking I could have stayed at the apartment.
(With apologies to Overheard in New York, and David Rabe’s Hurlyburly)

Categories
Shallow

Does Anyone Else Find It Strange That Henry Darger Was Hired To Sketch the Jackson Trial?

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The Vivian Girls, in What is known as the Realms of the Unreal, identify their Assailant.
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At Neverland Ranch, only to escape again.
More on Henry Darger, and more creepy courtroom sketches of Michael Jackson.

Categories
Satirical Shallow

Vanity Fair Wants to Know What You Think!

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Take the V.F. poll, at the all new VanityFair.com.
Related: Graydon Rides the Wave, by Jennifer Senior, New York, 12/11/00

Categories
Shallow

Riverdale High: The Duel for the Dirt

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Categories
Shallow

low culture Exclusive: The Aristocrats Punchline Revealed

aristo.jpgThe Aristocrats, the documentary directed by comedian Paul Provenza and featuring George Carlin, Whoopi Goldberg, Gilbert Gottfried and others performing their variations on the legendary, unspeakable ‘aristocrats’ joke, has emerged as a surprise hit at the 2005 Sundance Film Festival. It was acquired by ThinkFilms for an estimated $750,000, according to Reuters.
Most articles about The Aristocrats point out that even if they could publish the shocking, disgusting ‘aristocrats’ jokes, they wouldn’t dare for fear of ruining the punch line. According to press reports, ‘the aristocrats’ is the funniest joke ever, and to reveal it would be tantamount to a crime against comedy, not to mention, the film’s word-of-mouth marketing effort.
Well, since we walked out of The Crying Game and told everyone on line for the next showing that Jaye Davidson is a man, and delighted in revealing that the wife did it in Presumed Innocent, we’re gonna break ranks. Once you read the joke, you can decide for yourself if it is, indeed, the funniest joke ever told.
Knock knock?
Who’s there?
The Aristocrats.
The Aristocrats who…?

Categories
OC-centric Shallow

Save the O.C. for a later date

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You’re so goddamned livid right now. The DVR is fucking up, again, and keeps looping the first few frames of tonight’s episode of The O.C., which you had set to record because you were in Queens visiting your old friend from college. Well, not so much a friend, but an ex-lover. Girlfriend, whatever. You broke it off with Claudia before graduating, you recall, and that worked out fine until she moved to Astoria and called you up saying how nice it would be to visit her using the fucking 7 train. As if, man, as if. That line on the map is fucking purple, and you look that homo shit right in the eye, and renounce it like there never was a Bravo Network. But you had a momentary relapse and went out to some goddamned Greek restaurant to have a catch-up dinner with her. Fuck, it was tedious, and she kept talking about how Manhattan real estate was so over-rated, but at least you knew you had your DVR slated to capture The O.C. to its 80-gig harddrive. The grape leaves were worth it, though, as was your knowledge that you had hours of available recording time free on your machine.
At least you think you did; the tech/sales guy on the phone wasn’t entirely certain, but then again, he was working out of some fucking province in India. So you’re now back at your place in Gramercy. And you’re feverishly gripping the goddamned all-in-one remote, and trying to get the episode to play, because it’s approaching midnight and you need to get into work tomorrow before 8am. PLAY, goddamnit. Peter Gallagher’s face is frozen in some actorly-contortion, and the image keeps flickering back and forth between two consecutive frames of video. The DVR’s interface is just hanging there onscreen, its cutesy late-’90s fast-forward and rewind arrows just taunting you with their promise of television on your terms.
You hit the exit key rather ungracefully, and you’re now out of the onscreen programming guide. You were almost clumsy in your haste to remedy this shit. Got to be more pro-active, responsible. Rational. Calm.
You select tonight’s episode again. And it jumps to the credits, the fucking end credits. 1:00:01, it says on that cutesy little bar at the base of your 32-inch television screen. That’s just what you needed, right, for it to be midnight and Point Pleasant to come on and taunt you with its insipid content. It’s not nearly as inspired as The O.C.. You fucking have to find out what’s going on with that Mexican gardener boy, and Julie Cooper’s reconnection with Mischa’s dad, and that hottie bartender. Yeah, the hottie bartender. Blond. And fucking bisexual. You read online that there’s going to be some lesbian shit in upcoming episodes, and, despite your general protestations of all things homo, you can, and will, make an exception when it comes to some tongue-kissing action between Mischa and the blondie.
But these Point Pleasant title sequences are just hanging there, teasing you. You put your hard-on away. You bring up the dialog box, the one that says, “Play from the beginning,” and, fuck, fuck, it does just that. You are content. Peter Gallagher appears onscreen again, only as he’s speaking fluidly, now, that single-frame grab you were subjected to moments ago seems so much more appealing. Almost Emmy-winning in caliber. He’s going to wreck the rich motherfuckers in Newport! Low income housing, he’s saying, low income housing. Tell that shit to Claudia, maybe, because, fuck, Astoria pissed you off tonight. And now you’re distracted, so you try to rewind a minute or so. And, again, the screen fucking freezes. Fuck you. Time Warner Cable is getting a curt little phone call first thing in the morning tomorrow. You’ll be at your desk, and your friends will be talking about The O.C., and you’re going to hate them for that.
Actually, I’ve never seen The O.C.; I’m sure it’s pretty good.
The O.C. airs Thursdays at 8PM EST on FOX.
Earlier: O.C.-centric entries, now collected in a limited-edition DVD box set, retailing for $34.97 at your local Best Buy. Formatted for Region-1 players.

Categories
Shallow

The Louise Post Post

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Veruca Salt’s Louise Post goes Anna Nicole Smith.
From Willy Wonka’s I Want It Now, sung by Veruca Salt (the character, not the band):

I want a feast
I want a bean feast
Cream buns and donuts and fruitcake with no nuts
So good you could go nuts
I want a ball
I want a party
Pink macaroons and a million balloons
And performing baboons
Give it to me
NOW!

Indeed.
(Thanks Erin)

Categories
Shallow

Screw Park City, This Year It’s All About Davos

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Among the attendees at the World Economic Forum, (clockwise from top left) world spokesman Richard Gere, U2 point man Bono, Citigroup Chief Executive Hottie Charles Prince, and Catwoman star Sharon Stone.
(photos via AP)