I suck at video games. The only shoot em' up I was ever any good at was Mega Man 3 and maybe, Time Bandits at the video arcade. But, I love Will Wright and Maxis games. The appeal of games like Civilization and The Sims is that they engage your imagination in the same way reading a book does. In Civ, I would imagine my Babylonians, who had lived in isolation on an island continent for a thousand years, responding to the arrival of the first English explorer by saying "Well, they're going to have to go" and then waging a war of extinction to serve as an example to the rest of the world. In The Sims, I would create characters inspired by my friends that would all hit on our neighbors, The Goths.
Now, Maxis and Will Wright are releasing the ultimate "god game", called Spore. Coming in September, the game is actually five-in-one. You start with single cell organisms and wind-up as a spacefaring terraforming super society. In anticipation, Maxis has released a free demo of the Spore character creator. It's a fascinating system that allows you to create a huge diversity of creatures, but simply and intuitively. The character creator is just the beginning and the creatures you create will wind up in the final game, as Maxis plans on seeding planets with user-created animals. In the meantime, the software allows you to upload your animal and even directly create a YouTube video of the lil' critters.
Check out my first attempt at creating life in the video above. I've named it the Japhex. It's highly predatory, but also charming. Also, it has a thing for hip-hop.
I used to get asked that all the time when I lived in New York. People would come up on the street and ask you "Do you like comedy?" and then rope you into "free tickets" to see a show with a $15 drink minimum. "No", I would answer, "Do you have any tragedy or a good epic ballad?" and then they would say , "Dick", but I would have moved on.
I've always wondered if my dislike of comedians stems from my long-held fear of clowns. There's just something creepy about people who's goal is to make you laugh. "Look at me, aren't I funny?" they say. To which I reply, "No, please stop making me watch your public displays of insecurity." Actually, it's not public displays of insecurity that bother me. I mean, that would make me a hypocrite. It's the idea that you sell your insecurity and neuroses as something to laugh at. "You're gonna love this one!", you tell me, but I'm just mad because you've deprived me of the chance to laugh at you, by obligating me to laugh with you.
But since this is "Let There Be Love" week here at tMR, let me say that all the stuff I just said doesn't apply to Jon LaJoie, who's a genius. He's caught the eyes of Will Ferrell and Howard Stern, but don't hold that against this everyday normal guy from Montreal.
"CARRIE: I knew he didn't want to find the skull with me. I pushed him and pushed him. I knew he'd already found the skull with two other women. I'm so stupid. And now I'm all alone in this waterfall in the sky inhabited by Aztecs." Excerpts from Sex and the City and the Kingdom of the Crystal Skull.
"And remember the time Clint (Clint Ritchie) was knocked unconscious and time-traveled to the Wild West? Carlivati will riff on that plot, too. "Bo (Robert S. Woods) and Rex (John-Paul Lavoisier) are hit by lightning and wake up in 1968 — the same year OLTL hit the air," Carlivati says." My old bread-and-butter, One Life to Live is revisiting some of its most famous plots to celebrate the show's 40th anniversary.
HIL-arious. Sunset Blvd. is, like most marginally employed screenwriters without a car in L.A., one of my favorite movies ever. And who better to play Norma, than -- oh, just watch it. I mean, it's really really mean, but oh-so-awesome.
As you may have recently noticed, I have recently consumed your milkshake. I wanted to take a moment to explain this further, as I feel there may have been some small degree of miscommunication in my intent. Perhaps your first thought, after seeing that your glass was no longer a font of frosty dairy-goodness, but rather a playa of desiccated pink lipids, that someone had mistook your milkshake for their own. "An honest, though regrettable mistake!", you told yourself. Let me be plain: I saw your milkshake. I knew it was yours and it was for this reason alone that I consumed it. Had it been a bottle of anti-freeze, I would have drank it all the same knowing it was yours. That it was a delectable frozen dairy concoction was incidental, though certainly a bonus. The pleasure, however, was not some schoolboy's sugar-rush, it was the pure adult joy of knowing that shortly you would find your milkshake, gone, departed to my stomach, where even now, my lactose intolerance is causing me physical discomfort. That I will be spending the next six hours on the crapper is small penance for the thrill of seeing your lower lip protrude in a pout of loss, knowing full well it will not be covered in a coating of milk, eggs and flavoring any time in the near future.
Take a closer look at the glass, friend. You'll notice I left none for you. This is actually no easy feat. The malt shoppe glass is designed for the retention of liquid and does not give up the last vestiges of shake from its lower paraboloid without a fight. I will not recount the various methodologies employed to remove the last of your shake; let's just say a very large straw was required. My straw is big, dammit! Huge!
Bowling, anyone?
There Will Be Blood, the best frikkin' movie of last year, is out on DVD tomorrow.
How to Survive the Flu (Using Mainly the Internet)
Like a fool, on the first warm day in L.A. (you know, when it jumps from the frigid 70s to the low 90s) I decide, "Hey, let's go frolic in the sun!" Now, you have to realize, I'm incredibly pale. I also had been stressing myself about work and well, honestly, had been feeling a little lonely. So, I hiked and sweat and woke up the next day covered in sweat and the conviction I had been beaten with crowbars in my sleep, ie: the flu. But I'm on the mend now, thanks to the Internet! Should you find yourself sick this season, here's my patented prescription that will guarantee you too, shall live to see the Springtime.
First, be sure you're really sick. It's possible you're just lazy or apathetic. Imagine doing something fun. If you find yourself doing it, chances are you're faking it. If you try to do it and start groaning, you have the real deal.
Start groaning. Some people try to be cheerful when they're sick. This is stupid. You're sick, dude: Act like it. If you're a guy, stop shaving. Clothing should be changed only when necessary and then, they should be of the "sweatpant" or "tracksuit" variety. Make your room like a nest. Pile up dishes. Listen to the sounds of children laughing outside and scorn them. While you're scorning them is a good time to scorn everyone who has done you a perceived wrong. You may have to dig back to childhood for this if you're self-actualized happy person, but for most of us, this will be easy. This is a lot like counting sheep and eventually, you'll drift oft to a fitful, hateful sleep. If you're lucky, those who've done you wrong will have horrible things done to them in your dreams. Most likely though, you'll dream of sweatpants.
Wake-up. It's 4:30 in the morning. Your t-shirt is drenched, but your lips are chapped. This is good. It means you are probably going to die. Change clothes, grab another bottle of Italian soda water (you bought this earlier in a semi-delusional state that may also explain why you bought five cans of crushed tomatoes) and go onto the Internet to find out why you are dying. WebMD is the obvious choice, though Wikipedia will be more lurid in its descriptions. I prefer Wrong Diagnosis; mainly because of the name. Narrow your list of potential ailments to Cat Scratch Disease, Bacterial Meningitis, or the far worse Meninginococcal disease. Base this last one on the fact that "whimpering" is listed as a symptom. Lie awake in bed wondering how long you'll have to be dead for before your roommate bothers to check in on you. Pass out.
It is now morning, by which we mean "sometime after 2pm". You're woozy and sad and foraging for food. You eat half a samosa and a cereal bar. You decide to finally check out hulu.com, the internet TV site. You're thrilled to see they have a bunch of It's Always Sunny in Philadelphia episodes. You watch all of them. In one sitting. These people are terrible! You don't feel so bad for imagining your second grade teacher being attacked by wolves, now. You then catch up on The Simpsons and maybe a Family Guy or two, then suddenly realize that watching eight hours of TV straight is hard work and you still feel like crap.
Which is why you go for the hard stuff: Sea Otters. WARNING: Sea otters are the Cipro of internet video. Watching their adorable antics in this state may make you cry. You'll remember how you wanted to make a model of a sea otter in G&T as a kid and then you'll watch the little sea otters holding hands so they don't drift apart and you may, just may say out loud "Little sea otter dudes, you know what the drill is. You know what the fucking drill is". Let it all out.
Go back onto Hulu. It's possible you slept sometime between now and then; you really forgot. The mounting piles of dishes by your bedside indicate either that you've been eating or developing a ceramics hoarding fetish. Either way, it's clear you're moving. So, back to more Hulu. Start watching an original Battlestar Galactica. Colonel Tigh is a sober black man! Richard Hatch was once mildly attractive! For some reason (boring!) you check your email while the episode plays in another window. "Checking" here of course means deleting spam and ignoring any email that could make you feel less alone.
Watch Firefly on Hulu because you never saw it and hey, Joss Whedon's like a genius, right? Realize quickly that Joss Whedon's actually sort of a douchebag and tell Summer Glau that it'll be okay because soon she'll be a Terminatrix instead of another of Whedon's girls- who- have- been- turned- by- men- into -weapons -but- will- now- take- control- of- her- power- blah- blah- blah- dude -by-now -you- should -know- that- no-girl -is-gonna -bang -a-guy- who-majored -in- anything- called- womyn's- studies heroines.
Spend a huge amount of time on Wikipedia reading about Issac Asimov's Foundation trilogy. Realize it's not a trilogy. Think about what a cool movie it would be. Find out New Line already wasted millions trying to do that. Remember that you actually only made it three-quarters of the way through the first book when you were a kid. Remember how you made dioramas out of plastic model parts of scenes from I, Robot when you were in elementary school. You sure liked model building when you were a kid. Then read about Asimov's Empire series. Then the Robot series. See if you can find any first editions of The Naked Sun on eBay. Then read up on philosophical arguments about the theory of the mind. Realize that at your heart, you're a major nerd. Feel superior about it. Pass out.
Check emails again, only this time, realize how much crap you have to do. Pass out again.
Read the news. God, the world sucks. Pass out again.
Realize you're probably not going to die. Start to make plans.
You say "misspoke", I say, "lied". While this clip is very funny, Hillary's unbelievable exaggerations about her "experience" are finally coming to light. There's nothing wrong with being a First Lady and she seemed to have been a good one, but we've already had a President who exaggerates danger to play on our fears. Can we really stomach another?
I love supporter-generated videos. This one, "It's Raining John McCain", will make your eyes bleed. However, since misguided sympathy for tone-deaf women seems to drive out voters, maybe this'll give him a bump.
If you do, you wind up being forcibly interviewed by James St. James. My shame shows up around 3:24. And though I seemed pretty gung-ho about it, the only thing I went home from the Jared Gold show at Union Station with that night was the beginnings of a hangover.
He tells The Daily Swarm, "What the fuck?! That ain't no fuckin' name, yo. That ain't that nigga's name. You can't be serious. Barack Obama. Get the fuck outta here." Read it all here.
I adore Christian Siriano. He's like the world's most overachieving, fabulous chinchilla. This week I found out he's dating my pal Brad, which makes me love him even more. He's also, by far, the most talented designer to ever appear on Project Runway. "Watch as the young fashion phenom flatirons his hair and speaks his own private language."
And just how fierce is Christian? Do a Google suggestion search for "Christian" and you get:
Christian Bale Christian Louboutin Christianity Christian Dior Christian Music Christian Siriano Cristiano Ronaldo Christian Audigier Christian Science Monitor
My friend Chris Schulz, who runs Pinups mag, used to joke about starting the Steve Carrington Foundation for Faggotry, quoting a line from Dynasty. Randomly, I thought of it today and found the original quote from the script. Now if you'll excuse me, I've got to go and get married. See it here.
UPDATE: Here's a fun YouTube clip. I didn't realize 'til watching the clip that Steve Carrington's glinty eyes remind me of a certain overly protective father from Heroes. That's right; Noah Bennett used to be a gay. By the way, stick 'til the end. It's worth it.
4 a.m. EST - Castro Resigns, Miami Herald Asleep at the Wheel
From Nick: "You want to see the mark of a truly horrendous newspaper, go to MiamiHerald.com ASAP. Then go to any other news source. I took a screen shot of the Miami Herald page in case they cared to, by the time you read this, note that Fidel Castro stepped down. This is the news story Miami has been waiting for for decades and their excuse for a newspaper can't even be bothered to update their page."
Also: Holy Fucking Shit on Tacos! Castro's resigned!
Corrections to the L.A. Times: Smells Like Typo Spirit
Nick knows how much I love the L.A. Times' penchant for poor copyediting and sent me this, writing, "The 1990's seem so quaint in hindsight! Check caption."
What with Hillary Clinton winning the gay vote 2 to 1, you'd think by now somebody with design sense or taste or style would get this woman a decent inspiring music video*. At least she has a lock on the Up With People vote. *special thanks to Eric for this one.
Worried that my blog had become all-Obama, all-the-time, a friend and Hillary supporter sent me this video today, saying "Sure, Obama supporters have big name endorsements, but Hillary has Sophie B. Hawkins' unfettered support." As I picked my jaw up off the floor , he (yes, he's one of those young, white males who like Hillary!) added, "There is a certain charm to this video, actually. I mean, that Sophie B. Hawkins still exists and isn't doing heroin somewhere in the San Joaquin Valley is charming in and of itself.But clearly, she asked her lesbian girlfriend to film an impromptu music video on a shitty winter day in Venice-- probably for the best that she scrapped the line about 'coming inside her jungle book'.
Discussion Questions:
What is the significance of the graffiti tiger?
Who are the people in that apartment?
Who still carries around a boombox?
Why all the timecode?
Was the ASPCA monitoring the dogs used in this video?
Is that 'A Woman's Place is in the White House' bumper sticker especially made for this video?
And the Award for Best 'Fuck You World' EVER Goes to
16 year old Corey Worthington n'e Delaney of Australia, who threw what sounds like the most freakin' awesome party his Oz upper-middle class tract home development's ever seen. Interviewed on national TV in fur jacket opened up to sunburned nipple-pierced chest, rag doll yellow hair covered with a rainbow-brite-inspired ball cap (I think it's actually a Yankees logo) and his eyes covered by a pair of famous sunglasses, Corey politely declined to engage in the ritual act of public self-flagellation that's expected of the interesting and unique. In short, the dude's a fucking legend.
Sadly, what will happen now is he will do a few shows in Australia, then be flown out to L.A. where he'll show up on a bunch of network shows before E! offers him a deal to produce "Corey Worthington's House Party", which will catch "all the insane action of being fresh and wild down under, hosted by the man with the shades, "Corey Worthington". Paris will guest star. Corey will then start wearing designer versions of his outfits, get really shit-faced at Area all the time before winding up at 22, a drug addict with a low-rent clothing label that retails at stores in WeHo and Chelsea.
But before his famous sunglasses stab out his eyes and devour his soul, Oedipus-style, let's take a moment and give Corey his due. He's awesome, he's stylish and for the moment, doesn't give a flying fuck what you think.
From the Department of The Insufferably Stupid: My friend Danny had his Sidekick pilfered from the WOW Gallery this weekend. The thief snapped a picture of himself--which the Sidekick uploaded to Danny's website (the same principle is what runs my little photo banner). If you know or have seen this dude, email me. If you don't have any leads, feel free to talk crap about Thiefy McStupidHat in the comments.
Because if you've just seen Ellen break down about her puppy on air, you might be considering suicide. As a nation, we're grief stricken by Ellen's pain and shame shame upon animal rescue shelters for enforcing rules designed to prevent puppy trafficking! But we all have to soldier on. There are things still worth living for. For instance- here's something that should cheer both Ellen and America up a bit:
Britney's Self-Service Salon, my contribution to the JUST BRITNEY show, gets the TMZ treatment today with snarky commentary and a video of Perez Hilton and Jeffree Star playing with the piece-- ie: shaving people's heads. Link here.
It's a double feature! My pal Jason Bellini (of Logo's Here and Now) and I are doing a crossover special. Both of us took our five favorite words from the Urban Dictionary and each made a video podcast about it. He calls is "vlogging", which sounds to me like something that happens on Star Trek, but his pieces are wonderfully insightful and he's definitely been a motivator for the pieces I'm doing. I just wish he'd spell my name right.
So, it turns out underemployment is a lot more work than one would expect. It's been a little over a week now and I finally have been able to get myself back into the wake-up/plan out work/do work/finish work without feeling like the sky is going to fall on you mode. No real blog today, though-- too much work. Instead, I give you kids from the 80s playing a game from the 60s. I got Powell and Ryan into Mille Bornes last weekend and I'm trying to convince Matthew to do a game night with me. Other than that-- I'm sort of entranced by this video. Why would anyone video tape a game of Mille Bornes? And hell, shorts were short in the 80s.
So, um--this is HI-larious and dead on. I'm especially a fan of "We may be vanilla but our labs are chocolate." But this:
West Coast
Is the start of a a rumble. I love that they shot part of it outside Fred Segal. I wonder if we can expect a Midwest response from Chicago. "Straight out of Naperville", anyone? *I owe Sabin total credit for this. I bow to his YouTube skillz. UPDATE: Actually, the whole thing is an ad campaign for Smirnoff. I fell for viral marketing.
Utopian crafts would be banned in favor of developing robot armies. Admittedly, minimal resources may require robot muscles to be made out of macrame yarn as opposed to woven carbon nanotubes. Robots would be trained in Utopian craft-making skills, freeing up cult-members time for more genuflection upon the Leader. They would also be trained to kill outsiders on sight.
Deprogramming process consists of 12 hour Electric Slide marathons followed by 2 hour lecture on how dance is in fact a gestural key to opening your mind to the Syncretic Now. Members who ask what the 'Syncretic Now' is, flogged.
Would assign various aspects of personality to cult members ala Horcruxes. eg: "James, today you will be my love of butterscotch and Sandra will be my self-esteem issues brought on by an overattentive mother".
Jerry Blank not welcomed in cult.
Unlike other groups which try to slowly lull you into a sense of security by claiming they are self-help groups, religious organizations, etc.. would be up front. Recruiting procedure would consist of asking people: "Hey,do you want to be in a cult? Our Messianic leader will demand your total commitment and in exchange you get to freak out your parents and possibly be raided by the ATF. Also, we have these cool buttons, but you know, if you're a pussy, I understand."
Would rent cult out for bat mitvah's, New York Fashion Week.
Cult would have to enact episodes of Soap, Benson and the original Battlestar Galactica for my pleasure, nightly. Would yell at them, throw beer cans as if watching real TV.
Would have members drink small cups of Kool-Aid on a regular basis, just to you know- freak them out.
My friend Chris Schulz, who runs Pinups mag, used to joke about starting the Steve Carrington Foundation for Faggotry, quoting a line from Dynasty. Randomly, I thought of it today and found the original quote from the script. Now if you'll excuse me, I've got to go and get married. See it here.
From Nick: "You want to see the mark of a truly horrendous newspaper, go to MiamiHerald.com ASAP. Then go to any other news source. I took a screen shot of the Miami Herald page in case they cared to, by the time you read this, note that Fidel Castro stepped down. This is the news story Miami has been waiting for for decades and their excuse for a newspaper can't even be bothered to update their page."
From the Department of The Insufferably Stupid: My friend Danny had his Sidekick pilfered from the WOW Gallery this weekend. The thief snapped a picture of himself--which the Sidekick uploaded to Danny's website (the same principle is what runs my little photo banner). If you know or have seen this dude, email me. If you don't have any leads, feel free to talk crap about Thiefy McStupidHat in the comments.
