There are three types of parents: those that will let you drink their alcohol, those that will not, and those who are Paul Wall.
R. Kelly was the first stop on my magical Top 40 mystery tour initiation. Paul Wall was second.
Back when I lived in the dorms, I would watch a lot of television. Mostly (exclusively) public access, MTV and VH1. People would file in and out of the room, hemming and hawing over my lack of taste. I remember a couple of occasions when this video:
would gather small crowds to mock it. "Oh my god. I hate this man," I would say frequently. Too frequently, because I was secretly mesmerized by him. He looks like a tattoo'ed bridge troll that would hit on your sister right in front of you if given the chance. The sea change moment, when all of my aesthetics did a painful somersault right onto their stuffy little heads was when I realized that "I don't hate Paul Wall. I actually love Paul Wall." At some point, unadulterated douchiness becomes awesome. You just have to be really good at being a douche. And have high production values. Example of exactly how not to satisfy these criteria:
Also, Paul Wall is hilarious and I want him to come to my parties. Proof:
I don't know why I haven't posted this yet. I saw this trailer right before I saw Rambo way back in January. The best part about seeing movies in a college area is the audience response, which is more uninhibited than that from a crowd of sodium pentothal addicts. Please, enjoy.
It seems like it could be a tightly wound thriller at first, but halfway through it gets a bad case of the goofies. After Bradley Cooper, aka Lord of the Douchebags in "Wedding Crashers," furrows his brow at the camera a few times, he says that line:
"He unloads the meat somewhere."
First laugh in theater.
Ascending string notes and soundless clips from film cut rapidly.
Title Card. With narration!
Uproarious laughter.
No explanation necessary.
I'm sorry Jake, I'm not trying to overshadow you, but I COULD NOT sleep unless I posted this video by Jan Terri, the same woman who made "Losing You."
Usually, I find outsider music oddly comforting. It serves as proof that there are people who pursue their unique vision of art regardless of conventions or attention to how it will be received. But for whatever reason, Jan Terri is harder for me to process than than all the eldritch horrors lurking in the stygian depths of David Lynch's mind. "Little Brother" is as disorienting as ten Eraserheads combined.
Matt has been kicking my ass lately post-wise. I gotsta catch up.
I found this neon powerchord epileptic nightmare the other day, as a direct result of remembering the second video here. Try not to sing along, or puke, if you're Grant.
Holy crap, somebody let Alfa Mega out of his holding pen long enough to watch Fox News. I think unleashing him in the White House for an hour would do more for social reform than the past thirty years of progressive legislation combined.
If Kim Jong-Il screamed at his webcam about being "Fo' foot fo', dick hangin' to the flo'," I think we might be terrified into a reasonable foreign policy.
"Dude, my grandma joined the Church of Scientology, disappeared for two weeks and then showed up on our doorstep smelling like ions and clutching this VHS tape. I think it's about being kidnapped by Billy Ray Cyrus."
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