After months of delays (and backstage turmoil that made Heart of Darkness look like Making the Video: Britney Spears' "Toxic"), the new issue of The High Hat is finally available. Fine writing on culture abounds.
Friday, July 23, 2004
A notice to all shareholders of the Vitamin B Glandular Show:
There have been rumblings of discontent over the past several months regarding our corporate direction. Rumors of massive stock selloffs, corporate takeovers and (even, shockingly) changes in our managerial structure have set Wall Street ablaze, or at least caused a moderate but persistent inflammation. I would like to take this opportunity to dispel some of the negative impressions that you may have about this blog and assure you that the Vitamin B Glandular Show is the best sorta-humor, sorta-pop culture, mostly self-indulgent blog for your investment dollar. Our shareholders aren't just the suckers whose cash we grabbed at the first available opportunity, you're our family, and like any members of our family, it is important that we recognize your concerns in a way that validates your feelings without forcing us to make any actual changes in our behavior.
First, let me assure you that our financial picture is much rosier than those bastards in the Wall Street Journal continue to report. This graph would seem to indicate that we're worth more money than we were a while ago. (I'm not sure, but the arrow going up is good, right?) And those rumors about profits being diverted for a massive Tecate-fueled Cinco de Mayo celebration have been overblown by a sensationalistic media. Rest assured that we are cooperating with the SEC and no wrongdoing has been proven in a court of law as of this message.
Secondly, we are sensitive to the needs of our client base. We've conducted extensive consumer research that will ensure that future entries appeal to a broader segment of our readership. (We've found that 97% of the visitors of this site located it via a search for "paris saddam video," so look for a noted increase in videos featuring hotel heiress skanks and/or deposed Middle Eastern dictators in the near future.) And for those of you who have complained about the template, you will be pleased to note that a committee has been formed that will effort to plan to recommend a potential change to the look of this site.
Finally, let me make my personal commitment to our shareholders that we will do our level best to make your investment worthwhile. Even though I have no idea how this Blogshares thing works, or how the hell my site landed on it in the first place, we are dedicated to making your investment a success. We are proactively creating a dynamic environment through streamlining, better efficiency and strategic enhancement to meet the changing, complex needs of today's market base. Also, paradigm.
My great-great-grandfather founded this blog with a few bricks, a container of Testor's airplane glue, and a dream. That dream was to exploit a minor internet trend for personal gain. And while we have failed miserably at this goal, we continue to carry forward with that same simple vision. The Vitamin B Glandular Show and you: a winning team for the 21st century!
There have been rumblings of discontent over the past several months regarding our corporate direction. Rumors of massive stock selloffs, corporate takeovers and (even, shockingly) changes in our managerial structure have set Wall Street ablaze, or at least caused a moderate but persistent inflammation. I would like to take this opportunity to dispel some of the negative impressions that you may have about this blog and assure you that the Vitamin B Glandular Show is the best sorta-humor, sorta-pop culture, mostly self-indulgent blog for your investment dollar. Our shareholders aren't just the suckers whose cash we grabbed at the first available opportunity, you're our family, and like any members of our family, it is important that we recognize your concerns in a way that validates your feelings without forcing us to make any actual changes in our behavior.
First, let me assure you that our financial picture is much rosier than those bastards in the Wall Street Journal continue to report. This graph would seem to indicate that we're worth more money than we were a while ago. (I'm not sure, but the arrow going up is good, right?) And those rumors about profits being diverted for a massive Tecate-fueled Cinco de Mayo celebration have been overblown by a sensationalistic media. Rest assured that we are cooperating with the SEC and no wrongdoing has been proven in a court of law as of this message.
Secondly, we are sensitive to the needs of our client base. We've conducted extensive consumer research that will ensure that future entries appeal to a broader segment of our readership. (We've found that 97% of the visitors of this site located it via a search for "paris saddam video," so look for a noted increase in videos featuring hotel heiress skanks and/or deposed Middle Eastern dictators in the near future.) And for those of you who have complained about the template, you will be pleased to note that a committee has been formed that will effort to plan to recommend a potential change to the look of this site.
Finally, let me make my personal commitment to our shareholders that we will do our level best to make your investment worthwhile. Even though I have no idea how this Blogshares thing works, or how the hell my site landed on it in the first place, we are dedicated to making your investment a success. We are proactively creating a dynamic environment through streamlining, better efficiency and strategic enhancement to meet the changing, complex needs of today's market base. Also, paradigm.
My great-great-grandfather founded this blog with a few bricks, a container of Testor's airplane glue, and a dream. That dream was to exploit a minor internet trend for personal gain. And while we have failed miserably at this goal, we continue to carry forward with that same simple vision. The Vitamin B Glandular Show and you: a winning team for the 21st century!
Monday, July 12, 2004
The Vitamin B Glandular Show heartily endorses the following products:
- Anchorman. The funniest mainstream comedy since, I dunno, Office Space maybe? (The past four years of movie comedies have seemed like one long Wayans brothers movie to me.) I'm not even a huge Will Ferrell fan, but he has that self-important, self-loving dumb guy character down to a science at this point. And Steve Carell (the only reason I have any hope that the American version of The Office won't completely blow) more or less steals every scene.
- Patton Oswalt's new comedy album Feelin' Kinda Patton. A master at building long, clever riffs of spiraling ridiculousness. And if "Bend over, Abigail Mae, 'cause here comes the gravy pipe!" doesn't become our next national catchphrase, I lose what little hope I have left in this country.
- Crossballs on Comedy Central. Only three episodes have aired so far, but the trainwreck between the straight-faced incredulousness of the fake panelists and the unintentional comedy of the know-nothing self-appointed "experts" has been compelling to watch. It's not exactly news that TV debate shows are no more enlightening than VH1's "50 Hottest Rock Star Ex-Wives," but seeing just how willing these talking heads are willing to ignore basic intelligence and common sense to get face time on television is particularly illuminating.
- Blueberry Boat by the Fiery Furnaces. I may have bored people already with my raving about this, but it's finally out officially this week. More ideas in one song than most bands come up with in their entire career. A band that stripmines the past half-century of music yet comes up with something new sounding in the process. And in this diminished-expectations era of rock music, it's genuinely thrilling to see someone swing for the fences and make a bold statement like this one. Album of the year? Oh, yeah. Album of the decade? Just maybe, hoss. Just maybe.
- Anchorman. The funniest mainstream comedy since, I dunno, Office Space maybe? (The past four years of movie comedies have seemed like one long Wayans brothers movie to me.) I'm not even a huge Will Ferrell fan, but he has that self-important, self-loving dumb guy character down to a science at this point. And Steve Carell (the only reason I have any hope that the American version of The Office won't completely blow) more or less steals every scene.
- Patton Oswalt's new comedy album Feelin' Kinda Patton. A master at building long, clever riffs of spiraling ridiculousness. And if "Bend over, Abigail Mae, 'cause here comes the gravy pipe!" doesn't become our next national catchphrase, I lose what little hope I have left in this country.
- Crossballs on Comedy Central. Only three episodes have aired so far, but the trainwreck between the straight-faced incredulousness of the fake panelists and the unintentional comedy of the know-nothing self-appointed "experts" has been compelling to watch. It's not exactly news that TV debate shows are no more enlightening than VH1's "50 Hottest Rock Star Ex-Wives," but seeing just how willing these talking heads are willing to ignore basic intelligence and common sense to get face time on television is particularly illuminating.
- Blueberry Boat by the Fiery Furnaces. I may have bored people already with my raving about this, but it's finally out officially this week. More ideas in one song than most bands come up with in their entire career. A band that stripmines the past half-century of music yet comes up with something new sounding in the process. And in this diminished-expectations era of rock music, it's genuinely thrilling to see someone swing for the fences and make a bold statement like this one. Album of the year? Oh, yeah. Album of the decade? Just maybe, hoss. Just maybe.
Sunday, July 04, 2004
In honor of July 4th, a retrospective on some of John Philip Sousa's lesser known works:
"Break Up That Union Meeting March"
"America: One Swell Place"
"Hurrah, For Only Three of My Children Died of the Dropsy!"
"The Memphis Press-Scimitar March"
"May I Take You to the St. Swithin's Day Barnyard Social, Emmy Lou?" (a rare, disastrous foray into romantic songwriting)
"The Industrialist: A Salute to Our White, Elderly, Bloated Ruling Overclass"
"Hail to Old North Dakota State University!"
"Stomp on a Spaniard's Face"
"Red, Green and Polka Dotted Yellow (The Eagle and the Flag Travel By Wireless)" (written during Sousa's famed "ether" period)
"Break Up That Union Meeting March"
"America: One Swell Place"
"Hurrah, For Only Three of My Children Died of the Dropsy!"
"The Memphis Press-Scimitar March"
"May I Take You to the St. Swithin's Day Barnyard Social, Emmy Lou?" (a rare, disastrous foray into romantic songwriting)
"The Industrialist: A Salute to Our White, Elderly, Bloated Ruling Overclass"
"Hail to Old North Dakota State University!"
"Stomp on a Spaniard's Face"
"Red, Green and Polka Dotted Yellow (The Eagle and the Flag Travel By Wireless)" (written during Sousa's famed "ether" period)
Thursday, July 01, 2004
I don't normally do rants in this space. Unless you're very, very skilled at invective, they're generally boring to read, and as I get older I'm becoming less and less interested in strident hatred and somewhat more tolerant towards the billions of things that irritate me. (Admittedly, the Thorazine is also a contributing factor here.) But this noxious column by the awful Chicago Sun-Times columnist Jay Mariotti has forced me to flog one of my favorite hobby horses - the irritating tendency of sportswriters to set themselves up as the moral arbiters of the entire nation. I'm not sure what I loathe most about this piece. The insane overreaction to an unfortunate but common incident in places where alcohol is consumed, with as many shame-inducing adjectives as humanly possible? The statement that anyone who doesn't share the author's hysterical indignation is no worse than the people who physically beat up someone? The general argument that America is plunging into debauchery of Caligula's Rome or Studio 54 proportions because some loons hit a guy at a ballgame?
Mariotti is hardly the only one who does this. The noxious Rick Reilly has been filling the back page of Sports Illustrated with fingers points in a shaming fashion for almost two decades now. And Phil Mushnick of the New York Post manages three columns a week, each of which makes the argument that sports and the society that spawned them has found a deeper and deeper sewer to wallow in. (It should be noted that Mushnick has never mentioned the irony or hypocrisy implicit in writing this sort of column in the FUCKING NEW YORK FUCKING POST, nestled in between ads for Asian massage parlors and escort services.) In fact, scratch any sports columnist (with the notable exception of Ray Ratto of the San Francisco Chronicle, perhaps the only writer in the country who has some a realistic idea of how sports actually fits into society), and you'll find a budding Carry Nation who will never pass up the opportunity to earnestly wring their hands over the fact that athletes and fans are human beings and don't generally act like Wheaties box models every minute of their lives.
Why? I have a few theories. Most of these columnists are baby boomers and the boomer generation is in full jeremiad mode at this point. Combine the boomer generation's stranglehold on the media with the universal tendency to decry the way things are and long for a nonexistent age of past glories, and we'll be hearing this sort of doomsaying until the last one of them retires. And let's face it, everyone enjoys the sweet buzz of feeling morally superior to someone else, and they're just lucky enough to get a public forum to express theirs. But I suspect the main factor is that sportswriters have a hard time accepting or even embracing the reality that they essentially provide the same service as the guy who writes the Junior Jumble. They're providing entertainment, not information that's viewed as important or relevant, and most people will take them less seriously than general news reporters. So, what do you do with those feelings of inadequacy and jealousy? You turn on Barry Bonds, or a couple of guys who get into a fight at a ballpark, and hold them up as examples of a society gone hellishly wrong. Sports is a microcosm of society, after all! (Except that everyone's wealthy, receives massive amounts of public adulation, and has skills that are extremely rare and considered valuable by society. Otherwise, they're entirely comparable to us normal types.)
So, sportswriters of America, I have a simple request. Please stick to discussing trades and demanding that owners fire coaches. Hang out with the people who write the style page, who have a better idea of where they fit into the media spectrum. (Except for Lynn Johnston. I think I'd rather read 100 columns about what a bad guy Barry Bonds is than one "For Better or For Worse" strip.) Providing entertainment is a noble goal. Embrace your "irrelevance": serious news reporting is an overrated gig anyway. Just be thankful that you don't spend your waking hours at city hall meetings or rewriting the police blotter.
Mariotti is hardly the only one who does this. The noxious Rick Reilly has been filling the back page of Sports Illustrated with fingers points in a shaming fashion for almost two decades now. And Phil Mushnick of the New York Post manages three columns a week, each of which makes the argument that sports and the society that spawned them has found a deeper and deeper sewer to wallow in. (It should be noted that Mushnick has never mentioned the irony or hypocrisy implicit in writing this sort of column in the FUCKING NEW YORK FUCKING POST, nestled in between ads for Asian massage parlors and escort services.) In fact, scratch any sports columnist (with the notable exception of Ray Ratto of the San Francisco Chronicle, perhaps the only writer in the country who has some a realistic idea of how sports actually fits into society), and you'll find a budding Carry Nation who will never pass up the opportunity to earnestly wring their hands over the fact that athletes and fans are human beings and don't generally act like Wheaties box models every minute of their lives.
Why? I have a few theories. Most of these columnists are baby boomers and the boomer generation is in full jeremiad mode at this point. Combine the boomer generation's stranglehold on the media with the universal tendency to decry the way things are and long for a nonexistent age of past glories, and we'll be hearing this sort of doomsaying until the last one of them retires. And let's face it, everyone enjoys the sweet buzz of feeling morally superior to someone else, and they're just lucky enough to get a public forum to express theirs. But I suspect the main factor is that sportswriters have a hard time accepting or even embracing the reality that they essentially provide the same service as the guy who writes the Junior Jumble. They're providing entertainment, not information that's viewed as important or relevant, and most people will take them less seriously than general news reporters. So, what do you do with those feelings of inadequacy and jealousy? You turn on Barry Bonds, or a couple of guys who get into a fight at a ballpark, and hold them up as examples of a society gone hellishly wrong. Sports is a microcosm of society, after all! (Except that everyone's wealthy, receives massive amounts of public adulation, and has skills that are extremely rare and considered valuable by society. Otherwise, they're entirely comparable to us normal types.)
So, sportswriters of America, I have a simple request. Please stick to discussing trades and demanding that owners fire coaches. Hang out with the people who write the style page, who have a better idea of where they fit into the media spectrum. (Except for Lynn Johnston. I think I'd rather read 100 columns about what a bad guy Barry Bonds is than one "For Better or For Worse" strip.) Providing entertainment is a noble goal. Embrace your "irrelevance": serious news reporting is an overrated gig anyway. Just be thankful that you don't spend your waking hours at city hall meetings or rewriting the police blotter.