Given that this month the Grammy Foundation is about to hold their annual banquet honoring achievements in music, I feel that it is timely to discuss a particular problem I have been having with the music industry. You see, songs are written about everything these days; partying “In Da Club”, flying “Paper Planes”, even kissing girls…and liking it. Yet it is clear that, despite this generation’s ability to write songs about an array of subjects, no one seems to be able to write a good, old fashioned, love song.
Yes, this is the kryptonite of songwriters these days, as they all seem to be falling short of the brilliant examples set by the music of yester-year. No one can seem to get it right. Every song I hear is either too strange (note Usher’s lyric “I want to make love in this club”), just blatantly creepy (Clay Aiken’s classic line, “If I were invisible, I could just watch you in your room”), or somewhere strangely in between (Ludacris’ perplexing, “I want to l-l-l-lick you from your head to your toe”).
Some artists have even stopped trying to write love songs, which to me is even a greater faux pas. One such artist is Sara Bareilles, whose ironic song “Love Song” boasts the lyrics, “I’m not gonna write you a love song”. It’s not her fault, though, because after hearing her angry and resilient lyrics, I don’t think Bareilles has a soul to love with.
More than anything, however, I just want to stop the metaphors; it’s too much work for me to figure out what you’re talking about. 50 Cent, do you think that Marvin Gaye needed to take a girl to the “Candy Shop”? Of course not, the man got to the point swiftly and told his woman, “Hey, let’s get it on” (and, of course, by “get it on” he was referring to “getting on” a respectful and mature relationship, the basis of which was love and commitment…what did you think he meant?).
Of course, even songs from what I like to consider the “golden age” of “macktastic” music had its faults. Elton John’s “You Song” has a lyric that reads, “If I were a sculptor, but then again no, or a man who makes potions, in a traveling show”. You decide what that kafuffle of words means to you, because to me it just means that Elton John is completely out of his mind.
Songs from these days, though, have problems far beyond Elton John’s psyche ward lyrics. John Mayer’s “Slow Dancing in a Burning Room” creates problems for me on its own. How am I supposed to enjoy a piece of music when I’m very concerned that John Mayer is somewhere out there dancing with a girl while slowly burning to death?
Mr. Mayer, if it’s literal, please get out of there so we can rest easy knowing you’re safe. If it’s a metaphor, once again, you’re making me work too hard. Just hope that I figure it out before I make another phony call to the fire department, as they’re still bitter following my emergency call about Elvis Presley’s “Burning Love” problem.
I guess, truthfully, it comes down to someone’s ability to truly touch your heart with a piece of music, and to move you to feel what you they’re feeling. Songs like “I Wanna Hold Your Hand” and “My Girl” really let me connect to the music. Yet I have a hard time allowing someone who claims to love “big butts” to touch me, mainly because I don’t think I’d feel comfortable with it.
As I listen to music nowadays I can’t help but feel like we’re being cheated out of our money. I’m sick of being sold these so called “love songs”, as all they do is make me love songs from back in the day even more. So I’ll listen to people tell me to “Just Dance” and “Crack a Bottle”, but my love songs from a lost generation? Well, in the words of Barry White, “I’m Never Never Gonna Give You Up”.
Monday, January 4, 2010
Valentine's Day: shame on you Hallmark
I hate Valentine’s Day.
Maybe it’s the subtle pick pocketing by Hallmark and her partners in crime. Maybe it’s the fact that I can’t trust a holiday that forces you buy gifts for someone and doesn’t give you a day off from school. Maybe its just because that kid with the “Reese’s Cup” valentines in elementary school always seemed to forget my valentine…jerk.
Even down to its mascot, Valentine’s Day has always seemed like a kind of shady holiday. Cupid is a naked baby that runs around with a bow and arrows, turning love into his own little game of target practice. In other words, Valentine’s Day chose as its mascot a nudist with an insatiable appetite for drive by shootings.
Yet the thing that shocks me the most about Valentine’s Day is how much it rides on the purchasing of products to keep its own spirit alive. It doesn’t reflect what true romance in the 21st century means. Translation: Valentine’s Day is about buying things, nothing else, period.
Don’t believe me? Try this out:
This Valentine’s Day, don’t buy anything. Don’t buy boxes of chocolate, you're just encouraging your significant other’s weight gain. Don’t buy flowers; they will just die, much like your materialistic relationship.
And certainly don’t get a card, that’s just lazy and superficial. It’s like saying, “Hey, this picture of a butterfly that Hallmark put on this card truly captures the essence of what you mean to me, now eat this candy before your flowers die.”
I will assert however that this experiment would be especially difficult on men, as we as a sex generally fail miserably every February 14th anyway. Admit it, ladies, you watch Kay Jewelers commercials on TV and wonder why your boyfriend or husband can’t propose to you on a park bench at sunset, or give you a diamond necklace wrapped in a box on the back of a baby kitten. The answer is simple: we live in what’s called the “real world”, where buying you expensive jewelry and agreeing to go see Twilight should be enough.
Now I, of course, am seeing this all through the eyes of someone not in a relationship, so obviously I could be missing out on some big secret, but to me that’s kind of what Valentine’s Day stinks, anyway. It’s the only holiday where you must have credentials to be able to party.
I think the truth is that Valentine’s Day is just a badly engineered holiday. It puts anyone in a romantic relationship through the ordeal of gift shopping less than two months after the Christmas season shopping. And it puts everyone else not in a relationship through the ordeal of pondering the meaning of their own existence while listening to Air Supply’s “Everybody Hurts” in the bathtub with scented candles.
So, this Valentine’s Day, take whatever comes with a grain of salt, and remember that romance and true happiness comes not in what society, or anyone else tells you, but by your own measure of your self worth and the true happiness you create in relationships with others. Oh, and if you think about buying a box of chocolates this year, remember that life is like a box of chocolates, the further you get into it, the fatter you feel, the less attractive you become, and the more you realize that it wasn’t worth going to Twilight.
Maybe it’s the subtle pick pocketing by Hallmark and her partners in crime. Maybe it’s the fact that I can’t trust a holiday that forces you buy gifts for someone and doesn’t give you a day off from school. Maybe its just because that kid with the “Reese’s Cup” valentines in elementary school always seemed to forget my valentine…jerk.
Even down to its mascot, Valentine’s Day has always seemed like a kind of shady holiday. Cupid is a naked baby that runs around with a bow and arrows, turning love into his own little game of target practice. In other words, Valentine’s Day chose as its mascot a nudist with an insatiable appetite for drive by shootings.
Yet the thing that shocks me the most about Valentine’s Day is how much it rides on the purchasing of products to keep its own spirit alive. It doesn’t reflect what true romance in the 21st century means. Translation: Valentine’s Day is about buying things, nothing else, period.
Don’t believe me? Try this out:
This Valentine’s Day, don’t buy anything. Don’t buy boxes of chocolate, you're just encouraging your significant other’s weight gain. Don’t buy flowers; they will just die, much like your materialistic relationship.
And certainly don’t get a card, that’s just lazy and superficial. It’s like saying, “Hey, this picture of a butterfly that Hallmark put on this card truly captures the essence of what you mean to me, now eat this candy before your flowers die.”
I will assert however that this experiment would be especially difficult on men, as we as a sex generally fail miserably every February 14th anyway. Admit it, ladies, you watch Kay Jewelers commercials on TV and wonder why your boyfriend or husband can’t propose to you on a park bench at sunset, or give you a diamond necklace wrapped in a box on the back of a baby kitten. The answer is simple: we live in what’s called the “real world”, where buying you expensive jewelry and agreeing to go see Twilight should be enough.
Now I, of course, am seeing this all through the eyes of someone not in a relationship, so obviously I could be missing out on some big secret, but to me that’s kind of what Valentine’s Day stinks, anyway. It’s the only holiday where you must have credentials to be able to party.
I think the truth is that Valentine’s Day is just a badly engineered holiday. It puts anyone in a romantic relationship through the ordeal of gift shopping less than two months after the Christmas season shopping. And it puts everyone else not in a relationship through the ordeal of pondering the meaning of their own existence while listening to Air Supply’s “Everybody Hurts” in the bathtub with scented candles.
So, this Valentine’s Day, take whatever comes with a grain of salt, and remember that romance and true happiness comes not in what society, or anyone else tells you, but by your own measure of your self worth and the true happiness you create in relationships with others. Oh, and if you think about buying a box of chocolates this year, remember that life is like a box of chocolates, the further you get into it, the fatter you feel, the less attractive you become, and the more you realize that it wasn’t worth going to Twilight.
Chick Flicks: don't you dare judge me
I’ll get right to the point: I love the movie genre known as “chick flicks” and I am man enough to admit it. Many people have asked me why it is that I enjoy chick flicks so much, and the answer is simple: I hate being surprised. Some people don’t like the predictability, and say instead that they would rather gamble their money away on a film they don’t know the ending to.
Why would I pay money to see a movie where I don’t already know the ending? What if I don’t like the ending? There goes nine dollars, an evening and some great popcorn, all because I wanted to see if the team in Friday Night Lights would win the big game.
They lost, and, that night, so did my soul.
Why would I go see that when I can see Moulin Rouge, a movie that we all knew the ending to while the opening credits were still rolling? Did anyone really think that the Nicole Kidman was about to leave Ewen McGregor behind for some rich tool? Of course not, and that’s the beauty of it, it teaches us that, no matter what, things just always work out, and even though she dies at the end, it’s from a mysterious disease that she hints at the ENTIRE movie, ensuring that viewers will not be thrown for a loop by the ending…well played Moulin Rouge.
Plus, when I imagine a movie about a 19th century prostitute who falls in love with a poet, I don’t see how it could go without the music of the 1970s, and, apparently, neither could the directors of Moulin Rouge. Always thinking what I’m thinking, just the way a chick flick should be.
And how about Twilight, a movie about a girl who falls in love with a vampire who, if I may say so, looked surprisingly handsome considering his favorite pastime is stalking the night and feeding on the living.
In real life, I have a strict no vampire policy, even if the vampire looked like a scientific cross between Jessica Alba and Carrie Underwood. Something about trying to be intimate with a girl who’s only way to kick back and relax is by taking sips of a substance that 9 out of 10 doctors agree keeps me alive (the other doctor didn’t write back to me) is a bit of a turn off for me.
Yet, in the movie, we knew nothing bad could happen, I mean it wasn’t like she was dying from a life threatening disease or anything (a vampire fetish doesn’t count…I looked it up).
Now, I will give you this, sometimes chick flicks don’t exactly do their job, an idea justified by the creation of the monstrosity of a film known as Titanic. Oh yeah, they were doing fine up until the ending, when the boy who is supposed to get back with the girl fails to do so because of one creative liberty taken by the filmmakers: he dies, and not even in a predictable way like Moulin Rouge. He just drowns, taking my hopes and dreams with him.
What is this supposed to teach me about the world, that true love can’t survive a boating accident? That’s the most depressing thing I’ve ever heard in my life. Shame on you Titanic, if it hadn’t been for Drew Barrymore in Never Been Kissed I may never have believed in true love again.
But even beyond that, I am perplexed, nay, utterly fascinated by a chick flick’s ability to turn even the creepiest, stalker-esc acts into a totally socially acceptable venture. If I stood outside of an ex-girlfriend’s house hoisting a boom box playing Peter Gabriel’s “Your Eyes,” the Minnetonka Police would come, taze me, arrest me, and I’d still be doing time upstate. Yet, there’s just a social acceptance in chick flicks that make moves like this one from Say Anything totally okay.
A young writer I know, Mr. Bill Gregg, has reviewed what is sure to be the next American classic, The Hannah Montana Movie. I haven’t seen this movie yet, but I already know what my reaction will be to it: a standing ovation. Any movie with witty cowboy banter, a life altering lesson that you can see coming a mile away and, most of all, the assurance of an ending that in no way surprises viewers, is a movie sure to make it’s way safely into my heart…I’m just keeping my fingers crossed for some 1970s music.
Why would I pay money to see a movie where I don’t already know the ending? What if I don’t like the ending? There goes nine dollars, an evening and some great popcorn, all because I wanted to see if the team in Friday Night Lights would win the big game.
They lost, and, that night, so did my soul.
Why would I go see that when I can see Moulin Rouge, a movie that we all knew the ending to while the opening credits were still rolling? Did anyone really think that the Nicole Kidman was about to leave Ewen McGregor behind for some rich tool? Of course not, and that’s the beauty of it, it teaches us that, no matter what, things just always work out, and even though she dies at the end, it’s from a mysterious disease that she hints at the ENTIRE movie, ensuring that viewers will not be thrown for a loop by the ending…well played Moulin Rouge.
Plus, when I imagine a movie about a 19th century prostitute who falls in love with a poet, I don’t see how it could go without the music of the 1970s, and, apparently, neither could the directors of Moulin Rouge. Always thinking what I’m thinking, just the way a chick flick should be.
And how about Twilight, a movie about a girl who falls in love with a vampire who, if I may say so, looked surprisingly handsome considering his favorite pastime is stalking the night and feeding on the living.
In real life, I have a strict no vampire policy, even if the vampire looked like a scientific cross between Jessica Alba and Carrie Underwood. Something about trying to be intimate with a girl who’s only way to kick back and relax is by taking sips of a substance that 9 out of 10 doctors agree keeps me alive (the other doctor didn’t write back to me) is a bit of a turn off for me.
Yet, in the movie, we knew nothing bad could happen, I mean it wasn’t like she was dying from a life threatening disease or anything (a vampire fetish doesn’t count…I looked it up).
Now, I will give you this, sometimes chick flicks don’t exactly do their job, an idea justified by the creation of the monstrosity of a film known as Titanic. Oh yeah, they were doing fine up until the ending, when the boy who is supposed to get back with the girl fails to do so because of one creative liberty taken by the filmmakers: he dies, and not even in a predictable way like Moulin Rouge. He just drowns, taking my hopes and dreams with him.
What is this supposed to teach me about the world, that true love can’t survive a boating accident? That’s the most depressing thing I’ve ever heard in my life. Shame on you Titanic, if it hadn’t been for Drew Barrymore in Never Been Kissed I may never have believed in true love again.
But even beyond that, I am perplexed, nay, utterly fascinated by a chick flick’s ability to turn even the creepiest, stalker-esc acts into a totally socially acceptable venture. If I stood outside of an ex-girlfriend’s house hoisting a boom box playing Peter Gabriel’s “Your Eyes,” the Minnetonka Police would come, taze me, arrest me, and I’d still be doing time upstate. Yet, there’s just a social acceptance in chick flicks that make moves like this one from Say Anything totally okay.
A young writer I know, Mr. Bill Gregg, has reviewed what is sure to be the next American classic, The Hannah Montana Movie. I haven’t seen this movie yet, but I already know what my reaction will be to it: a standing ovation. Any movie with witty cowboy banter, a life altering lesson that you can see coming a mile away and, most of all, the assurance of an ending that in no way surprises viewers, is a movie sure to make it’s way safely into my heart…I’m just keeping my fingers crossed for some 1970s music.
YouTube: The glorification of stupidity
We are a society that glorifies stupidity. The TV show “Are You Smarter Than a Fifth Grader” shows us that we as adults are often times dumber than 11 year olds (“The Hills” does the same thing), and we watched that show, basking in our intellectual ineptitude. We even made Paris Hilton a celebrity, how’s that for rewarding those who have the intelligence level of a gerbil?
But there is one place where, above all, our society has shown that we accept, and even embrace, people’s incredible amounts of stupidity, and that place is YouTube.
Yes YouTube, the one place where you can be watching idiots hitting each other in the groin with golf balls one minute, flip over to a heavier set woman dancing on a table before she falls off in a crash of what must have been both physical and psychological pain, then finish up by simply watching an array of men light their own farts on fire.
It is a virtual amusement park for the easily amused and slightly intoxicated, the main attractions being riddled with the shenanigans of those who have either made the active decision not to have any sort of purpose to their lives, or those who believe that their purpose is simply to be the person whom normal, sensible people look at and say, “Man, I’m glad I’m not them.”
I often times wonder what kind of thought process these people go through before they do these incredibly idiotic acts, and whether they think at all about what could happen. I wonder if that man thought that if he got really close to where his son was swinging a baseball bat, that there was no chance his face could connect with said bat for what I’m sure viewers would agree was a home run of entertainment. Yet the more I think about it, the more I’m convinced that these people are not just normal people who happened to fall under strange circumstances, these people are just complete idiots.
Seriously, if nothing else YouTube serves as a warning to me that about 90% of the people I may meet in my life are willing to get a baseball thrown at them, or kick small children in the face while break dancing.
Sure, YouTube is certainly a great medium for sharing information with the whole world, but I can never fully get behind YouTube until the most viewed video of all time is no longer a race between Avril Lavigne’s music video for “Girlfriend” and a baby biting his brother’s finger, as their parents sit idly by, filming and giving those kids plenty to talk about in therapy 30 years from now. Yes, keep filming mom and dad, your kids will thank you later for holding the camera as their childhood is diminished to nothing but a filmed montage of pain, both emotional and physical (“He just kept biting me, and my parents just laughed and filmed it!”).
Possibly the scariest part about YouTube is the fact that there is nowhere else for it to go. We’ve now seen everything there is to see. You could type in your wildest idea of something you don’t think anyone has ever done, and by gosh YouTube becomes “Encyclopedia Stupanica” for you and finds that farting panda, or that guy who can lip sync any Michael Jackson song (yes, with all of the dance moves).
The only thing scarier than the selection YouTube has now is the selection YouTube will have for the next generation. Where else does it go to keep people watching? The answer: dudes stabbing other dudes.
How else are people going to shocked? YouTube has everything else, just think about it. Sure it’s disgusting and morally inept to let fester in your head, but if you saw a video simply titled “Guy Gets Stabbed With My Switchblade,” I bet you’d watch, and so would upwards of 30,000,000 others just as willing to sink to the lowest levels of entertainment as you are.
But I know that YouTube is here to stay, and there is nothing I can do about it. As for me, I’m finally ready to use a golf club, golf ball, and my friend’s groin to make my mark on the virtual world. I just hope my friend is ready to become an icon.
But there is one place where, above all, our society has shown that we accept, and even embrace, people’s incredible amounts of stupidity, and that place is YouTube.
Yes YouTube, the one place where you can be watching idiots hitting each other in the groin with golf balls one minute, flip over to a heavier set woman dancing on a table before she falls off in a crash of what must have been both physical and psychological pain, then finish up by simply watching an array of men light their own farts on fire.
It is a virtual amusement park for the easily amused and slightly intoxicated, the main attractions being riddled with the shenanigans of those who have either made the active decision not to have any sort of purpose to their lives, or those who believe that their purpose is simply to be the person whom normal, sensible people look at and say, “Man, I’m glad I’m not them.”
I often times wonder what kind of thought process these people go through before they do these incredibly idiotic acts, and whether they think at all about what could happen. I wonder if that man thought that if he got really close to where his son was swinging a baseball bat, that there was no chance his face could connect with said bat for what I’m sure viewers would agree was a home run of entertainment. Yet the more I think about it, the more I’m convinced that these people are not just normal people who happened to fall under strange circumstances, these people are just complete idiots.
Seriously, if nothing else YouTube serves as a warning to me that about 90% of the people I may meet in my life are willing to get a baseball thrown at them, or kick small children in the face while break dancing.
Sure, YouTube is certainly a great medium for sharing information with the whole world, but I can never fully get behind YouTube until the most viewed video of all time is no longer a race between Avril Lavigne’s music video for “Girlfriend” and a baby biting his brother’s finger, as their parents sit idly by, filming and giving those kids plenty to talk about in therapy 30 years from now. Yes, keep filming mom and dad, your kids will thank you later for holding the camera as their childhood is diminished to nothing but a filmed montage of pain, both emotional and physical (“He just kept biting me, and my parents just laughed and filmed it!”).
Possibly the scariest part about YouTube is the fact that there is nowhere else for it to go. We’ve now seen everything there is to see. You could type in your wildest idea of something you don’t think anyone has ever done, and by gosh YouTube becomes “Encyclopedia Stupanica” for you and finds that farting panda, or that guy who can lip sync any Michael Jackson song (yes, with all of the dance moves).
The only thing scarier than the selection YouTube has now is the selection YouTube will have for the next generation. Where else does it go to keep people watching? The answer: dudes stabbing other dudes.
How else are people going to shocked? YouTube has everything else, just think about it. Sure it’s disgusting and morally inept to let fester in your head, but if you saw a video simply titled “Guy Gets Stabbed With My Switchblade,” I bet you’d watch, and so would upwards of 30,000,000 others just as willing to sink to the lowest levels of entertainment as you are.
But I know that YouTube is here to stay, and there is nothing I can do about it. As for me, I’m finally ready to use a golf club, golf ball, and my friend’s groin to make my mark on the virtual world. I just hope my friend is ready to become an icon.
If loving facebook is wrong...I don't want to be right
The clock reads 10:00 pm, and I still have college applications piled high on my desk. Yet with my future staring me down, I was not charting my high school accomplishments, figuring out my cumulative GPA, and my unopened Microsoft Word application was looking up at me from the desktop like a neglected infant whose diaper had not been changed in weeks.
No, I was not doing my college work, the result of which could very well end up deciding the next 10 years of my life. Instead, I was enjoying the one to six hours I designate a night to my favorite pastime: Facebook.
For those of you who are unfamiliar with Facebook, let me briefly sum it up for you. It’s a program that people use to determine how many real friends they have, which can be anywhere from zero to fifty, as opposed to how many online friends they have, which is always anywhere from fifty to ten thousand.
In other words, this program is the addicting spawn of Satan. No teenager of our generation can handle the type of false love that having hundreds of fake Internet friends comes with, and the result has been an addiction among teens that could put cigarettes to shame.
Do you know anyone who doesn’t have a Facebook? I know only of those who don’t have a Facebook yet. Everyone gets one, everyone loves it, period.
You can’t look me in the eye and tell me that you don’t experience a little fiesta in your head whenever you see a new friend request or a new notification or both. And if you have multiples of these, forget it, you feel like you’ve overdosed on popularity.
It’s a sick program, one that will keep you coming back with the hope that at some point someone somewhere thought of you and decided that you were worth spending their Facebook time on, making you worthy of their acknowledgment.
And yet, with all of this knowledge, I still can’t get enough of that stupid program. I mean if I’ve counted correctly I’ve stopped writing this essay exactly seven times just to go back on and see if I have any new notifications.
It is the passion that could very well have contributed most to my personal growth, yet this growth may actually have made me a worse person.
I have learned to enjoy the sweet subtlety of someone virtually contacting me more than face-to-face conversation. My “messaging wall” has become the measuring tool of my own worth as a human being, and I have actually pondered the meaning of my own existence after a few days with no “wall posts” from those who I thought were my friends. Just when I believe that my feeling of worthlessness is enough to make me give up Facebook forever, someone comments on that crazy picture of me at the toga party, and I’m hooked back in by the spell that only social networking sites and hard drugs know how to cast.
I would never want to meet the creator of this cold-blooded version of MySpace because I wouldn’t know whether to punch him in the jaw for preventing me from getting anything done on my college apps, or give him a hug for giving me the greatest thrills of my day with the brief feelings of popularity that Facebook provides me.
As I have just seen that someone has written on my wall, I feel that this is a good place to stop and conclude this article in order to get back to what’s really important in my life.
By the way, I haven’t gotten my fix of Facebook notifications today, so friend request me. And don’t judge my addiction, because I know I have a problem and that’s always the first step.
No, I was not doing my college work, the result of which could very well end up deciding the next 10 years of my life. Instead, I was enjoying the one to six hours I designate a night to my favorite pastime: Facebook.
For those of you who are unfamiliar with Facebook, let me briefly sum it up for you. It’s a program that people use to determine how many real friends they have, which can be anywhere from zero to fifty, as opposed to how many online friends they have, which is always anywhere from fifty to ten thousand.
In other words, this program is the addicting spawn of Satan. No teenager of our generation can handle the type of false love that having hundreds of fake Internet friends comes with, and the result has been an addiction among teens that could put cigarettes to shame.
Do you know anyone who doesn’t have a Facebook? I know only of those who don’t have a Facebook yet. Everyone gets one, everyone loves it, period.
You can’t look me in the eye and tell me that you don’t experience a little fiesta in your head whenever you see a new friend request or a new notification or both. And if you have multiples of these, forget it, you feel like you’ve overdosed on popularity.
It’s a sick program, one that will keep you coming back with the hope that at some point someone somewhere thought of you and decided that you were worth spending their Facebook time on, making you worthy of their acknowledgment.
And yet, with all of this knowledge, I still can’t get enough of that stupid program. I mean if I’ve counted correctly I’ve stopped writing this essay exactly seven times just to go back on and see if I have any new notifications.
It is the passion that could very well have contributed most to my personal growth, yet this growth may actually have made me a worse person.
I have learned to enjoy the sweet subtlety of someone virtually contacting me more than face-to-face conversation. My “messaging wall” has become the measuring tool of my own worth as a human being, and I have actually pondered the meaning of my own existence after a few days with no “wall posts” from those who I thought were my friends. Just when I believe that my feeling of worthlessness is enough to make me give up Facebook forever, someone comments on that crazy picture of me at the toga party, and I’m hooked back in by the spell that only social networking sites and hard drugs know how to cast.
I would never want to meet the creator of this cold-blooded version of MySpace because I wouldn’t know whether to punch him in the jaw for preventing me from getting anything done on my college apps, or give him a hug for giving me the greatest thrills of my day with the brief feelings of popularity that Facebook provides me.
As I have just seen that someone has written on my wall, I feel that this is a good place to stop and conclude this article in order to get back to what’s really important in my life.
By the way, I haven’t gotten my fix of Facebook notifications today, so friend request me. And don’t judge my addiction, because I know I have a problem and that’s always the first step.
Friday, June 19, 2009
Halloween Hank
Every Halloween, I go out trick-or-treating and watch all the young children pass me as they say things like, “Aren’t you a little old to be trick or treating?” and “Nice John Stamos costume, loser!” and “Hey! That’s my candy!” I just lower my head and walk away, knowing that these kids know nothing about what Halloween is truly about: pure, unadulterated fear.
I miss the times when Halloween was all about being scared. It was the time when the dead could walk amongst the living, bringing sickness and bad harvests to all those that crossed them. There used to be bonfires, where people would throw the bones of slaughtered livestock into the flames, all while wearing masks to honor the dead, but no longer; now it’s all about “Fun Size” candy, best dressed competitions and oddly provocative outfits (ladies).
Enter Halloween’s new mascot: Halloween Hank.
Halloween Hank will change everything, by getting back to the good old days and scaring the life out of your kids. He’ll hide in the bushes, and when your kids get close, he’ll jump out and rip his shirt off, as he holds the bones of slaughtered livestock and screams, “They ruined my harvest, they ruined my harvest!” He will then run off and start a fire in front of your house to honor the spirits that walk among you.
Now, some “nay sayers” and “angry mothers with lawyers” and “farmers with missing livestock” will tell you that Halloween Hank is an evil notion, some people have even gone so far as to call him a “wanted felon”. These people, however, simply don’t see the positives of having Halloween Hank around.
First, he builds your children’s character. The next time your kids are walking down the street, do you think they’re going to be afraid if a guy comes out with a knife and demands their money? Hey, after some dude comes out of nowhere with slaughtered cow in each hand, an everyday mugging just isn’t scary anymore.
Second, you won’t even have to engage in the awkward “he’s not real talk” with your kids. Halloween Hank is very real, and very frightening. He doesn’t wait for your kids to go to sleep; he prevents them from doing so.
Truthfully, at his core, Halloween Hank is just as scary an idea as a dude in pajamas that breaks into your house and is rumored to “know when you are sleeping”, or a fairy that makes his way into your children’s bedroom and gives them money for disassembling their mouth. We’re already trying to freak out our kids; Halloween Hank is just here to finish the job.
So call him a “menace to society” and “some dude with too much time on his hands”. Despite the pending lawsuits, restraining orders and the obvious therapy needed for all who meet him, Halloween Hank will be out October 31st to spread the holiday fear. Let’s see the Easter Bunny top that.
I miss the times when Halloween was all about being scared. It was the time when the dead could walk amongst the living, bringing sickness and bad harvests to all those that crossed them. There used to be bonfires, where people would throw the bones of slaughtered livestock into the flames, all while wearing masks to honor the dead, but no longer; now it’s all about “Fun Size” candy, best dressed competitions and oddly provocative outfits (ladies).
Enter Halloween’s new mascot: Halloween Hank.
Halloween Hank will change everything, by getting back to the good old days and scaring the life out of your kids. He’ll hide in the bushes, and when your kids get close, he’ll jump out and rip his shirt off, as he holds the bones of slaughtered livestock and screams, “They ruined my harvest, they ruined my harvest!” He will then run off and start a fire in front of your house to honor the spirits that walk among you.
Now, some “nay sayers” and “angry mothers with lawyers” and “farmers with missing livestock” will tell you that Halloween Hank is an evil notion, some people have even gone so far as to call him a “wanted felon”. These people, however, simply don’t see the positives of having Halloween Hank around.
First, he builds your children’s character. The next time your kids are walking down the street, do you think they’re going to be afraid if a guy comes out with a knife and demands their money? Hey, after some dude comes out of nowhere with slaughtered cow in each hand, an everyday mugging just isn’t scary anymore.
Second, you won’t even have to engage in the awkward “he’s not real talk” with your kids. Halloween Hank is very real, and very frightening. He doesn’t wait for your kids to go to sleep; he prevents them from doing so.
Truthfully, at his core, Halloween Hank is just as scary an idea as a dude in pajamas that breaks into your house and is rumored to “know when you are sleeping”, or a fairy that makes his way into your children’s bedroom and gives them money for disassembling their mouth. We’re already trying to freak out our kids; Halloween Hank is just here to finish the job.
So call him a “menace to society” and “some dude with too much time on his hands”. Despite the pending lawsuits, restraining orders and the obvious therapy needed for all who meet him, Halloween Hank will be out October 31st to spread the holiday fear. Let’s see the Easter Bunny top that.
Viva La '90s
As we enter the second decade of this new millennium, there seems to be a lot of talk among adults about how modern pop culture is a moral wasteland. They say that since the dawning of the new millennium, kids, like me, have become desensitized by the moral sewage brought to them through tabloids and television. They even say we have become spoiled by new technology and social networking that seems to live life for us.
After thinking it over for a long time, though, I must agree that all this technology and pop culture makes this the worst time for kids to grow up in. Look at any other time, a decade like the 1990s, for instance, and you will see that it’s obvious that we’ve fallen quite far off the wagon of morality.
Sure, like any time, the ‘90s had moments that would make you cringe. Someone allowed Vanilla Ice to go out in public, Mike Tyson forgot to eat before a fight and I wasn’t able to locate a knife to gauge my eyes out during Carrot Top’s classic film Chairman of the Board. But, with the help of a still attractive Britney Spears, we were able to flourish in a world before reality TV and before Paris Hilton was famous.
Let me take you back to a simpler time; a time when short shorts were still socially acceptable, the Spice Girls were reminding us all that if we wanted to be their lover, we had to get with their friends, and the world was slowly asking itself, “Does that Michael Jackson guy suddenly seem weird to you?”
Don’t you remember “Sock ‘Em Boppers”? They were the toy that encouraged hostility and fighting among children, but it was okay because they were still, “more fun than a pillow fight”.
We all had the experience of playing with those when all of the sudden one of your friends got way too into it and knocked a kid out cold. You all thought he was dead, and then just when you had decided which one of you was going to prison, he woke up, and you had to punch him back out, because you didn’t want to add a loose zombie to your problems.
Go ahead and find modern day artists to compare to the stars of yester-year. Zac Efron? He’s fine, but he’s no Nick Carter. Seriously, my parents had to declare an Amber Alert because I was lost in his eyes from ’97 to ’99.
Which brings me to the “boy band". They created an unbelievable era when a couple of handsome young guys with no musical ability could come together and make digitalized songs that would be loved by millions of naïve teenage girls.
Every guy, no matter how macho he was, wanted to be a part of a boy band. I dreamt at night of having facial hair that made me look like an Internet predator and getting up on stage in front of thousands of screaming fans to lip-sync songs I didn’t write while dancing around like an intoxicated river dancer.
It really does hurt me to be dissin’ a decade like the 2000s, because it started off with so much promise. No one embodies this more than John Mayer, who started off in 2001 with a poppy spirit that would have made him an icon of the ‘90s. He, like our decade, lost his way and ventured into the blues, and it was all downhill from there.
Say it ain’t so John, was no one’s body a “wonderland” anymore?
So, you can have your iPods and plasma screen TVs, but I long for back in the day when you could say things like “bangin’” and “oh snap”, and no one would hate you. I yearn for the days when rappers weren’t “Lil” or “Yung" but “Dr.’s” and “Doggs." So, ladies and gentlemen, if you want this next decade to be as slammin' as the one we grew up in, I mean one that will make you jump up and say "boo ya", just click your Nike Pumps together and say softly, “I want it that way… again.”
After thinking it over for a long time, though, I must agree that all this technology and pop culture makes this the worst time for kids to grow up in. Look at any other time, a decade like the 1990s, for instance, and you will see that it’s obvious that we’ve fallen quite far off the wagon of morality.
Sure, like any time, the ‘90s had moments that would make you cringe. Someone allowed Vanilla Ice to go out in public, Mike Tyson forgot to eat before a fight and I wasn’t able to locate a knife to gauge my eyes out during Carrot Top’s classic film Chairman of the Board. But, with the help of a still attractive Britney Spears, we were able to flourish in a world before reality TV and before Paris Hilton was famous.
Let me take you back to a simpler time; a time when short shorts were still socially acceptable, the Spice Girls were reminding us all that if we wanted to be their lover, we had to get with their friends, and the world was slowly asking itself, “Does that Michael Jackson guy suddenly seem weird to you?”
Don’t you remember “Sock ‘Em Boppers”? They were the toy that encouraged hostility and fighting among children, but it was okay because they were still, “more fun than a pillow fight”.
We all had the experience of playing with those when all of the sudden one of your friends got way too into it and knocked a kid out cold. You all thought he was dead, and then just when you had decided which one of you was going to prison, he woke up, and you had to punch him back out, because you didn’t want to add a loose zombie to your problems.
Go ahead and find modern day artists to compare to the stars of yester-year. Zac Efron? He’s fine, but he’s no Nick Carter. Seriously, my parents had to declare an Amber Alert because I was lost in his eyes from ’97 to ’99.
Which brings me to the “boy band". They created an unbelievable era when a couple of handsome young guys with no musical ability could come together and make digitalized songs that would be loved by millions of naïve teenage girls.
Every guy, no matter how macho he was, wanted to be a part of a boy band. I dreamt at night of having facial hair that made me look like an Internet predator and getting up on stage in front of thousands of screaming fans to lip-sync songs I didn’t write while dancing around like an intoxicated river dancer.
It really does hurt me to be dissin’ a decade like the 2000s, because it started off with so much promise. No one embodies this more than John Mayer, who started off in 2001 with a poppy spirit that would have made him an icon of the ‘90s. He, like our decade, lost his way and ventured into the blues, and it was all downhill from there.
Say it ain’t so John, was no one’s body a “wonderland” anymore?
So, you can have your iPods and plasma screen TVs, but I long for back in the day when you could say things like “bangin’” and “oh snap”, and no one would hate you. I yearn for the days when rappers weren’t “Lil” or “Yung" but “Dr.’s” and “Doggs." So, ladies and gentlemen, if you want this next decade to be as slammin' as the one we grew up in, I mean one that will make you jump up and say "boo ya", just click your Nike Pumps together and say softly, “I want it that way… again.”
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)