R.I.P. Robert Ginty. He will be pushed too far no more…

Get off the Radio

Honestly, I don’t mind Top 40 music. There is a time and a place for it. When I was a kid, I loved being able to find the latest hits just by flipping between two or three stations on my transistor. I knew that once the new Duran Duran jam had debuted on my favorite station, I would only have to wait ten minutes tops before I could hear it again, on my other favorite station.

As I grew older, my tastes became (slightly) more refined, and I drifted away from the mainstream radio stations. Now that I have access to mp3s, I find mainstream radio to be completely obsolete. Plus, the music itself has grown arguably worse in the post-grunge, post-metal, post-hip-hop (yes, hip-hop is dead, folks) era. Unfortunately, the Top 40 has lived on, and now there are entire satellite radio feeds dedicated to regurgitating the most brain numbingly irritating hits of the past three decades.

I recognize that this music has its place: On top 40 radio stations, in dance clubs, or in the private homes of people with horrible taste in music. But why does it need to be pumped into every single public space at top volume? I should be allowed to eat my lunch outside in peace without being bombarded by songs about love, sex, and dancing. Of course this makes me seem like a bitter old man, and I’m reminded of the Robert Crumb cartoons where the artist would rail against the ubiquitous nature of popular music. At least when Crumb first started bitching about it, the music was actually halfway decent. I think even he would admit now that The Doors are infinitely preferable to…uh…I really have no idea who any of these “artists” are. They all sound the same to me.

What’s that you say? Obama wants to feed me to robots? Speak up, sonny! I can’t hear you over the din of this horrible popular music!

Help the Aged

I posted this on the other thing, but it deserves it’s own blog entry. The ignorance of the right wing has reached another new low, as they prepare to violently defend the rights of…corporate medical insurance companies?

The “mandatory euthanasia” rumor is an interesting one, as it basically is designed to prey on the elderly. As disgusting as this may be, I was reminded of this classic SNL commercial parody. It’s a matter of time before we see ads like this one, stating that “Obama wants to feed old people to robots!”

I can’t get the thing to embed so click the link please

Silly Love Songs

Abby Richter (Katherine Heigl) is a romantically challenged morning show producer whose search for Mr. Perfect has left her hopelessly single. She’s in for a rude awakening when her bosses team her with Mike Chadway (Gerard Butler), a hardcore TV personality who promises to spill the ugly truth on what makes men and women tick. Bristling at first sight, the contentious co-workers make a bet: if his tips on how to land and keep a guy don’t work, he’ll quit the business. But while Mike coaches Abby through a fledgling romance, can he avoid falling for her — and can she avoid falling for him?

Can I avoid kicking your ass, Hollywood?

On a similar note, popular music also still sucks. I listened to a string of current “hits” today, none of which deviated from the lyrical concept of “this is true love and no one understands how we feel.” When are people going to stop trying to make art out of romance? My girlfriend accused me of not knowing anything about romance recently, which may very well be true. Well, I do know that it makes for the worst art imaginable.

Curiously enough, I watched the film Roadie last night, and found the romantic interplay of the main characters to be very sweet – even though it centered around a portly redneck type who falls in love with an underage would-be groupie. Maybe there was something about the 70s and early 80s that made romantic films “work.” Perhaps a certain naivete, or even a genuine fucking emotional perspective. Now that all originality has been squeezed out of popular culture, where does that leave romance? Are we simply catering to a revolving door of presumably ignorant teenagers who think their emotions are unique, and worse, don’t have any knowledge of pop culture history in which to put them in perspective? At least when I was entering my own confused adolescence I knew enough to listen to some old Fleetwood Mac records instead of Color Me Badd or whatever crap was on the radio.

Getting back to the Heigl/Butler rom-con fiasco. They are obviously marketing this garbage to women in their 20s – 30s and their unfortunate boyfriends/husbands. I don’t know what to say about that except that I’m glad my lady prefers zombie films.

Stop Your Crying

Big fine could be big trouble in downloading case

I no longer have any sympathy for the RIAA. I don’t give a shit how much money Destiny’s Child’s lawyers supposedly lose from Kazaa. Stop harassing people for filesharing. No one said shit when we were making cassette mixtapes in the 80s and 90s, but now it’s a big deal because of the Internet. Looks to me like the last gasp on an industry that hasn’t figured out how to adapt to changing technology.

And to musicians who complain about filesharing: If you’ve been paid royalties for your music, consider yourself very fortunate. I’ve never been paid royalties for my music, and I can still record, perform, and write songs. If you need money, get a day job like the rest of us and shut the fuck up.

The only people I feel some sympathy for in the entertainment industry is filmmakers, because I realize how expensive it is to make films. But the audacity some of these guys have to assume that consumers will buy their films sight unseen…it boggles the brain! I was renting and dubbing video tapes as soon as I could walk to the fucking store. If the industry was going to crash, it would have happened long before the internet was invented.

This doesn’t mean I am without conscience when it comes to downloading. I try to give back to the industry when I can. But that’s because I can afford to buy a DVD or record every now and then. When I was broke, I rarely paid for anything except concert tickets and VHS rentals, and I don’t remember hearing any bands complaining about slumping record sales due to cassette dubbing back then (roughly 1985 to 2005). The film industry did not appear to be in crisis. Strange how things suddenly change…

Green is the Colour

I grew up with sort of a snobbish disdain for television, which didn’t quite stop me from watching it, but perhaps made me less obsessive than I might have become. It also enabled me to stock up on my book-readin’, which is a good thing because I hardly read anything that’s not linked from a Facebook update these days, and it’s good to have more than a couple words at your disposal when writing a blog.

Since investing in a high definition 16×9 television a couple years ago, I got over my holier-than-thou ways and logged some serious hours in front of the boob tube. My justification was that there was a lot of intelligent programming on TV now (sort of true) and I could watch it commercial free thanks to DVDs and digital downloads (true).

One of the results of this new found attraction to television was that I discovered the oeuvre of Joss Whedon, the guy who created Buffy and Angel. His work has its supporters and its detractors; personally I can take or leave Buffy, I absolutely loved Firefly, and I enjoyed about 80% of Angel. Without a doubt, the three best characters on Angel were Doyle (who only lasted one season before actor Glenn Quinn met with a tragic death), Lorne (played by Andy Hallett), and Charisma Carpenter’s ass (as Cordelia).

So I was deeply saddened to learn (yes, via Facebook update) that Andy Hallett passed away on Sunday after battling heart disease for the past few years. His character gave the show much of its heart, sophistication, and humor, and I always got the impression that Whedon had based the character on Andy himself. So, if I may nerd out for a moment here: Krevlornswath of the Deathwok Clan, you will be missed.

You Little Shits

I’m so glad there’s a new Fast and Furious movie. That’s just what Hollywood needs to do right now: release another high gloss, widely promoted mainstream film that glamorizes street racing. There aren’t enough douchebags driving around in expensive cars as it is, swerving in and out of traffic and causing accidents and deaths on a daily basis in and around Los Angeles County.

I realize that I sound like a crotchety old man here, and I’m sure you can picture me puttering around in my 96 Honda Civic like a scared granny on the road. Let me just clarify that like any other red blooded male, I enjoy driving fast. The difference between me and say, an 18 year old with a brand new tricked out Mustang street racing at night, or a corporate type with a BMW going 90 through rush hour traffic, is this: I DO NOT WANT TO DIE. I also do not want to kill someone (at least not by accident, on the freeway). These are the basic qualities that separate me from a TOTAL FUCKING DOUCHEBAG. And let me tell you, there are plenty of those in this city already.

Actual Douchebags

So please, Hollywood, I beg you: make as many torture porn flicks as you want. Make as many silly drug comedies as you want. But please, lay off the drag racing fetish material. The type of person these films appeal to is very suggestible. It is the type of person who actually pays attention to car commercials. It is the type of person who speeds up when the rest of the traffic is slowing down. It is the type of person who swerves in and out of traffic so they can beat other cars to the next stop light. Don’t give them any more encouragement!

Also, if you are one of the aforementioned douchebags: maybe you can try making all the other traffic on the road disappear using the weight of your collective egos. Then you can zip around like little pixies without endangering any human lives except your own. Until you achieve this feat, please be aware that I am trying to remain calm, but will probably eventually go Bronson on your ass. (And I’m talking Death Wish 3 armor piercing bullets Bronson, not Mr. Majestyk melon farmer Bronson.)

Package Thief

I have always defended postal employees, assuming that these were hard working people providing a valuable service. However, in the past year, I’ve experienced an escalating series of problems with the mail carrier(s) in my neighborhood. It started with mail being constantly sent to the wrong address, and has culminated with mail not being delivered at all and returned to sender. Now I am stuck having to pay double postage on a package that was very expensive to ship in the first place.

I won’t go into the details because let’s face it, this shit is boring. Here is a video for an awesome song by Superchunk. Even though it’s not about the same situation, the basic refrain holds true: “somethings kept him off his route/ the boxes never reached my house.” Fuck you, post office!

New Year

It has been two months since my last post, which in the “blogosphere” means I have effectively shot this thing like a sick dog and put it out of its misery.

Or so it would seem.

Perhaps I have been quietly simmering, brewing up a shitstorm of insightful reviews and essays which are simply too controversial and brilliant to unleash upon the world until it has caught up with my genius.

Were it only so…

No, in fact I have fuck all to say at the moment. Certain items in the real world have cropped up to prevent me from continuing my slightly acclaimed series of gripping essays on vigilante movies and over the hill shoegaze bands. 2008 ended amid much economic and political turmoil, as you probably know. I landed on both feet, fully employed – at least for the moment. (Although it’s safe to say I would be updating the blog more frequently had I been laid off.)

Riots break out on Wall Street

I was overjoyed that Obama won the election, but now a malaise has set in as I watch him scramble to fix a broken machine, while those responsible for fucking it up whine about having to bail out the same people they gave bad loans to in the first place. Now, the nation quakes in fear as millions of privileged white Americans threaten to throw down their briefcases and riot in the streets.

The new digs

My legendary girlfriend and I celebrated the new year and the failing economy the only logical way: by signing a lease on a much nicer, much more expensive apartment. Hey, if we’re gonna go down on this sinking ship, I want to go down in style. I want to be able to watch Los Angeles crumble as I sip brandy on my balcony on a hill overlooking the toiling masses.

Despite our preoccupation with packing, moving, working, yelling, and crying, we have still found time for our first love: getting drunk and watching movies. Several British and Spanish horror films have been viewed, as well as numerous episodes of British comedy shows (IT Crowd, Garth Merenghi’s Darkplace, Little Britain, Mighty Boosh – we even rented Spaced for chrissakes). My brain is such a jumble of pop culture references and surreal set pieces that I’m mentally typing with a dubbed British accent at this very moment.

Music-wise, I’ve been ping-ponging back and forth between trendy new stuff (Santogold, TV on the Radio), old stuff (Thin Lizzy), and British goth/glam fusion (The Cure circa 82-86, the stuff Pulp did before they broke in 1993). I’m also disgusted to report that thanks to a few of my “friends” and Rock Band 2, I have started to like the music of No Doubt. Shoot me now.

And just so I can justify clicking on the little check box next to “Comics” on the categories tab, I should mention that I received an awesome Christmas package from my beloved featuring the first two volumes of Creepy magazine reprints. The horror!

So despite not having any new updates for Blanked is Ordered (that is what this blog is called), I have done some writing. I reviewed three nasty, vile movies for From Below, a website apparently devoted to nasty, vile movies (and rightly so). Granted, two of the three were written last year, but I was too ashamed to post a link before now (the ones accredited to “Ryan O” are mine).

Also, my close friend and colleague Mr. Weyls has lept into the fray with his own blog entitled Bad Actor. It is a series of biting observations about daily Chicago life mixed with brutal pop culture eviscerations. Read if you dare!

I’m off to either break down due to the pressure and stress associated with moving into a new apartment in an uncertain economy, or clean the kitchen and make breakfast. Expect more posts in the not so distant future.

Thanks to Supreme Dickery for finding this treasure in time for Christmas.