Hey party people, Justin here. For those who don't know me, I'll explain a bit about myself. I have a two-bedroom loft in West Hollywood, filled with plush lounge chairs, trays of fresh fruit, and copious amounts of items to snort and sniff. And it's all paid for by the two days a week I work at home. I'm the creative director in charge of titular copy-writing for an adult entertainment provider. Basically, I make up the names for your favorite porn movies.
Six Inches of Kevin's Bacon. That was me. Once Upon a Time In Karen. That was mine too. Debbie Does Dallas was some other guy, but the sequel two decades later, Debbie Does Your Taxes (While You Bang Her) was the one that put me at the top of the porno naming game.
You think you like your job? Why, 'cause you teach underprivileged kids how to read? BFD, pal. You drive a company Corvette with a license plate that says "DCK MAN" on it? Yeah, me neither. My Vette's license plate says "UR DONG" because "DCK MAN" was already taken. I bet you think it's rewarding to see the look on some half-retarded 10-year-old's face when he learns how to spell the word "moron." Well buddy, you can't imagine the pride I feel knowing that on Halloween night, a man is going to pick up the new Lexxxus Leggs film because the name Ghosts and Gobblin' caught his eye. It makes me feel warm all over.
The thing people don't understand about my job is that it's equal parts science and art. You look at the genre of the movie first--is it a parody of an existing movie, a big-budget plot pounding, or a simple "guy does girl in back of van" kind of thing?--and then you let your creative juices just drip all over the page. It's exhausting.
Right now I'm working on a three-movie series with an ex-reality star. I'm tentatively calling it Hogan Knows Bestiality. It's a little more low-brow than the type of thing I usually attach my name to, but a guy's gotta eat, ya know what I mean?
I love this job. I'll do it until the day I die or until it's no longer spiritually satisfying for me. When I jot down something like Escape From Ass-catraz and don't feel anything tingle inside me, then I'll know it's time to pack up my dirty word thesaurus and get out. Until then, I hope you'll think of me, Justin Syde-Yu, when you browse your local adult video store and take home The Whole Nine Yards (of Dick).
August 25, 2010
July 6, 2010
Dale Hazel Lives His Favorite Lyrics.
::
Dale Hazel is a music lover. He loves how songs tell important stories in a few melodic minutes. Dale believes that every song is a chapter in someone's life story. Dale wants every song to be a part of his life story. That's why every day, Dale attempts to live out one of his favorite songs, for better or for worse...
Dale's feet are tired and layered with blisters. His muscle mass is all but deteriorated, with the exception of his newly-toned calves. It could be from all the time he spent on his feet over the last few weeks. More specifically, it might be the collateral damage of walking 500 miles from Rockford, Illinois to Lincoln, Nebraska, and then another 500 miles to Oklahoma City. This was all in an effort to be the man who walked a thousand miles to fall down at Marcy Hoover's door.
One late night, Dale came across Marcy's online dating profile and was instantly entranced by her gentle features and winning smile. After briefly perusing her personal interests, Dale discovered that he and Marcy shared a passion for mango-flavored drinks and 90's pop music.
Following his heart in a blind race towards true love, Dale put on a pair of tennis shoes and MapQuested the walking directions to Marcy's home in Oklahoma City. Showing up uninvited and unknown into Marcy's life was a risk, but Dale felt that their matching astrological signs--along with their shared fondness for Tom Hanks movies--had joined their souls in a cosmic, and irreversible, way.
The trek to reach Marcy lasted nearly three weeks, during which Dale fought off wild animals, slept in abandoned buildings, and broke two of his toes. He also dropped 34 pounds and became dangerously dehydrated, as he took no provisions and had to subsist off scraps of food people threw out of their car windows. But upon waking from his heat-induced mini-coma in a bed at Saint Anthony's Hospital, Dale expressed his joy and sense of accomplishment at seeing Marcy's fantastic smile in person.
Staring into Marcy's eyes, he said, "When I woke up, well I knew I was gonna be, I was gonna be the man who woke up next to you."
In actuality, the look on Marcy's face would later be self-described as that of "pure confusion and a little bit of terror." Marcy had taken Dale's "romantic" gesture as a creepy and reckless act of self-endangerment. Had Dale spent more than a few seconds glancing at her dating profile, he would have seen her personality type listed as "cautious and definitely not impulsive."
Although she took Dale to the hospital and stayed with him until doctors confirmed his stable health, Marcy has since issued a restraining order against him; coincidentally, Dale is no longer allowed within a thousand miles of Marcy.
"It's dangerous to encourage that type of behavior," said Marcy. "I think I'll be deleting The Proclaimers from my iPod."
::
Dale Hazel is a music lover. He loves how songs tell important stories in a few melodic minutes. Dale believes that every song is a chapter in someone's life story. Dale wants every song to be a part of his life story. That's why every day, Dale attempts to live out one of his favorite songs, for better or for worse...
Dale's feet are tired and layered with blisters. His muscle mass is all but deteriorated, with the exception of his newly-toned calves. It could be from all the time he spent on his feet over the last few weeks. More specifically, it might be the collateral damage of walking 500 miles from Rockford, Illinois to Lincoln, Nebraska, and then another 500 miles to Oklahoma City. This was all in an effort to be the man who walked a thousand miles to fall down at Marcy Hoover's door.
One late night, Dale came across Marcy's online dating profile and was instantly entranced by her gentle features and winning smile. After briefly perusing her personal interests, Dale discovered that he and Marcy shared a passion for mango-flavored drinks and 90's pop music.
Following his heart in a blind race towards true love, Dale put on a pair of tennis shoes and MapQuested the walking directions to Marcy's home in Oklahoma City. Showing up uninvited and unknown into Marcy's life was a risk, but Dale felt that their matching astrological signs--along with their shared fondness for Tom Hanks movies--had joined their souls in a cosmic, and irreversible, way.
The trek to reach Marcy lasted nearly three weeks, during which Dale fought off wild animals, slept in abandoned buildings, and broke two of his toes. He also dropped 34 pounds and became dangerously dehydrated, as he took no provisions and had to subsist off scraps of food people threw out of their car windows. But upon waking from his heat-induced mini-coma in a bed at Saint Anthony's Hospital, Dale expressed his joy and sense of accomplishment at seeing Marcy's fantastic smile in person.
Staring into Marcy's eyes, he said, "When I woke up, well I knew I was gonna be, I was gonna be the man who woke up next to you."
In actuality, the look on Marcy's face would later be self-described as that of "pure confusion and a little bit of terror." Marcy had taken Dale's "romantic" gesture as a creepy and reckless act of self-endangerment. Had Dale spent more than a few seconds glancing at her dating profile, he would have seen her personality type listed as "cautious and definitely not impulsive."
Although she took Dale to the hospital and stayed with him until doctors confirmed his stable health, Marcy has since issued a restraining order against him; coincidentally, Dale is no longer allowed within a thousand miles of Marcy.
"It's dangerous to encourage that type of behavior," said Marcy. "I think I'll be deleting The Proclaimers from my iPod."
::
June 8, 2010
Permanently Down the Rabbit Hole.
Hello boys. Girls. For my next presentation I present a gift to you all. A present, you might say. For those us of with the presence of mind and the gift of pleasant understanding, the next part of this immediate life will be quite a treat. Our lives will be wonderful for ages and ages and years. We will all be happy here--you, me, Alice, The Jabberwock, The Cheshire Cat, we will be safe and presentable here in Wonderland. Forever and ever. Call me mad, if you must, so long as you never call me late!
You know that I know that you pay, with dignity, many dirty green fibers to see me appear larger than I am in reality. I am louder, I am more looming, and I could very well crush all of you in your seats if I was gifted with another dimension--though I wouldn't! And when you look at my huge face it is never the same as it has been before, though you could call it similar. Very similar, indeed. So much so that you think you've seen it somewhere before--which you have because it's always my face, you see.
But!
Did you know...? I used to have scissors for digits! Yes, yes, and drank myself drunk on rum on a boat on a film stage! Not so long ago, I sang and murdered and barbered and...where was I?
My face!
As you see, 'tis tasked with looking wonderful for all time. And in time my wonderfuls, you'll get to see this same face of mine looking like the same face of mine for all time. It's because I'm staying right where I am. Down here. Down the rabbit hole. With Alice, with Tweedledee, Dum, Dormouse and...you, if you'll remain delighted enough to stay.
Of course, there can't be a sequence without a consequence (though I've yet to see a prosequence for proper balance) and this sequence causes a doozy. The downside of staying down here is that I'll never again be a pirate. My ahoys will be reserved for rather unusual maties in all three of Underland's dimensions. And for you, of course, if you'll stay enlightened enough to remain here.
Think of the possibilities! The tea! My scods, think of the tea! An unending buffet of Earl's Grey and Pearl's Green. We wouldn't need anything else. We would have Tweedledum, Dee, Cheshire, the White Queen and...well, you'll stay, too, won't you? We could all have each other. We could all have each other. We couldn't all hate each other...
Just drink three potions and we'll stay delightfully heavy here in Underland. The first potion makes you small; so small that you could fit inside, say, a hat. Not my hat, necessarily, but just any old hat, really. The second potion turn you the hue of all the brightest colors. The third potion will keep my face on the reflection of your eyes forever and ever. And when you sleep, I'll sleep inside of your eyelids. And when you wake, I'll look back at you in the mirror. And when you look away, you'll be looking my a-way.
And we'll never, ever not not hate each other. You'll stay. I'll stay. We'll live in wonder and you'll never have to wonder about pirates ships, or demon haircuts, or chocolate factories, or headless horse riders. You'll just see me, Hatter.
And you won't be sorry.
You know that I know that you pay, with dignity, many dirty green fibers to see me appear larger than I am in reality. I am louder, I am more looming, and I could very well crush all of you in your seats if I was gifted with another dimension--though I wouldn't! And when you look at my huge face it is never the same as it has been before, though you could call it similar. Very similar, indeed. So much so that you think you've seen it somewhere before--which you have because it's always my face, you see.
But!
Did you know...? I used to have scissors for digits! Yes, yes, and drank myself drunk on rum on a boat on a film stage! Not so long ago, I sang and murdered and barbered and...where was I?
My face!
Of course, there can't be a sequence without a consequence (though I've yet to see a prosequence for proper balance) and this sequence causes a doozy. The downside of staying down here is that I'll never again be a pirate. My ahoys will be reserved for rather unusual maties in all three of Underland's dimensions. And for you, of course, if you'll stay enlightened enough to remain here.
Think of the possibilities! The tea! My scods, think of the tea! An unending buffet of Earl's Grey and Pearl's Green. We wouldn't need anything else. We would have Tweedledum, Dee, Cheshire, the White Queen and...well, you'll stay, too, won't you? We could all have each other. We could all have each other. We couldn't all hate each other...
Just drink three potions and we'll stay delightfully heavy here in Underland. The first potion makes you small; so small that you could fit inside, say, a hat. Not my hat, necessarily, but just any old hat, really. The second potion turn you the hue of all the brightest colors. The third potion will keep my face on the reflection of your eyes forever and ever. And when you sleep, I'll sleep inside of your eyelids. And when you wake, I'll look back at you in the mirror. And when you look away, you'll be looking my a-way.
And we'll never, ever not not hate each other. You'll stay. I'll stay. We'll live in wonder and you'll never have to wonder about pirates ships, or demon haircuts, or chocolate factories, or headless horse riders. You'll just see me, Hatter.
And you won't be sorry.
June 3, 2010
What's In a Band Name?
Somewhere among the bongos and steel guitars and Van Halen posters and Iggy Pop records, perhaps beneath the abandoned love letters to Whitney Houston or behind the KISS lunchbox collection, or even in between the Stoli vodka bottle and the empty 12-pack of PBR, sits an identity crisis. It's collecting dust, much like the second Proclaimers cassette mix on the floor.
Four different walks of life with four favorite bands, four favorite lead singers, and three favorite guitar solos (coincidentally, two share common ground in appreciation for Hendrix's underrated shredding on "Stone Free") have formed a group of their own. They've recorded two songs, mused up enough lyrics to fill a barn with 12-point Times New Roman font, and are nearing their first gig. But when they are called up to the stage to open for the Foreigner cover band--Feels Like the First Time Again--how will they be announced to the crowd? As an overly complex, pretentious clan of Thom Yorke devotees? Or maybe they'll come off as simpletons; hillbillies flailing their fingers in hopes to make something resembling music? Or worse yet, with complete silence--only a finger point and "here are...some musicians!"
They are, as America would say, a horse with no name.
The most optimistic voice in the group is also the most talkative, which makes sense. He is the lead vocalist, after all. When Allan (who will soon add a third 'L' to his name for extra sex appeal) is alone for too long, his throat starts vibrating the theme songs to his favorite 80s sitcoms out of habit--though he can rarely make it all the way through Growing Pains without tearing up.
It's a rallying cry that has landed on deaf ears. Hours into the naming debate, defeat burrowed itself into three pairs of eyes. But not Alllan's.
Alllan's iPod is a melodic rainbow. Green Day, Blue Oyster Cult, Pink Floyd, The Black Crowes, Silverchair, Deep Purple, Sister Hazel, The White Stripes...
And while he loves their music, he's never felt a connection to their names. Unimaginative and vague. There's too much wiggle room in a name like that. The best band names will stand out for their uniqueness and the punch behind them. What's unique about red? Not a goddamn thing.
As much as Alllan dislikes bands named for colors, he hates ones named for numbers even more. Blink-182? What the hell does that even mean? The B-52s have an outstanding body of work but should have spent a little less time dedicating songs to crustaceans and a little more time working out that name. Numbers got a big resurgence with that whole pop-punk trend from the nineties: Sum 41, 311, Eve 6, SR-71, 3rd Eye Blind. He really needs to start listening to that last Eve 6 record a lot more though, because it was surprisingly terrific.
Maroon 5 fucked themselves from the start, joining the worst of evils into one name. Never had a chance. And that's not going to happen for...for...well, for whatever these guys end up calling themselves.
Wayne is an idiot. That's why he's a drummer.
Points for trying, though. It's about time someone else got in on the action. Too bad that someone has to be Wayne, though. Give him a pair of sticks and the guy's a genius. Give him a thought and he's a fucking moron.
Great band names are special and you know it right when you hear them. The best ones roll off the tongue and stick to your brain. Two words? Three at most, probably. The Beatles. Metallica. Journey. On the other hand, a lot of them tend to sound kind of silly the first few times you hear them. The DJ says, "here's the new rocker, Bullet With Butterfly Wings from the Smashing Pumpkins!" And you think, what did he say? Isn't it July? Halloween is months away, guy.
Blank Gray Straw presents their breakthrough album "Dull Farm." It just peaked at #798 album on the Billboard Hot 1,000.
Alllan knows that the name isn't really their biggest problem. The real issue here is that there's no sense of direction within the band. There's just too much going on to have any cohesion. What are they about? What do they sound like? To describe the band's sound in one word would be a nearly impossible task. "The Ballad of the Toad in My Basement" is clearly goth pop/folk rock. But "Steel Pants Dance" could get lumped in with 70s punk blues metal. And what's "Johnny Grossman and the Lumberjack's Extra Molar?" Alternative hillbilly funk, maybe?
Alllan and Boris, the bassist, have always been just a page apart musically. Aside from their aforementioned appreciation of Hendrix's style of guitar solos, they can never quite agree on what is best, but they're never too far apart. For instance, Boris thinks Def Leppard's Pyromania was the greatest record to come out of the hair metal era, while Alllan thinks its Leppard's Hysteria. Same ground, different type of dirt. So if Wayne has CCR's Greatest Hits on loop for too long or if Tommy (the lead guitarist) starts lecturing about the purity of the Styx discography, Alllan and Boris give each other knowing glances and wander off to share headphones full of The Fratellis.
Names now fly around the room at a mile a minute, which prompts Tommy to suggest Mile a Minute as a possible band name. It's thrown out in jest, really--he's secluded himself from the discussion by making animal shapes out of his shoe laces, so the suggestion is covered in sarcasm (and the smell of sweaty tennis shoes). But it lingers in the air long enough for it to sink into everyone's subconsciousness. And silently, each person--even Tommy--allows themselves to fantasize about the moniker; the first album cover, the cheering crowd demanding an encore, their faces on the cover of Rolling Stone.
And it's not perfect, but it's them. What is perfect anyways? Perfect is boring, especially perfect music. No, Mile a Minute is something better than perfect--it's sudden and constant. It reflects their souls. It celebrates their aggression, surely, as well as the way their thoughts and emotions run. For them, it's balance.
Most importantly, though, it's something they can all agree on. A phrase to unite four separate beings.
And a fucking killer logo to put on t-shirts.
Four different walks of life with four favorite bands, four favorite lead singers, and three favorite guitar solos (coincidentally, two share common ground in appreciation for Hendrix's underrated shredding on "Stone Free") have formed a group of their own. They've recorded two songs, mused up enough lyrics to fill a barn with 12-point Times New Roman font, and are nearing their first gig. But when they are called up to the stage to open for the Foreigner cover band--Feels Like the First Time Again--how will they be announced to the crowd? As an overly complex, pretentious clan of Thom Yorke devotees? Or maybe they'll come off as simpletons; hillbillies flailing their fingers in hopes to make something resembling music? Or worse yet, with complete silence--only a finger point and "here are...some musicians!"
They are, as America would say, a horse with no name.
The most optimistic voice in the group is also the most talkative, which makes sense. He is the lead vocalist, after all. When Allan (who will soon add a third 'L' to his name for extra sex appeal) is alone for too long, his throat starts vibrating the theme songs to his favorite 80s sitcoms out of habit--though he can rarely make it all the way through Growing Pains without tearing up.
"We're in your face! Ya know? Like, we're right there and we're not leaving, is the thing! We don't take "no" for an answer because we didn't ask you a fucking question! We just tell you what we're going to do and then do it!"
It's a rallying cry that has landed on deaf ears. Hours into the naming debate, defeat burrowed itself into three pairs of eyes. But not Alllan's.
"So we should tell people that with our name!"
Alllan's iPod is a melodic rainbow. Green Day, Blue Oyster Cult, Pink Floyd, The Black Crowes, Silverchair, Deep Purple, Sister Hazel, The White Stripes...
And while he loves their music, he's never felt a connection to their names. Unimaginative and vague. There's too much wiggle room in a name like that. The best band names will stand out for their uniqueness and the punch behind them. What's unique about red? Not a goddamn thing.
"But we're deep, too, is the other thing. We're a bunch of guys who like to break strings and push shit over, but when it gets down to the core of us as a band, we've got sentimental souls, right? So let's tell 'em right up front that we're some emotional dudes."
As much as Alllan dislikes bands named for colors, he hates ones named for numbers even more. Blink-182? What the hell does that even mean? The B-52s have an outstanding body of work but should have spent a little less time dedicating songs to crustaceans and a little more time working out that name. Numbers got a big resurgence with that whole pop-punk trend from the nineties: Sum 41, 311, Eve 6, SR-71, 3rd Eye Blind. He really needs to start listening to that last Eve 6 record a lot more though, because it was surprisingly terrific.
Maroon 5 fucked themselves from the start, joining the worst of evils into one name. Never had a chance. And that's not going to happen for...for...well, for whatever these guys end up calling themselves.
"We're kind of a yin and yang balance, when you think about it. Like, we're hard as bullets but we're soft as crushed velvet..."
"VELVET BULLETS!"
Wayne is an idiot. That's why he's a drummer.
"Velvet Bullets is too close to Velvet Revolver, which was already too close to Guns N Roses."
Points for trying, though. It's about time someone else got in on the action. Too bad that someone has to be Wayne, though. Give him a pair of sticks and the guy's a genius. Give him a thought and he's a fucking moron.
Great band names are special and you know it right when you hear them. The best ones roll off the tongue and stick to your brain. Two words? Three at most, probably. The Beatles. Metallica. Journey. On the other hand, a lot of them tend to sound kind of silly the first few times you hear them. The DJ says, "here's the new rocker, Bullet With Butterfly Wings from the Smashing Pumpkins!" And you think, what did he say? Isn't it July? Halloween is months away, guy.
"It's got to be a declaration! Something that tells our fans that--"
"Fan. Mitch Whitford. He's the only one registered on our PureVolume profile."
"Fine. We need something that tells Mitch Whitford that we've got creative juices dripping down our legs and the name is just the start. Because I've got news, guys: no one's coming to a show to see Blank Gray Straw."
Blank Gray Straw presents their breakthrough album "Dull Farm." It just peaked at #798 album on the Billboard Hot 1,000.
Alllan knows that the name isn't really their biggest problem. The real issue here is that there's no sense of direction within the band. There's just too much going on to have any cohesion. What are they about? What do they sound like? To describe the band's sound in one word would be a nearly impossible task. "The Ballad of the Toad in My Basement" is clearly goth pop/folk rock. But "Steel Pants Dance" could get lumped in with 70s punk blues metal. And what's "Johnny Grossman and the Lumberjack's Extra Molar?" Alternative hillbilly funk, maybe?
"We're not getting anywhere just sitting here. Let's start throwing stuff against the wall and see what sticks! All right? Now, whatever our name is, it should provoke action!"
"Developing Face Cancer."
"It needs to be more optimistic than that."
"Racing With the Wind?"
"Manlier! It's got to have some balls, guys!"
"Fucker Heart!"
"Maybe a little less vulgar..."
"Earth Hammers!"
"Well, that's...that's not actually that bad. Ooh..."
"Raising the Living! Practical Drunks! Smite With Breakfast!"
"Holy God, when did you get good at this game? Let's keep the magic rolling..."
"Muffin Box Frenzy!"
"Oh, okay. You're done."
Alllan and Boris, the bassist, have always been just a page apart musically. Aside from their aforementioned appreciation of Hendrix's style of guitar solos, they can never quite agree on what is best, but they're never too far apart. For instance, Boris thinks Def Leppard's Pyromania was the greatest record to come out of the hair metal era, while Alllan thinks its Leppard's Hysteria. Same ground, different type of dirt. So if Wayne has CCR's Greatest Hits on loop for too long or if Tommy (the lead guitarist) starts lecturing about the purity of the Styx discography, Alllan and Boris give each other knowing glances and wander off to share headphones full of The Fratellis.
Names now fly around the room at a mile a minute, which prompts Tommy to suggest Mile a Minute as a possible band name. It's thrown out in jest, really--he's secluded himself from the discussion by making animal shapes out of his shoe laces, so the suggestion is covered in sarcasm (and the smell of sweaty tennis shoes). But it lingers in the air long enough for it to sink into everyone's subconsciousness. And silently, each person--even Tommy--allows themselves to fantasize about the moniker; the first album cover, the cheering crowd demanding an encore, their faces on the cover of Rolling Stone.
And it's not perfect, but it's them. What is perfect anyways? Perfect is boring, especially perfect music. No, Mile a Minute is something better than perfect--it's sudden and constant. It reflects their souls. It celebrates their aggression, surely, as well as the way their thoughts and emotions run. For them, it's balance.
Most importantly, though, it's something they can all agree on. A phrase to unite four separate beings.
And a fucking killer logo to put on t-shirts.
December 8, 2009
Rock Supergroups Combine to Make Ultimagroup.
In a press release from a small studio in Burbank, California, it has been declared that some of rock music's most recognizable superstars have joined together to form perhaps the biggest rock band the world will ever know. The many iconic musicians were pulled together from existing groups by the King of Side Projects, Dave Grohl.
Grohl, whom you might remember from grunge side note Nirvana, had also organized a failed supergroup called Probot, which featured Lemmy of Motorhead fame, in 2004. Throughout the years, Grohl has also been sighted behind the drum kit for bands like Killing Joke, Tommy Iommi, Tenacious D, Queens of the Stone Age, Garbage, Cat Power, Nine-Inch Nails, Juliette and the Licks, Pete Yorn, Paul McCartney, The Prodigy, and also sang back-up vocals for a toaster in his kitchen.
This new project is being said to be something "far beyond a supergroup." Needing a new word to describe the sheer hugeness of the band, they have been dubbed an "omega-group."
Inside the packed studio were music heroes from the last two decades, of all ages and all sub-genres. United for the common cause of rocking like a hurricane.
Although no cameras or recording gear of any kind were allowed inside the studio at the time of the announcement, the following list of names has been distributed:
Though no songs have been released, recorded, or even written at this point, the music industry has already placed the group's upcoming album, Too Much To Handle, at #1 on every major music chart in the universe.
Grohl, whom you might remember from grunge side note Nirvana, had also organized a failed supergroup called Probot, which featured Lemmy of Motorhead fame, in 2004. Throughout the years, Grohl has also been sighted behind the drum kit for bands like Killing Joke, Tommy Iommi, Tenacious D, Queens of the Stone Age, Garbage, Cat Power, Nine-Inch Nails, Juliette and the Licks, Pete Yorn, Paul McCartney, The Prodigy, and also sang back-up vocals for a toaster in his kitchen.
This new project is being said to be something "far beyond a supergroup." Needing a new word to describe the sheer hugeness of the band, they have been dubbed an "omega-group."
Inside the packed studio were music heroes from the last two decades, of all ages and all sub-genres. United for the common cause of rocking like a hurricane.
Although no cameras or recording gear of any kind were allowed inside the studio at the time of the announcement, the following list of names has been distributed:
- Scott Weiland and Slash of Velvet Revolver
- Chris Cornell of Audioslave and Temple of the Dog
- Eddie Vedder of Temple of the Dog
- Jack White of The Raconteurs and The Dead Weather
- Travis Barker of The Transplants
- Tom DeLonge of Angels and Airwaves
- Billy Corgan of Zwan
- Ted Nugent of Damn Yankees and Damnocracy
- John Paul Jones of Them Crooked Vultures
- Bob Dylan and Tom Petty of The Traveling Wilburys
Pictured: The greatest band ever.
Though no songs have been released, recorded, or even written at this point, the music industry has already placed the group's upcoming album, Too Much To Handle, at #1 on every major music chart in the universe.
November 23, 2009
Poet, Celebrity, Creeper.
My name is on your lips, on your best friend's heart.
I eclipse politics, religion, and everything near or far.
I am on your lunchbox, inside your idiot box too.
I'm stitched into your clothing, my t-shirt wears you.
I'm staring, bare-chested on your wall.
My hand's on my phone, awaiting your call.
We live in the same world, only mental blocks away.
We're breathing the same air, pumped through the same veins.
I am outside your window.
I am under your skin.
I am David Hasselhoff,
And I'm coming in.
- Sincerely,
David
November 16, 2009
Netflix Kills Thousands. Yet to Be Brought to Justice.
Mass murder doesn't require guns, blades, detonators, mental defects, or the capacity for feelings. Sometimes it just takes a system of technology bent on mischief. Case in point: Netflix kills hundreds of people every year. How? Aside from the dozens of parents whom, whether due to laziness or sheer lack of intelligence, put Harry Rotter and the On-Fire Gobbling into their queue and put their toddlers into epileptic shock from the overwhelming amount of man-on-woman-on-wizard action, there are the unfortunate renters who have fallen victim to a curse.
The curse in question is derived from the popular Japanese-horror-knockoffs The Ring (2002) and The Ring Two (2005), wherein the main characters die under mysterious circumstances exactly seven days after watching a videotape. Director Gore Verbinski was foolish enough to include actual footage from the videotape in both films--footage that causes viewers of The Ring series to find themselves dead after seven days. Now one might argue that you can't blame Netflix for simply carrying the two films--after all, Blockbuster and all other major media retailers stock both films on their shelves--but you can certainly blame Netflix for not including any sort of disclaimer on the packaging, warning potential viewers of the inherent risks.
Fact: The Ring is distributed most often through Netflix than any other retailer. Fact: The Ring kills people. Assumption: Netflix is responsible for more Ring-related deaths than any company on the planet.
Need more evidence? Inclusion of The Ring in members of Netflix's outgoing queues have increased drastically since 2007. Oddly, most people who find the title waiting in their list claim that they have no recollection of putting it there, but decide that perhaps they should see the once-raved horror flick anyways. Netflix also has a function on their website that automatically gives suggestions for related viewing based on what their customers have recently watched or rated. Regardless of what films the customer likes or hates, The Ring will show up in the suggested viewing box. Liked The Big Lebowski? You'll love The Ring. Liked Wall-E? You'll love The Ring. Hated The Ring? You'll Love The Ring Two. (Also, you will love The Ring.)
Is Netflix cursed? If so, is Netflix actively passing the curse along to its unwitting customers? Or is this a conspiracy enacted by Netflix to wipe out a part of the population that enjoys renting movies from the Internet? And will the next step be to target all online shoppers? Is Overstock.com going to start engraving spooky images into their jewelry?
Only time will tell. But know this, Netflix: we've got our eye on you.
The curse in question is derived from the popular Japanese-horror-knockoffs The Ring (2002) and The Ring Two (2005), wherein the main characters die under mysterious circumstances exactly seven days after watching a videotape. Director Gore Verbinski was foolish enough to include actual footage from the videotape in both films--footage that causes viewers of The Ring series to find themselves dead after seven days. Now one might argue that you can't blame Netflix for simply carrying the two films--after all, Blockbuster and all other major media retailers stock both films on their shelves--but you can certainly blame Netflix for not including any sort of disclaimer on the packaging, warning potential viewers of the inherent risks.
Fact: The Ring is distributed most often through Netflix than any other retailer. Fact: The Ring kills people. Assumption: Netflix is responsible for more Ring-related deaths than any company on the planet.
Need more evidence? Inclusion of The Ring in members of Netflix's outgoing queues have increased drastically since 2007. Oddly, most people who find the title waiting in their list claim that they have no recollection of putting it there, but decide that perhaps they should see the once-raved horror flick anyways. Netflix also has a function on their website that automatically gives suggestions for related viewing based on what their customers have recently watched or rated. Regardless of what films the customer likes or hates, The Ring will show up in the suggested viewing box. Liked The Big Lebowski? You'll love The Ring. Liked Wall-E? You'll love The Ring. Hated The Ring? You'll Love The Ring Two. (Also, you will love The Ring.)
Only time will tell. But know this, Netflix: we've got our eye on you.
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