WELL, HEY GUY. WHAT'S THAT YOU SAY?



I do miss the Internet. I genuinely do. There are time when I'm sitting at my desk and I think about writing on a blog, but then I resort to looking at pictures of sneakers that won't be out for another seven months. It's weird. To not be productive, to invest so much time in wasting so much time. And to be honest, whenever I do feel this genuine spurt of creativity, the need to write, I wonder aloud, Twitter.

There are so many people updating their Twitter, their blogs, their Facebook feeds that quite frankly it seems selfish of me to contribute to that mass noise. Jerry mentioned to me that information is made up of atoms and one day we'll have so much out there that we may run out of atoms. An extreme outcome, or more likely an episode of The Twilight Zone (TZ, totes miss you! Pouring some out for you, homey), but think of this constant flow of more. A water faucet pouring at full force. This weeks New York Magazine features a Johnny-come-lately cover devoted to this Brooklyn music scene, maybe you've heard of it, but this is not another exhausting attempt at canonizing the Dirty Projectors (one, because I don't like them), rather, a side bar devoted to Brooklyn's digital tastemakers. One specific comment by one of these influential voices resonated with me not for the reason she intended:

"“There were eight to ten really big music blogs when I started. Now there are probably a hundred. Everything seems over saturated and overwhelming.”

Granted this quote in response to "The problem with Brooklyn is:" is solely in reference to music but the thing about this comment that poked me in my proverbial brain/eye is not that there are a lot of blogs out there. There are. But rather, everyone thinks that theirs is important. Theirs is the one of the first eight to ten that started this whole blog explosion. We were here first. We did it. Flag of ME planted here. Count it. But that's not the case. Everyone was doing it. We all did it. 2003 (when I first got it) was the year of YES LET'S GET A BLOG ASAP NOW GET IT REGISTER NOW!!!! And now, what, six years later there are exponentially more blogs out there. Everything seems over saturated and overwhelming. What's the point, NY Mag?

And here is the difference. I ask myself, did I start this to write to people? Am I writing to you? Yes. However....
But am I foremost writing to write? To put words out there? Yes too. Why not a journal? I hate writing with a pen. Why not write in Microsoft Word? That's a memoir. I'm writing here in the massive ocean of bloggityblogs because, danrnitt, I love you, Internet. You've been good to me. I want to be good back.

LOL....NOT!



Hey, kids! Do you remember "original?" You don't? Oh, snap. It's 2009. Original [insert hot model German accent here] iz either in or eet's out.

So, do you know what stopped being funny? The Simpsons. You know what continues to be funny. "Your mom" jokes. That will never, ever not be funny. Impossible. Your mom is impossible. Ha. See? Hilarious.

Sunday night's episode of The Simpsons was so unfunny that I found myself frowning at the end credits. For emoticon users, this is what I looked like: ): except I have a "strong" nose situated somewhere in there.
So yeah, what about that 20-year old cartoon...the jokes aren't fresh, the plot lines are out-dated (Ultimate Fighting? Really?), and worst of all, there's nothing even remotely provocative about the plot lines. And this is in a time when just about every animated series on television--including (The Backyardigans does in fact address homelessness) is provocative.

But even more bothersome than Groening's lame attempt to stir it up is Seth McFarlane's Sunday night domination. I feel like his three shows-- Family Guy, The Cleveland Show, and American Dad -- aren't even coy about being the same show for three episodes in a row. I mean, the Griffin fam is totes lol with those mad-cap pop culture references, but really, can we please mix it up? Throw in a talking bear for diversity for God's sake?
Wait, what?
You mean there already is one?

Sunday nights suck.

NO MILLIONS FOR YOU



I am not a millionaire. Sad news, that. But cool on you for voting. Much obliged. And besides, who needs a million dollars when you have love? Right? Right?

Recently, I saw U2 perform a rock show, and then a week later, I caught Sufjan Stevens at the Bowery Ballroom. Well, hello, the opposite of intimacy. Meet intimacy.

Time is flying by as the fall approaches, and it's been a crazy year yet the blog posts have been minimal. Stupid.

Here's what you should be listening to:

Duh:
1. Florence & The Machine. Wonderful debut record. And rumor has it that the Machine in question was made in Japan, and we all know they make better machines there. Period.

Not So Duh:
1. Le Loup. Yes, there are a lot of links here to click, but they all open in new windows so you won't lose me, and, besides, they're worth it. When you take a random trip on the Internet, it always pays off.

The Opposite of Duh:
1. The Beatles. Who are these guys? They sound like a lot of other bands but it feels good to my ears. Yummy.
No, seriously. I'm kidding. I know who the Beatles are. My favorite song is definitely that song on that video game. You know the one.

Anyway, talk to you tomorrow. Write me. I miss you.

By the way, I'm not gonna lie. Letterman has always kind of creeped me out. Don't get me wrong, he's funny but in the way that someone half-jokingly tells you that they're going to hurt you and you kind of think that maybe they will, maybe they won't. Who knows what's happening behind those icy eyes?

THE MILLION DOLLAR PUPPY

What's prompted me to return to the Sincere Cave after having not visited for a month? I'm hoping that you'll help me--all twelve of you--in winning a million dollars.

See, we have a puppy. His name is Barrett. We talk about him ad nauseum. You know those people who shows pictures of their kids to friends? We're like that. Except those pictures are infinitely more adorable. Case in point:



Ridiculous, right? A big ridiculous cake with ridiculous frosting with ridiculous cream filling inside. Well, we've entered Barrett in a contest to win a million dollars. It's the Cutest Dog Competition and we'd like to win. All you have to do is vote every day for the next five days. It's not that hard. You go here and vote. And voila--I'm that much closer to a million dollars.

Admit it. It would be pretty cool to say, I know a guy who got a puppy and entered a contest and won a million dollars. No, seriously.
I know, right? So cool.

THE EARS OF ENGLAND

The ears of England are different from ours with listening preferences almost contrary to ours (how else do you explain their impassioned love to Kings of Leon?). Aside from our shared appreciation for Michael Jackson, whatever is popular there will most likely remain “underrated” here.

Little Boots, who seemed destined for Williamsburg heroism but is being met with apathy, is a UK mainstream staple and the cover story of a major newspaper’s weekly magazine circular. Ads for La Roux’s self-titled debut are plastered everywhere, in the underground, on train platforms, and all across the walls of the outdoor markets (her song “Bulletproof” is #2 on the UK’s Top 40 chart). Skinny-jeaned pop maestros are releasing thoroughly enjoyable and calorie-free synth records that, in the event that they do get a domestic release here, will most likely be ignored. Why is this? Why is it that there’s such an inherent disparity between our tastes?

Firstly, the Brits get a bad rap for taking themselves seriously. But it’s actually the opposite. Right now, you can find critically acclaimed theater/musical versions of the movies Sister Act, Priscilla Queen of the Desert, and Dirty Dancing (among others). This is preposterous but also very true. They love ridiculousness as sweet as their superior chocolate. And the reason for this lack of self-seriousness, I think, is that the act of “keeping it real” is rather unimportant to the Brits. Authenticity or posturing is an American fixation, the Guinea pig treadmill of authenticity, whether it is found in hip-hop (street cred) or in indie rock (selling out) and in rock (Creed as a punchline, anyone?). The British pop charts are completely uninterested in authenticity, and the sincere championing of Lady GaGa, the Black Eyed Peas, and Katy Perry actually proves this. In fact, those three aforementioned artists aren’t categorized as guilty pleasures. In the UK, they are simply pleasures. This is not to say that their music should be encouraged, and that there are not exceptions to this (there are plenty of British snobs), but for the most part, the Brits have no problem with Kasabian and the Arctic Monkeys playing on the radio alongside Keri Hilson and Jordan Sparks. This isn’t even perceived as strange.

And I think this is why Little Boots, La Roux, Dan Black, FrankMusik, et al., are so popular over there, but not over here, because they sit at the confusing intersection of substance and shallow. They look like rockers, they dress like rockers, they hang out with rockers, yet they’re not rockers. Their photo shoots and interview quotes would convince you that they take themselves very seriously, but when they perform it's obvious that they don't. They compose mainstream pop music that our mothers and dentists and d.j.’s can still enjoy. Paradoxically, American mainstream pop artists have to remain pure in their chosen direction of popness and any deviation from that normally confuses us to the point of shunning them. See Mandy Moore’s half-decade quest to transition from pop tween to a legitimate singer/songwriter—PS, it’s not working. Or note the resentment for Chris Cornell, a quintessential rocker, when he recorded with Timbaland. Or how about the fact that we could tolerate Oasis’s Beatles fixation for an album or two, at most, yet in England, they are still heroes.

And this, ultimately, is why I enjoy British radio, because whenever I hear it, I am always surprised by what I am able to like. These are just some of the choice cuts from my two weeks in the U.K. Chances are you'll never hear them here.

DAN BLACK - "Symphonies"

FRANKMUSIK - "Confusion Girl"

MAGISTRATES - "Heartbreak"

V.V. BROWN - "Shark In The Water"

LA ROUX - "Bulletproof"

CHEW LIPS - "Salt Air"

YOU'RE JUST A BUFFET



I liked Michael Jackson. I mean, really, who didn't? And it makes perfect sense that the mourners have come out of the wood work in droves lamenting over a tragic life ostensibly ruined by eccentricities and deviant behavior.

It's also inarguable that there was some genius there and yes, records like Thriller, and chunks of Off The Wall and Bad, respectively, are nostalgic wonders. But while thinking about it--and how could you not think about your personal relationship with the self-anointed King of Pop--I don't think I had ever owned a Michael Jackson record until a few years back when I had received some remastered promos while running my university's radio station. And I wondered about this. If everyone in the world bopped to school with an MJ cassette in their Walkman, then why hadn't I?

While many are categorizing his music as R&B, Jackson interestingly never referred to himself as the King of that silky smooth genre. He wanted to tackle pop, an aesthetic that both supersedes race and age and also intentionally defies substance. Pop is not the chosen outlet for the politically outspoken nor is it it heady or divisive. It is mass culture, it is mainstream, it is a hit, a song for the world. When he was at the top of the charts, Jackson was quite possibly the most popular person in the world, and at the time, it would have been unfathomable that one day he would take a sharp left turn off of Normal Road and wind up being the butt of our mean-spirited pedophile jokes. And so, way back in the 80's, Jackson was the furthest from being the underdog and this was something I could not relate to. I couldn't imagine being that popular, being that universally acclaimed, existing as a brand almost as ubiquitous as Coke. It seemed overwhelming and huge and stressful and abnormal. Like a modern day god, mythology, worshiping, surreal pedestal high and tall. Perhaps I'm giving myself too much credit, but in a way, I may have predicted his bizarre downfall. I may have wondered about just how long MJ could handle this unprecedented level of fame (I would venture to say that he is and was more popular than Elvis) when especially considering his ostentatious lifestyle. And through this, maybe I distanced myself. Why invest in a personality doomed for self-immolation?

Or maybe I was jealous that I couldn't dance for s***.

I WANNA BE YOUR DOG



After weeks, maybe months, of driving to faraway shelters and adoption drives, Shana and I had finally found our puppy. Barrett C. Dworken, nearly four months old, is the latest addition to our family, and in truth, I had no idea that you could become so attached so quickly.

Shana had a dog growing up so this emotional connection is old hat, but for me, it's quite strange to feel so connected to an animal. I had always loved dogs, had enjoyed playing with them, and in the dog/cat-person argument, I would always insist that dogs were actual pets while cats were the mammal equivalent of house decorations.
And ever since Barrett came into our home a week back, he has since then burrowed a permanent place in my heart (I acknowledge the inherent cheesiness of said statement and its cliched implication, but really, I would have never said anything like it before I had a dog).

He is playful, obedient (somewhat), and incredibly sweet. I should say that we are rather lucky to have a dog with his disposition, but this is not to say that there aren't any issues. Barrett has not learned how to walk with a leash (this will take some time), and he's fully equipped with a genuine separation anxiety. The latter is a result of Shana's expressive spoiling.

Recently, though, I have encountered two types of reactions to Barrett: there's the friend who is thrilled, supportive, and complimentary, and then there's the friend who asks, why? And in truth, I can't articulate the reasoning for getting a dog (aside from Shana's constant campaigning for one). If I had known the huge responsibility and the expense involved in raising a puppy, I'm not sure I would have been so agreeable. But in retrospect, it's better that I wasn't aware because as I look over to my right and see him resting on his side on our living room floor, I can't imagine life without him from hereon in.

WHY WE'RE HERE



Jenny says this is "totally true!" If it is, this sort of nails us all. But whatever...

LIKE A FINE WINE OR CHEESE


A lot of candles on this cake=old. You got that, right?

You missed my birthday but let's not make a big deal out of it. I'm old. Seriously. O-L-D.

Last week, I went to see Green Day at one of their "smaller, intimate shows", and I stood, on my right, next to a middle-aged man in a charcoal gray sports jacket with peppered black hair and a "hey, I'm having a good time"-smirk across his face throughout the performance. See, guy was so happy to be away from responsibilities like taxes, bills, children and programming DVR's, and I got that. Then on my left, stood, rather, pogoing a twenty-something dude thrilled to be there, pumping fists at every chorus, feeling, no, FEELING Green Day. Looking to my right and to my left, I had a moment. Like had it been a television show, the action would have slowed down and there would been a Death Cab For Cutie song playing in the background. There also would've been a voice-over involving a "how did it get here" realization, "where am I?" awakening and/or "what does it all mean?"

Thing is, I realized at this exact moment that I was old because I felt myself relating so much more to Pepper Hair than to Fist Boy.

And it's been pretty much downhill since then.

STRAIGHT-TO-DVD-SAY-WHAT?



It must've been a rough time for Matthew McConaughey when he agreed to do this movie. Note that this film is real but has somehow remained buried in obscurity until comedian Paul Scheer recently yanked it from the netherworld.

My favorite part is about a 1:28 in when you see this:



I know Jews, Matt, and you my friend are no Jew.

DO YOU HAVE THE TIME...?*


"I care about what Arye says thiiiiis much"

Hey, world! Wonder what I'm thinking about the new Green Day record?
Yeah? YEAH!

Well, here it is.
No, not here. Over here!

*Major bonus points if you got this reference.