Howdy folks! It's been awhile, and what better way to get things cracking than a little teen celeb trash? So...
Guess who's preggers? Jamie Lynn Spears - aka Britney 2.0 - the younger Spears sis. Because I no longer watch Nickelodeon for anything but Spongebob Squarepants I had no idea that Jamie was a teen star. I also had no idea she was 16. Yup! The good ol' Spears DNA kicks in again! It's a tiny mutation on the X chormosome that causes females of the Spears persuasion to wonder to themselves "Hm, I'm young and successful and managed to claw my way out of white trash obscurity before getting my first period... now how can I fuck it all up?" And fuck it up she does, ladies and gentlemen, because Jamie Lynn has proudly announced that she's KEEPING IT!
In such deja-vu situations I always find myself doing a little bit of mental rewinding, if for no other reason than to slaver over what delightful headlines we'll be seeing in the next few years...
1) "SPEARS (VERSION 2.0) LEAVES CHILD IN CAR SEAT ON DRIVE HOME" 2) "SPEARS 2.0'S CHILDREN FOUND NAKED AND ALONE WITH ONLY TWINKIES TO EAT" 3) "MOTHER OF SPEARS 2.0 DEFENDS DAUGHTER'S PARENTING - 'At least she's not Britney!'" etc........
Personally I couldn't be more excited about the whole mess, mostly because Jamie's baby-daddy is waaaaaay hotter than K-Fed.
His name is Casey Aldridge, he's 18, and quite frankly I wish I was pregnant with his child too. On the other hand, I'm looking forward to reviewing the razor-like wit contained in the soundbytes this Mississippi savant is sure to soon set afloat in the media. If he's hotter than Federline, then he's probably also more of an idiot, so my guess is that barring her giving the child a bottle of moonshine before nap time, Jamie just might hold on to this one.
Jamie's going to raise the upcoming child back home in Louisiana so it can "live a normal life." HA!, that's the best one yet.
So I was surfing youtube to find the best mockeries of Miss Teen South Carolina's speech about Americans and their grasp of world affairs (read: pure irony), and instead stumbled across a collection of absolute short-film gems!
They are a series of shorts featuring "The Most Awkward Boy In the World". My favorite:
Sure, I wouldn't mind massaging awkward boy myself, but it's hilarious, no?
I also recommend the shorts featuring him riding an elevator, enjoying a hot tub, and paying a fare.
These clips' sheer comedic superiority over any half-wit South Carolinian's bumblings only go to show one thing - New York's sheer superiority over everything. That's right, Awkward Boy is in New York, as am I, and we're better than you.
Unless you're a New Yorker too. In which case, congrats man! Aren't we cool?
-booziebee
PS - Fuck, I couldn't really resist taking my own quick kick in Miss Teen Idiot's cretinous ribs. You might as well educate yourself as to why:
Apparently these people couldn't help but kick her as well:
If there's sometime that we continually find in life, it's new equations that equal "gay". Whether it be something simple like fratguy + booze, or more complex like new years hotel celebration + marie antoinette movie on payperview + ecstacy + gaping face wound, it all ends the same. Gay. Here's a new one I just found:
Diana Ross + Vegas + the 1970's
Please see below
I hope you watched that video with some respect, because at least three quarters of those dancers have since contracted/died of AIDS.
That's right, free love + horribly deadly communicable virus + 30 years = bummer.
World's fattest man. He happens to be Mexican. Come on people, I'm really tossing you a lob here, can you please make fun of this person? I'm thinking Jabba the Hut. I'm thinking the tastefully pulled piece of cloth over the crotch (like Senor Fatso's dick has seen the light of day since 1982). Anything! I'd mock the creature myself, but I need to make another trip to the restroom to vomit whatever's left of my stomach contents.
Ahoy hoy! We of the hive must apologize to our faithful fan base - as the spring months blossomed into full verdance we had to desert the blog to do what bees do best. In the case of boozybee and honeypotbee, we moved to New York City. I know, you were thinking I was going to say we all went out to make honey. Such was not the case. Male bees don't make honey, stupid.
Now that we have relocated we are ready to dive back in! Here to help us celebrate the grand re-opening gala of BeeInACar is Jem and the Holograms, covering a delightful Le Tigre song.
Thanks Jem!
With our newly found New York attitudes you can expect just the same crass, insensitive, and highly cultured commentary that has made BeeInACar precisely what it is today.
In the beginning there was Starcraft. And Starcraft was with God, and in Korea Starcraft was God.
And now, there is Starcraft 2.
The greatest and most enthralling multiplayer game of all time, the game into which I have poured more hours of my life than any other, the Nexus at the heart of computer gaming about which all other games seem as mere pylons, is about to have a sequel.
And will people complain? They will. I remember the time before Diablo 2 came out when Blizzard message forums reeked of ill-thought complaints and naggish whining over the great unborn product. I am sure that Starcraft, whose apex crested tenfold the height of even Diablo 2, will usher in a storm of naysaying likewise more intense. It matters not. Starcraft 2 is coming.
Enjoy these three videos of mighty Protoss vehicles in action!
Coachella is here my friends! And this lucky bee will be joining the swarms to infest california's finest polo grounds. Now I know what you're thinking: Susan Bee is going to get so fried from the pot brownies and the karaoke bar's overpriced concoctions that she won't remember the good times. To which I will reply, you don't know me and you don't know Coachella. This ain't your mama's crazy cootch of a Woodstock nor is it the faboulously domesticated heifer of a Bonnaroo. My fellow buzz brothers could and probably would go all out, however, I prefer to be mildly sober while I engage my senses to a musical feast. I will be your eyes, ears, and wings as I scope the lobe of Coachella's fine and sexy brain. Coachella starts for this little pollinator at 3:00am tomorrow's today and will end Monday night when I return to this boring desert I've learned to resent so much. I've been in the hive too long and now it's time to take a holiday in scorching heat. Mmmm....sounds nice. So cross your antannae and hope that I didn't forget to bring anything important like sunblock or beer.
This is a year is a year among years: GIRLTALK, Manu Chao, the reformation of RATM (for pure nostalgic purposes Marcelo, I know that you've got your powdered nose upturned right now), Jesus and Mary Chain, Grizzly Bear, Roky Erikson, and lord knows I am no fool, look for yourselves, I'm not writing it out.
If some of you dear readers are going, give me a shout(some of you know what this uptown vag looks like )! But if you're not there, it's your own damn fault. You have my condolences for the moment. However, when I see those palm trees in the distance and feel the californian sun hit my vampire flesh, then all is forgotten. This is my third trek to Indio and like all good bees out there, I wouldn't miss this for the biggest and juiciest orchid you could procure for me.
Good bye my honey producers, my sweet friends of flowers, until we meet again... -Mauro from the Liquid Mountains
If there's one thing I'm a huge fan of it's a quality bridezilla. Even though the famous "bride has massive hair wig-out" turned out to be a hoax, it's one of my favorite youtube posts ever. Still, time passes, children get older, and Bridezilla 2 must one day rear her ugly head. Little did I know that it would be Tv On The Radio that took it there first:
Please note the "delicate" fan work, the "tasteful" high kicks, and the "graceful" flourishes of that tattered bath towel she's brandishing. Honestly I've seen fat Mexican strippers perform with more modesty. Her Kenny-G husband doesn't seem all that thrilled either. How long after their honeymoon in Scranton do you think he waited before starting to hit her?
Since I'm an inveterate fan of sham weddings, though, I'm going to have to turn it down a notch. What must have been a side-splitting display in person actually seems very sensitive when chopped up and softened with "I Was A Lover". Thank you, Tv On The Radio, for showing us a new monster, and then making us love her.
It's monday night and Marcelo and I are both tired from work. And how did we end up jamming to these bitches:
Marcelo and I took a little musical journey tonight. Granted, it was briefly and humorously interrupted by watching the most recent episode of 30 Rock, but join us, won't you, on an eclectic walk through all the music you should think is cool these days.
We kicked it off when I dealt Marcy to the new hotness: Coconut Records. It's a side project by Jason Schwartzman, and if you don't listen to "West Coast" you're just never going to understand how bittersweet it can be to leave a lover at La Guardia airport.
From Coconut's "West Coast" we listened to his "Nighttiming" (both available on his MySpace music page) and then Marcy had to kick me back with the new Hot Chip. From there we took the obvious leap to New Order, and jammed to "Love Vigilante" and afterwards reminisced about "Temptation" but refrained from seeking it out to listen to (if we can sing the base and tenor parts to each other a cappella what's the point on wasting bandwidth?). It must be noted, though, that New Order was only the "obvious" choice because Hot Chip has generously mixed a little New Order into their most recent contribution to the DJ Kicks series, and really got us into the mood. As a brief aside, they also worked the hell out of Etta James' "In the Basement", and you're going to die an empty husk of a person if you don't hear how they do before you pass on.
At this point I needed a little smack in the tuchus - mixing the Champagne of Beers and cheap white wine makes me drowsy. Thus, it was Go! Team time - "Huddle Formation", though recently utilized in a Honda Civic commercial, will never fail to bring your glutius to its maximus. A quick departure to "Ladyflash" lead us to the ultimate and inevitable conclusion:
"Supersonic" from JJ Fad.
Fuck me, those bitches can work it. Have you bothered to investigate just how super fly they were way before Missy even coined the term? First, view the video:
Now, let's keep in mind that you didn't know to brush your shoulder off until Jay-Z told you to some time when you were in college: these bitches were doing it sick when you weren't even a year old!
So welcome to a Marcy and Chris Monday night! All you need to do is start with a little ditty from a "Rushmore" alumnus, and before you know it you'll be shaking your ass with the phattest bitches the 20th century ever had the pleasure to witness.
I slept in a pea coat. Marcelo laments that none of us remember last night, because apparently we had a hard core hug fest, and there was a lot of positive energy. What I remember is a lot of shirtless dance party, convincing girls that their boobs looked great in the bra they were wearing, and Marcelo dancing in those bras. I suppose that waking up in a pea coat is better than waking up in my own pee (I will not name names) but nonetheless waking up on a couch that is not my bed in two layers of zip hoodies and my own pea coat does beg the question - why?
Waking up this morning may give a clue as to why last night went as far as it did (no shirts, no heterosexuality, no problem): "Hey Burns, we're going to the Phi Mu mixer tonight" A little background - Phi Mu is a sorority at American University and their organization's name is commonly mispronounced as "Phi Moo" due to the heft and disposition of the vast majority of their membership. Furthermore need I add that I'm not in college anymore? Suggesting we go as adventurers to the fat girl party drunk as hell as alumni is tantamount to saying "Let's line up at the Hometown Buffet and put our dick in the mashed potatoes" - it's funny, but the point is probably moot. To sweeten the pot, after waking me up at a very early three thirty pm to suggest that we make fun of girls that eat their feelings tonight, he hands hungover Chris a Sparks.
Damn. Whether you have been friends with Chris Burns for years, or are still in the process of making his acquaintance you must know this - in Chris Burns World handing him a Sparks is the same as making him sign his name in blood. Sparks, for the uninitiated, are delightful drinks that are energy drinks tastefully blended with malt liquor. The result tastes troublingly like cough syrup and leads to serious lapses in judgement, so you can see why I'm such a huge fan. It's a canny move on my friend's part because I lack each and every piece of the mental equipment most people possess that would enable them to refuse a Sparks.
Let's keep in mind that I am going to have to work tonight, so blending American Spirits, Sparks, and the booze from last night all together in my tummy is probably a strategic choice that I'll regret very soon, but the question remains - Hometown Buffet? Probably yes, and I envision it as such - I show up fresh out of work and looking to cut a rug. I grab the first two cows I see and make monster love to them simultaneously on the dance floor. I drink my weight in grain alcohol, fuck a pledge or two, and pass out in a pile of fraternity semen and fat bitch. Is it worth it? Ha, of course.
This may be the last place you look for current events, but this is drastic enough to warrant a post. Kurt Vonnegut has died, not from smoking Pall Malls his entire life, but from falling down. So it goes, indeed.
Vonnegut is the reason I read today. After reading Cat's Cradle when I was 16 for a book report or some other nonsense, it was like I was reading for the first time. He was at once infinitely witty, entertaining, provocative, funny, depressing, and outrageous. With the simple drawing of an asshole, he made me see how the world can be so ridiculous and beautiful at the same time.
He has had the same effect on me as hundreds of thousands of other twenty-somethings, and I'm sure they all feel the same loss I do. However, he was 84, and perhaps it was his time. And this gives me an excuse to read God Bless You Mr. Rosewater again.
-Mike
Thought: Perhaps if Vonnegut was the legitimate father of Anna Nicole's baby, he would receive a whole lot more news coverage than he is going to. I'd be surprised if he got 5 minutes on CNN tomorrow.
I can't believe I'm posting about this today! Jesus Lord help me! Walk with me, if you will, back to a time before Chris had network cable. Occasionally in High School I would catch an episode of Real World while hanging out at someone else's house, but if I wanted any sort of trashy and vaguely sexually explicit television, I had to settle for Jack of All Trades (hello Bruce Campbell!). Then, I went to check out colleges in California and stayed with some family friends, who put me up for a few nights in a room that had its own TV with cable. Clearly I immediately tuned in to MTV. What did I find?
A night long marathon of Undressed.
Fuck me, it is the absolute best show I've ever seen in my life. It features a rotating cast of gorgeous twenty-somethings pretending to be high schoolers and college kids who address important issues such as upping one's sperm count, elective circumcisions, and whether blow jobs count as losing your virginity. Of course there are also the "I'm a nerdy girl and I'm sleeping with the football jock" dramas, but as I'm typing to you there's a shirtless hottie propped up on his shoulders with his tuchus in the air practicing keggle exercises.
That's right - they're re-syndicating the show.
Thank you MTV! The curious and fatuous seventeen year old inside me is singing your praises. Undressed - the acting is always abysmal, but the actors are hot and the plot lines are both absurd and comfortingly predictable.
At this point, the YouTube phenomenon cannot be ignored. So quickly has their technology of instantaneous video vanquished the pretenders Real Audio and Quick Time that anytime I see the word "Buffering" for more than a split second sends chills down my spine. It is truly an awesome and exciting world we live in when I can, in less than a moment's time, gain access to the video for This is Why I'm Hot.
But even the Mighty Mims, hot though he may be, has nothing on these rappers. Though they have substituted the mine for the ghetto, a rhythmic stomp for electronic beats, and actual rapiers for rhymes, they deserve no fewer "props" for their efforts.
This video claims to be "informative." It is informative in about the same way that fast-forwarding through a National Geographic special while wearing nightvision goggles is informative, but I think it's worth it for the "intergalactic" quotation.
Here we have an actual dance. The shining feature of this particular number is that it's the only video I could find on the entire world of YouTube in which you can hear their feet. The stepping is appropriately loud here, though a bit slower than I'd like. The other thing I like about this video is it looks like a bunch of bar schlubs just got up and decided to do some rapper sword dancing. Most teams are all wiry and athletic looking, but these guys actually look like the might've just got back from a mine. There's a great from-behind shot that showcases their assets. I suppose this might be why they're so slow.
Now this is what I'm talking about for speed. Too bad you can't even really tell how fast they're going because their feet sound like "shff-shff-tap-shff" instead of "bamity bamity bamity BAM" (if you know what I mean). They also get points for having a much more sophisticated repertoire of figures and snazzy-looking vests. I just about voided myself in astonishment during their grand finale. Yet the whole "high school gym basketball court" atmosphere doesn't really do it for me.
This is my favorite one of the bunch. The atmosphere is appropriately pubbish, the speed is great, and you can still hear their feet well enough (though still not as much as I'd like). You also have the guy with the coat and top hat walking around and making appropriately British-sounding comments. He's clearly the star of the show. The only thing I'd change is to give them a more interesting, less "round and round" looking routine.
For the future, you can expect this form of dancing to surge in popularity from its humble YouTube beginnings. By 2009 someone will win the "Dancing with the Stars" competition with a rapper sword medley. By 2011, the sequel to "Stomp the Yard," possibly entitled "Slash the Yard," will focus on the story of a young Northumbrian miner who revolutionizes the rapper scene at Oxford University. Shortly thereafter, a macarena-like rapper crazy will sweep the globe and kids of all ages will carry flexible, double-handled swords with them at all times, should they find themselves in the midst of a dance party with blinding fast jig melodies as the main musical theme.
I just watched this wonderful live video of New York based band Battles peforming their song Atlas:
The footage was taken at one of my favorite sleazy Chicago venues The Empty bottle (I got to see both Deerhoof and Adult. there!). Anyhow, I'd never heard of this band until I saw this video on Forkcast, but I am sold! I love the driving, gritty synth and guitar sounds, the hot and sweaty beat, and the strange vocoded vocals (which kind of remind me of Joe Meek). Their new album Mirrored is due out May 15, and you know I'm gonna get that shit. Also, I think the guy manning the vocals: Tyondai Braxton is kind of hot, in a Screech from Saved by the Bell kind of way. At least, I appreciate his enthusiasm. Enjoy!
My bee buddies are kindly informing moi that I have to stick to the blog. But you know, it's kind of hard to do that when your comp has a mind of its own. My computer hasn't been letting me in on the goods and tonight it finally decided to let me into its nether regions. About time, I say! I have been waiting for this moment foawhile. I discovered Goodiepal from my boyfriend. Now that may sound like the Danish Karma Sutra to you, honey combers, but it is not. I have no secrets to tell you about that, but I would ask boozy bee if I were you. No, Goodiepal is this Danish wizard, who was once a pig farmer only to become a nurse helping old biddies to their respectable recliner recepticals. His real name is Kristian Vester, but I prefer Goodiepal. He still performs and produces music but is a recluse none the less. He looks like a friar that has had one too many mushrooms trips. He's kooky, he's zany, he may even come to your next birthday party. Goodiepal takes folk music and turns it into a mechanical mistress of the forest. He invents games and machines :everything from a mechanical bird to a game that is played with what looks like 3D copies of the solar system ( he hums and grunts and rings a bell). So strange but really fun to watch! But be warned! you have go through twenty minutes of danish dialogue without having a clue of what's going on to get to the actual mechanical bird and planet camraderie. Ready, steady, Goodiepal!
And now on to the swedes! I love how the swedes and the australians are taking over...it doesn't bother me one bit that have more style then some of our american counterparts. Maybe we can learn something from them, if we are lucky. Peter, Bjorn, and John are going to be at Coachella this year and I'm so excited. Start salivating or pollinating. If some of you are lucky to be there with me, we should get together and go out of our minds with crazy music and ahem! crazy chemicals. I found this vid and thought it was cute. To see Young Folks animated is really sweet. Hope you enjoy and homage to the monkees.
These last couple of months saw the releases of a number of powerful and highly anticipated indie albums. Neon Bible, Hissing Fauna and Sound of Silver in particular created a stir in the music world. Of course, I love these albums as much as the next guy, but I can't help but think one of my favorites was a little overlooked. It was featured on Pitchfork's coveted Best New Music, but I haven't heard much about it since! This album is called The Magic Position, by one Patrick Wolf. It follows up his beautiful folk/electronic experimentations heard on 2005's Wind in the Wires, and goes just where he needed to. The album starts with the staggeringly beautiful Overture which showcases Wolf's expressive and sometimes Gothic voice with swirls of strings and ominous percussion. A number of other tracks on the album stand out for me, including the poppy and single-worthy Accident and Emerncy and the epic Bluebells. Each of these tracks is skillfully arranged, and the tracks are seperated by delightful instrumental and electronic vignettes which bring the whole piece to life. However, not only is he talented musically, but this guy has an amazing style! Enjoy this series of glamour shots: Not since the days of glam has rock been so deliciously tarted up. It's clear to me that the young wolf is channeling Bowie circa Ziggy Stardust. The fiery haircolor and sequins-clad androgyny may be only slightly derivative, but I enjoy the modern twist he's given to them. His strangely mannequin like visage and toy-doll wardrobe only make his sounds more enjoyable. Do check out the song Overture I've uploaded at left in my "Marcy's: What's the Poop?" section. While you're at it, take a moment to visit his Mypsace page to stream a few more noteworthy tunes. And last, but not least, check out Patrick on Welsh pop-star Charlotte Church's variety show doing a cover of Prince's When Doves Cry, it's fun.
You struggle to focus your gaze, thickly drawing in the feculent perfume of tobacco and sweat. Warmly alien beeps and drones, filtered through strange analog devices drive you through the haze, your body convulsing involuntarily to the eldritch beat. Agonized bodies urgently press against you, and just as quickly are sucked back into the maelstrom. You know not what has brought you here, only that you must never stop moving as the night vanishes around you, a fevered phantasmagoria. In the end, there is only darkness, and the pervasive feeling of having been irreversibly violated . . .
That's right, guys! Throbbing Gristle's first album in 25 long years, entitled Part Two: The Endless Not has hit the shelves as of April 1st! (Sorry for not posting about it sooner, but I had to give it a good listen first) The late seventies pioneers of Industrial music and notoriously shocking performance art troupe have gathered once more to unleash their anguished sounds upon an unsuspecting public. This album returns with their signature sound, the first track, Vow of Silence, being a fascinating collage of shouts, clanging, gear-grinding and otherworldly chanting. Another noteworthy track is the beautifully seductive Rabbit Snare, featuring sultry jazz piano accompanied by Cosey Tutti's improvisational trumpet playing set to the beat of industrial percussive Drones. The wonderful Genesis P. Orridge lends her unusual vocal talents. While not necessarily for the casual listener, it's great to see the old masters doing it like they do. Thanks guys! And for good measure a quick (and more listenable) throwback track: Throbbing Gristle - Hot on the Heels of Love
Fucking ABC. The American Broadcasting Company, which has some of the lowest brow, laugh-track heavy comedy line-ups of any major network (with the exception of CBS, whose programming is geared towards the Geritol Generation), has cancelled their lone comedic brightspot: The Knights of Prosperity. I know you haven't seen it (hence, the cancellation), but it was a genuinely funny show with unlimited potential. Produced by Dave Letterman's Worldwide Pants, it follows a motley crew of blue collar workers, starring Donald Logue (of Grounded for Life fame.....anyone? Anyone? Bueller?) to rob Mick Jagger's house. I laughed out loud at least once every episode. So what does ABC do with their most promising show? They yank it from its original Fall line-up to 'aggresively promote' it for a Spring release. When they finally run the show in January, it's put up against the veritable buzzsaw that is American Idol. After less than stellar ratings, they scratch their heads wondering why no one's watching the show. After 5 episodes, ABC decides to cancel what could have been the next Arrested Development and decide to air re-runs of what is undoubtedly their bottomless goldmine of comedy: According to Jim, and The George Lopez show. Hilarious. Thanks ABC.
HEYA! You may not be aware, but as of today BeeInACar has had more than one thousand visits to the site! It's time to celebrate, and we know just how the Hive likes to do it...
We want to thank all you drones - keep logging in for our depravity, music selections, and high-brow social commentary. Pass the word along, because the queen bee don't like no empty honeycomb.
Some honey you can expect in the future: naked pictures of boozybee, an exclusive interview with Connie Chung (still drunk, of course), honeypotbee's step-by-step seduction technique entitled "Wow that's cool, can I touch it?", and Anna Nicole will post on the site from beyond the grave. All that and plenty more, so keep us on your Favorites list, and we'll see you soon!
I just saw the series finale of Six Feet Under for the first time last night (many thanks to Bravo for its syndication). Yeah, I know, you're saying "why now Chris?" The show's been over for a long time. I'm posting about it because it really kicked my ass last night. I am a huge sucker for a touching song montage, and this is my absolute favorite. The song "Breathe Me" by Sia is delicate and perfect, and the video to go along with it is immaculate. You don't have to be a Six Feet Under fan to appreciate one of the most achingly beautiful TV moments that I've ever seen. Here's the last ten minutes of the show - Claire's leaving home for a job in New York.
The name of this episode is "Everything Ends", and they certainly play with the amibiguity of the phrase: not only is the show about realizing that everything does end, but they take this episode as an opportunity to end everything you've grown to love through the series. If, though, you're not interested in seeing the whole piece, click here to see the last few minutes with just the song and montage. I still think you can invest ten minutes to bring something beautiful to your day, but if you want to spend six instead, I understand.
Lately I have been staunchly committed to keeping you abreast of a threat that makes global warming look as terrifying as your baby sister's 5th birthday party. A shining few of you have taken the welfare of the world to heart, and dedicated yourselves to uncovering as much as we can about the cephalopodic menace. This report reflects your tenacious work, and with luck will prompt more of you to be as inquisitive.
These days, the halls of American politics are choked by the cloying hands of selfishness and greed, but there are more than simple hands wrapped around the throat of lady liberty. Slowly the rank and dripping tentacles of the Pro-Squid Lobby (PSL) have coiled in a strangle hold around truth, and the American public is left blind and confused, soft enough to be gnashed to ribbons by a hideous beak. Behold what the PSL is marketing to our children! They would have the next generation of America grow up thinking of Giant Squid as brightly colored plush little friends that can be invited over for tea and Lil' Debbie snack cakes! What the PSL neglects to show you is the subsequent frame. Where did the poor child go? Use your own judgement, but to me it looks like the monster hasn't quite finished masticating her lower extremities yet. Cuddly time? Not exactly.
And yet, there is hope. After their recent heroic slaying of a Colossal Squid, red-blooded New Zealanders are doing the only sensible thing - tossing that mother fucker on the heat! Yes, the Kiwis are making a gigantic microwave oven, and they are cooking up a big 'un. This article describes the planned culinary adventure in more detail. Note how the insideous Pro-Squid Lobby has even managed to distort our national news media - the passage entered about how vile the squid would taste is clearly just crafty misdirection. Clearly the beast will taste of shallots and white wine with notes, I'd imagine, of tumeric. Only New Zealanders will know for sure, though, whilst impotent America languishes in weak ignorance at the whim of the PSL.
My concern for our country knows no bounds, but I know that with unflinching dedication to the truth we will open America's eyes. Thank you for your support.
The sound of tattered Pumas shuffling across the dusty desert landscape, local record stores sorting through their bins to determine what has and has not been shoplifted, and chereished memories being secreted away for those long nights spent in bleakly un-hip suburbia, bemourning your older brother playing the latest Fergy remix. You guessed it, South by Southwest (Or as the hipsters call it, SXSW. I myself am not a hipster, as I prefer the term aesthete savant) is at an end. You didn't go, you say? Well, neither did I. But before we chalk this post up to jealous haterism, lend me your ear, I'm just here to do a little debunking. While other blogs may tantalize you with photos of live shows and stories of mind-blowing and face-melting tuneskies, Bee In a Car's talents lie elsewhere. Correct, I am going to bitch for a mo.
I'm all down for music festivals. They look like a great time! But this one just seems to have spiraled way out of control! You have to trek across the desolate Texan landscape in order to reach the Southwest's last bastion of pretense: Austin. Austin, if you didn't know, is the home of University of Texas at Austin, which is a satellite school for "artists", music snobs, hipsters, posers, etc. You name it, I hate it! I am imagining they teach classes like "S. Malkmus: The Early Years" and "The Economics of Urban Outfitters". You get the picture, but I digress . . .
So, what happens at South by Southwest is that like 3,000,000 bands converge upon the city and occupy every last bit of space, so you wind up with bills that read something like this: "Voxtrot and Loney, Dear with guests The Shaky Hands. 11:00 A.M. at Carl's Jr.", or "One night only! Bonde do Role and Flosstradamus at the Municipal Water Filtration Plant". Too many bands to keep track of, trekking all over town, vying for a standing spot in a library or record store. It's just too much! During this time, every music blog, music magazine, radio station, and kid with a dial-up connection will speak of nothing else. For nearly two weeks, that's all you get to hear about. Is there nothing else going on in the world of music at this time? Does the entire world shut down and wait with earnest stillness for the next musical portent to be issued forth from the Lone Star State? I, for one, do not!
Mike turned me onto this little treasure via ForkCast. One of the most delightful videos I've seen in sometime, and thought it had to be shared. I find it particularly pertinent to view at the onset of spring, when ol' Mama winter creeps back into her icy den, the sun warmly encroaches onto the landscape, and the last vestiges of your winter wardrobe are filed and moth-balled away. Here is Groove Armada's "Get Down" from their upcoming album "Soundboy Rock" featuring vocals from the sassy Lady Stush.
Those are naughty bunnies. I couldn't help but be reminded of this song. Go ahead and download it, I think you'll find it appropriate. Happy Spring, btw.
Ladies and gentlemen it is finally spring. It is time for what those who are in the know refer to as "The Blossoming". Each Spring the sun emerges from the slate-gray clouds of another hellish DC winter, and forces all the little boys and girls to stop wearing so much clothing. Truth time, folks. Hit the nogg a little too hard during the winter months? One too many frosty brews while you were holed up in warm bars? Comfort food prove to be far too pleasant a companion on those days when the icy wind was hammering at your bedroom window? Well my friends, there is no hiding from The Blossoming. You have gotten plump, and we will know. For all those busy bees who donned mittens, hoodies, and jogged daily with frost clinging to their nostrils, it is their time to shine. The rest of us just have to play catch-up.
BUT In the spirit of the newness that is Spring, here's the best "good weather" song I know right now, from two Norwegians who know a thing or two about celebrating the three good weeks of weather that their god-forsaken country receives every year. I give you "Misread" by Kings of Convenience:
There is nothing quite as hilarious as the simple beauty of unintentional humor, regardless of the situation: An old woman falling down, someone getting hit in the groin by a line drive, or Mariah Carey on Cribs; it sits atop its distinguished perch of high brow humor, right next to puns. But dated comic books where The Joker rants for multiple panels about his problem with boners takes the cake.
It may be 1:30 in the morning (in Phoenix), but I laughed for several minutes: Where's my money, honey!?
The blogosphere is a magical place, where any citizen of this earth can retreat to brush up on their celebrity gossip, underground music, or the latest in sex trends (see photograph at right).Oh yeah, that bitch is ready to go . . . Anyhow, getting back to the point, everyone's favorite music blog (or at least, one of the most read) Gorilla vs. Bear was recently featured on G4's Attack of the Show.
In case you are unfamiliar with either, Gorilla vs. Bear is an Austin, TX based music blog showcasing local and international music acts. They review a pretty varied fare; everyone's bound to find something they don't like! Attack of the Show, on the other hand, is a daily televised news and variety show featuring two attractive hosts:
Kevin Pereira and (Yeah, I'd do him)
Olivia Munn
I am a fan of this program. Their news tidbits, tech reviews and gaming info delivered with a modern and jaunty irreverence have me sold. They also have a segment entitled "Blog Watch" in which they summarize the findings of selected blogs from around the internet. In their most recent installment they highlighted Gorilla vs. Bear for their continued efforts in finding obscure musical acts. G4 also airs another favorite program, X Play. Not only does it provide my gaming fix, but features the massively fierceMorgan Webb (not the painted whore at left). Love that bitch, 4 real. Anyway, here's the clip.
He talks about Gorilla vs. Bear, then talks about some of my favorite Swedish rockers: Peter Bjorn & John. Glad you featured a cool blog, but Kevin, please keep your musical criticism to yourself. His statement re: Young Folks being "apparently the only decent track on the album" just worked me into a fit! Clearly Kevin hasn't listened to the damn thing, because if he did he would know that album rocks me hard. If you'll take a moment to pop over to his Myspace Page, you can see that his sub-par music tastes do not give him authority to make such an appalling and rash statement. I mean, he likes Coheed and fucking Cambria. As evidence, I present another radical track from Writer's Block:
So, what I'm trying to say is that unless you have incredibly sophisticated tastes like one such as myself, keep quiet, or you might embarrass yourself as Kevin has. Don't make his mistake.
With all of the hyped up releases this year (Clap Your Hands Say Yeah, Of Montreal, LCD Soundsystem, Arcade Fire), the album I am looking forward to most in 2007 comes from The Avalanches. It's been 7(!) years since "Since I Left You," which after first listen, left me a sweaty pile on the floor.
This group is a bottle of funk waiting to be opened, and once you pop that top, it's gonna come at you like some kind of large mass of snow detached from a mountainside.
And their first single for their upcoming album that will (hopefully) be released in late 2007 would make Hemingway put down the shotgun and shake his tushy.
Nerds around the world have long yearned for a holiday to call their own. Children often balk and whine over the injustice of cosmic imbalance caused by the existence of both a Father's and a Mother's day and lack of a Kid's day (this despite the fact that every god forsaken day of the first eighteen years of your life is Kid's day for your parents, you ungrateful whelps). It is the same with nerds. So-called “International Talk Like a Pirate Day” is probably the closest they'll ever get, though historical accuracy would demand most conversations on this day be on the subject of theft, rape, and murder and not be in English.
But today is another close contender. March 14th, when properly rendered in the American date format, is 3-14, or the approximate value of π, Archimedes' Constant. Perhaps the second most important number in all of mathematics, pi is defined as the ratio between ratio between the circumference and the diameter of a circle. There's no obvious reason why this should be a constant, but it is. Furthermore, pi is irrational, meaning it cannot be written as a fraction (though 22/7, 333/106, or 104348/33215 will do in a pinch). Pi is thus an endless decimal, always continuing and never repeating itself. Once more there's no obvious reason why a seemingly simple property of circles should exhibit this feature. Of course, the square root of two is also irrational, so it's not such a big deal.
Pi has an even more special property: it is a transcendental number. This peculiar trait means that pi is not the zero of any polynomial with integer coefficients. Any square root or other radical is not transcendental (for example, the polynomial x^2-2 has a zero at +/- root 2). It's pretty hard to think of a number that is obviously transcendental, and probably just as hard to think of why anyone would care about roots of polynomials (isn't this something we left behind in Algebra 2?) It is sufficient for me to say that the transcendental nature of pi is the reason for the long-known impossibility of the geometric problem of Squaring the Circle.
The world-record holder for recitation of the digits of Pi is from (take a guess) China. Over a period of 24 hours he rattled off over 60,000 digits of this beast of a number. In 2006 someone from India sped through 43,000 digits in under 5 and a half hours. That is over 2 numbers per second. Yet one of the more impressive tributes to this great number (which, by the way, the ancient Greeks would have pronounced “pee”, though the first use of the Ï€ symbol was in the eighteenth century) is a poetic invocation of Edgar Allan Poe called Near A Raven. For the more advanced, new heights of nerdiness are reached by the same author in a twisted muddle of grammar, lovelorn agony, the bygone internet, and high mathematics entitled alt.Poe.versifications.experimentalize!.AANVVVize!.do!. Read with caution.
An absurdly funny take on how impossible it is to see the biggest Indie band in New York since the American invasion of Rusted Root Joy Division. I especially like how one of the Hedge Fund guys would exchange a ticket for reservations 'next to Nobu.'
So what do you do when all your roommates think you're foul for looking at porn on someone else's computer?
First of all, let's clear something up. If I was looking at a flick where a big boobed bitch was getting double-stuffed by two greasy Italians then we wouldn't even be working through these issues right now. But of course I wasn't. I was perusing some classic homosexual pornography. Nothing too crazy, nothing too fetishy. Have I mentioned my roommate has a foot fetish? Irregardlessly, I brought my own chair into my housemate's room to surf for some gay erotica, and I didn't even touch my swim-suit area the entire time (the goal was to store mental material for later).
All of a sudden there are house meetings going on that I'm not privvy to, and I'm fucking Hester Prynn walking around with a goddamn scarlet A (for "All-about-anal") on my chest. Have I mentioned that I hooked up with a really hot Asian last night? Not that I really remember the details, but he looked good this morning, so I'm proud. Who knew that the Thai were so masculine? I always pictured Thai men as being either practically homeless or as manipulative lady-boys (and let's not kid ourselves, probably both), but somehow this asian fellow was quite attractive!
So anyways, Fuck You, roommates! My fuck-buddy from the far east came on all your toothbrushes, and I laughed while watching him do it.
As our faithfull readers will recall, I first alerted the Hive to the impending threat of a tentacled doom rising from the deep to throttle mankind one by one in an entry I posted last month. My sincere thanks to fellow drone buggiebee for keeping us abreast of the situation in an article he sent to me today.
Commonly known in educated circles, these demons of the deep have acquired a taste for man-flesh. Fortunately, a ray of hope has twinkled on our otherwise dark horizon. Doctor and Military Chief of Aquatic Monster Operations Steve O'Shea has found evidence to indicate that these "collosal squid" are not intelligent. Sneaky, conniving, ruthless - yes, but not cognitively gifted. Apparently you can expect a 275 kilogram specimen to have a doughnut shaped brain weighing 20 grams. All the better to trap them, right my pretties?
Let the vast onslaught begin! Remember, we are dealing with creatures that can grow to more than a full ton in weight and longer than 40 feet. Creatures that would like nothing more than to sink their insidiously hooked tentacles into you and everyone you love.
Well I, for one, will not stand for it! I want these feeble-minded hell spawn torn from their watery lairs, and I want truck-tire sized calamari on my plate by dinner time!
I know that I gave a less-than-heartfelt send-off when ANS shuffled off her mortal coil, but today I think it's important to recognize the passing of a true role-model.
That's right, in the copy of Captain America that hit stands today, he is leveled by a sniper's bullet. Now, I don't consider myself a huge fan per se, but I'm a comic book devotee, and of the Marvel persuasion at that. When any main character is tragically retired it pulls on a few heart strings. Who but the good ol' Cap could have fought Hitler, rallied the Justice League, or fought Hitler when he faked his own death and put his brain in a new and horribly enhanced body?
I'm not saying that it's unlikely he be somehow resurrected, but the whole fake death thing is way more DC Comics than Marvel (except in the case of Spiderman, I suppose). I think it would be a mistake in this case, though. The only thing worse than killing off a super hero with a long distinguished history of action, service, and near-cloying patriotism would be an awkward and undignified rise from the dead. Let's all say thank you and farewell to one of the strongest embodiements of true patriotism that our country has had.
-Chris
P.S. - Did you see what Cap is packing in that picture? My oh my.
You may be wondering why it has been so long since I have last visited the hive. Alas, I have no excuse for my truancy; although, I did tell my fellow drone (Chris) that I had developed a case of the clap...your hands and say yeah. I don't think he believed me though, which is a pity, because this uptown vag has to go downtown sometimes. Let's not trouble ourselves with past my dear friends. Let's instead rejoice in the strange delight of watching primary school children sing along to 'This Charming Man'. Marcelo and I enjoy serenading each-other with Smiths' songs whenever we go out and about. However, since he is living this enchanted land for a more political one, I decided to wish him off with an interview of the infamous and yet-to-be reunited Morrissey and Marr. By the by, they spelled Morrissey's name wrong and dubbed him 'Paul' (oh, you brits, I have to forgive your journalistic mishaps and your dirty teeth too). I didn't get a chance to welcome the mysterious new member of our little collective either, so let me make amends, sweet chigby. I hope you will enjoy your stay here with us, in our cavern of collected pollen. May your honey be as sweet as the homoerotic lust between Spock and James T. Kirk.
Till we meet again, I leave you with...The Smiths, who are by no means ordinary people.
In the annals of science fiction cinema, there is no case study more mystifying than that of Star Trek V: The Final Frontier. Even the subtitle itself is a bit of a mystery: what and where exactly is the frontier most final? The opening credits of every Star Trek show to date feature the famous phrase: “Space—the final frontier.” Star Trek V would have us believe otherwise. Its blithely casual invocation of that august apothegm seems to say “space was a pretty nice frontier, but here's the real deal.” Our appetites are thus whetted for a grand adventure on the highest of scales, scales whose balances and counterweights are hung with nebulae, galaxies, and, though here we reach the limits of mortal measurability, Captain Kirk's ego.
Those readers not familiar with this piece of work should peruse the cinematic trailer to familiarize oneself with the premise.
Let me say right off that there is virtually nothing in this preview that lives up to the epic expectations set by the title. The final frontier itself—the planet Sha Ka Ree at the center of the galaxy—is slightly exciting. For the Vulcans it is a mystic place of pure idyll, analogous to Eden or Heaven. It is surrounded on all sides by a force called the great barrier, which has heretofore resisted all attempted incursions. Sha Ka Ree is a trans-cultural ideal. All races in the galaxy believe in a heaven and are awed by the prospect of finding it. Within may be found enlightenment, the meaning of existence, and perhaps the True Creator: God. It is easy to see why the mythical conduit from our universe to heaven might well be considered “the final frontier”
Yet even looking at the preview we can see that these ideas are, at best, not treated with the respect they deserve, or at worst badly shoehorned into a slapstick comedy ride through space. Please observe this scene from the opening of the film:
I was unable to locate any additional scenes, but from the trailer I think it is clear what kind of film we're dealing with. Star Trek V is nominally about a group of people trying to realize the impossible dream of transcending the physical world and entering the presence of a deity, yet most of it spent falling down mountains, sand-dunes, or turbolift shafts. There's lots of getting hit with stuff and one-liners. This worked pretty well in Star Trek IV but sometimes I want drama in my sci-fi.
The real conundrum of the film, though, comes at the end. That is where we witness what happens when this shenanigan of a movie is forced to confront its own premise.
At the end, Enterprise inexplicably penetrates the great barrier (I'm not really sure what stopped everyone else) and comes face-to-face with Sha Ka Ree.
Already, we may be getting a bad feeling about this. Everyone on board is awed by this glowing blue jellyfish of a planet. Clearly human, Klingon, and Romulan minds are too ill-equipped to perceive the omnifaceted glory of True Heaven and instead interpret it as the above. Still, they press on and Kirk, Spock, McCoy, and Sybok, the slightly-off-his-rocker, Sha Ka Ree-obsessed Vulcan who has charmed the crew via a weird power to “show people their pain”, visit God's own dwelling in a shuttle craft. If I recall this correctly, the planet's surface looked like a barren, rocky desert. The intrepid team runs into this fellow who states, fairly unequivocally, that it is God: It certainly looks like God well enough, but its first request as the King of Kings, Progenitor of Time and Reality, Omnipotent and Possessed of Infinite Perfection, is that Kirk order the Enterprise closer so it can “join” with it. Sybok, who at this point is on the verge of ecstasy, is all ready to give the command but Kirk then utters the apt yet weird statement “what does God want with a starship?”
At this point it's pretty clear to everyone except for McCoy and Sybok that this giant head, despite its somewhat grandiose appearance, is not God. To the viewer it was clear about half an hour ago when he looked at the clock and realize there were only thirty minutes left in the movie and there was no way that even science fiction writers could handle an encounter with divinity in so short a timespan. God tries to blow Kirk off and the Captain becomes even more adamant. You get the feeling that this is how Kirk would behave around the real God, too, though his belligerence is warranted in this case. Kirk shoos everyone else out of there while Sybok, crestfallen, uses his pain-showing ability on God to distract him while the Enterprise comes down and shoots it, destroying the impostor.
There are two ways to interpret this ending. Interpretation the first is that of profound atheism and disillusionment with religion. In this view, Sybok is the protagonist of the film. He is a reveler in the midst of deniers. Unlike other Vulcans, he rejoices in his emotions rather than denying them. The rest of his species has replaced the divinely given feelings and joys with mechanical, profane logic. Sybok is the Christian amid the unbelievers. He converts people, including the crew of the Enterprise to his own belief, and succeeds in the ultimate goal of the proselytizer: pilgrimage to the Garden of Eden. Through his faith he has led even the ultimate apostates, Kirk and Spock, to Heaven. Yet when he arrives there he finds it throned by an pretender, a deity whose magnificence is illusory and insubstantial. God is a fake. He is consumed with sadness and loses his life to the malevolent entity that masqueraded as the Holy Father while Kirk and the rest are reaffirmed in their atheism and lay waste to the King of Heaven with corporeal weapons. The entire film is a parable for the emptiness that is God, and the futility and, in the end, perniciousness in the pursuit thereof.
Interpretation the second is that of profound lack of ideas. I imagine the writers sitting around saying to each other something like this. “Okay, we've gotten to the big part where the crew meets God . . . what next?” “Well, it can't actually be the real God, that'd be too weird. Let's have it be a fake and just get blown up. What does everyone want for lunch?”
Which interpretation is correct I leave as an exercise to the reader.
If you're of the same ilk as myself, you know every word to every Hedwig and the Angry Inch song, and have choreographed dance numbers using your ficus as a dance-partner, and a mop as your gorgeous Farrah Fawcett fall. Hedwig allowed us to discover the genius that is John Cameron Mitchell, mastermind behind the wig-in-a-box. If you weren't aware, in 2006 he released a new film entitled simply: Shortbus. Now, I'm no cinema critic (in fact, my favorite movies include Sleepaway Camp I, II, and III, Little Women, and anything involving zombies), but this film really got to me. Despite being the most sexually explicit film I have seen in a long time (aside from Pizza Boy IV), it was at once emotive, cathartic and beautiful. While my heart can but slowly pump a viscous poison through my veins due to being permanently encased in bitter hoarfrost, this movie still made me pop a boner shed a tear. Yes, even ol' mama Marcy is capable of such open and shameless expression. John Cameron, you've won me over! Check out the theatrical trailer, here (warning, this is moderately NSFW):
Essentially, the movie chronicles the lives of several characters, who all meet in a place called the Shortbus, a place which combines eclectic and kitschy decor with neo-folk music and Summer of Love-style orgies. My favorite quote from the movie: "It's like the sixties, but without all the hope." The movie also features a cast of quirky New York hotties with appearances by Bitch (formerly of Bitch and Animal), and JD Samson (of Le Tigre). And since I am about to make the move to NYC myself, this movie filled me with optimism. My only hope is that I find an all-are-welcome sex salon named after public transit for special-ed children. My fingers are crossed, and I can only ask that yours do the same.
One last thing -- the soundtrack for this movie is hot hot HOT! As you enjoy this cinema gem, you get to listen to the music stylings of Animal Collective, Yo La Tengo, and The Hidden Cameras. Also, be on the lookout for newcomers Scott Matthew (love it!) and Jay Brannan (appears in the film as Ceth).
- Marcelo
Addendum: I can't help myself. Here's my fave song from Hedwig and the Angry Inch, Wicked Little Town. She is so FIERCE!
Sometimes, a man must poop at work. Try as he might to control the fabulous factory that nature has created inside him, it is an inevitable fact. When there is input, there must be output. A fact of life this may be, yet pooping at work is the worst thing that anyone can go through in the office setting. Were we still hunter gatherers, I imagine that our concept of work-time defecation would be quite different.
"Hey guys, you keep skinning that wildebeast, I've got to go take a walk in the bushes." "Oh Og, you're always going to poop when we have to slaughter a new kill!" "That may be, but I'm just glad we haven't had to resort to eating thorns and thistles for the past few days. I should have a very pleasant squat." "I hear ya buddy, enjoy that BM!"
Instead of celebrating in a peer's successful bowl movements, as our anscestors surely did, our excretions are shrouded in shame and ignomony. Men being as we are, I'm afraid that furtive office poops are simply inevitable.
A quick side note - this article does not pertain to women. I've spoken to more than two women about this subject, and was not greated with any sort of empathy. Women, accustomed to chatting while sitting in their separate stalls and peeing, make a simple leap into the unabashed public poop.
When men pee it is not with such garrulous abandon. To talk to a man that is peeing is tantamount to admitting that you're trying to look at his penis, and no man wants to be construed as gay. The photo at left is an excellent illustration - every man knows the rules, and every man follows them. Except for europeans.
Therefore, when a man poops he must elevate his standards of personal comportment. To poop is a foul act, a weak act, an effeminate act. The imposing workplace demeanor you have been so assiduously cultivating can be placed in serious jeopardy if pooping rules are not properly followed. Just one idiot can throw off the carefully controlled social balance of a men's restroom.
Most preferable - pooping alone. No one wants to hear, see, or smell you, so why not just wait until you can conduct your dirty duty (ha!) on your own. My tactic is to enter the restroom, give a quick peek under the stalls, and if there is a previously settled occupant I respect his squatter's rights (ha!) and simply wash my hands and leave (as if that were the only purpose of my trip to the lavatory).
Appropriate - If you really have to go, don't feel like waiting, or are generally just a bit more relaxed about the concept of shitting, then it's acceptable to seat yourself and continue while other men are in the bathroom. IMPORTANT - first you must announce your presence to the room. This can be done by clearing one's throat, humming or whistling a few tuneless bars, or even a simple sigh. It's polite to do this first because if your bathroom-mate is stewing up a real doozy, he may choose to sit and wait in silence until you leave before he unleashes the heat.
Unexcusable - Please don't sit directly next to anyone who is already seated. You must be separated by at least one stall. He was there first, so don't presume to make him watch your tapping feet under the divider while he finishes up. I become so flustered when someone sits next to me while I'm pooping that I'll literally try and hold my breath until they leave. What if they recognize me through the crack in the door? What if it's my boss? What if it's the really cute guy from marketing? What insenstive lout would be so callous as to hurl me into such a maelstrom of indecision? I hate assholes (ha!) that do that.
Caveat - you drank heavily last night. If the freight train of ten miller lights and two plates of hot wings is pounding on the lower reaches of your colon then your main concern is finding any sort of servicable receptacle, not etiquette. We understand. We've been there.
And fuck it up she does, ladies and gentlemen, because Jamie Lynn has proudly announced that she's KEEPING IT!
