I won’t lie to you; I’m a conceited guy. I probably possess an overabundance of confidence in my own skills. As I grow older, I try to temper this arrogance, because I’ve seen how it can drive others away; friends, loved ones, fans. But you must understand the importance of this feature (not a bug). In today’s world, you have to be crazy to get anything accomplished.
I have a “Messiah complex”, for which I blame no one but myself. My endless vitriol directed at the entertainment universe springs from the concrete belief that I can do better for you. I can give you what you really want.
DIY stands for “do-it-yourself”. You knew that, right? It was once a point of pride in music production. People love DIY, because it lights that little bulb in the mind that signals “I can do that”.
Ideally, you should feel that way about anything people do, aside from brain surgery or bomb disposal (and you can learn how to do those). Shoot, you could change your gender if you set your mind and wallet to it, but that’s a personal matter, and not something you want to capitalize upon. Still, there’s a lot to be said for taking a grass-roots shot at an admittedly lofty goal. For example, producing a homemade movie.
For the past ten years, one Rhode Island company has made me so deliriously happy, I’ve considered corporate personhood, so I could ask for its hand in marriage.
They even threw in a rubsign. Hasbro is proof that God loves us and wants us to be happy.
2006 was the year this little toy company had a subline of their Transformers toys called “Classics”; new figures of favorite characters from the 1984 cartoon. And a funny thing happened- these robots from an old show sold very, very well. Characters like “Bumblebee”, “Megatron” and “Optimus Prime” were familiar to a enviously broad range of people. They had staying power equal to Superman or Batman. The world was on the cusp of finding this out. Continue reading →
(The following report originally appeared on Mike The Pod in December of 2007, and was written in the Pod studio.)
Around this time either last year or the year before, I acquired four bottles of absinthe from a company overseas in a republic that may no longer exist. My confusion over the exact year will make more sense after you’ve read this; also I’m too lazy to look up the dates on the pictures. Rest assured however, that what you are about to read is, embarrassingly, the truth.
I’d always wanted to try absinthe, after enjoying the work of so many followers of the “green devil” since childhood. Van Gogh? Picasso? Hemingway? You got it. In fact, it’s often speculated that absinthe made Vinny the unbearable beast he was in his final days, and shit, Hemingway became so determined to kill himself late in life that he was restrained from doddering into a whizzing plane propeller. Some claim absinthe has hallucinogenic properties, but nobody disputes that it tastes like bile hot from Satan’s fucking spleen. Continue reading →
I first saw it in the dormitory, in 1990. I knew the song, but I’d never seen the video before. Myself and about five other male freshmen, stopped cold in front of someone’s TV. Upon the screen of which, a voluptuous, thick woman rolled around in a fishnet that seemed to conceal everything and nothing simultaneously.
She sang about touching herself.
Even still, the tone of her voice felt innocent somehow, like it was a surprising confession. Also, the singer had very large breasts. It was a lot to take, for a music video.