Dear Sir (Or, if we are now close enough friends that I may return your greeting of "Dude!" in kind, Dude),
I regret to inform you that I will not be attending your party tonight, July 7th, at ten p.m. Instead, I shall be working, and therefore occupied. My co-workers will not be attending either, as, depite your request, I will probably not bother telling them about this party; and if the topic does come up, it will probably not be in an overly positive light. Rest assured that should I somehow get out of work before this time, I will also not be attending, as I am somewhat averse to gatherings of people I don't know advertised by men in tight t-shirts drinking beer on the street at one o'clock in the afternoon yelling at random passers-by.
Thank you for your interest in spending quality time with me.
Regretfully yours,
Hollar
Saturday, July 7, 2012
Tuesday, June 26, 2012
A Conversation That Apparently Happened
Broadway Producer 1: So, Fiddler on the Roof. That's Jewish, right?
Broadway Producer 2: Yeah, I think so.
Broadway Producer 1: So we'll make them speak with Brooklyn accents.
Broadway Producer 2: Can we mix the Brooklyn accents with Boston ones?
Broadway Producer 1: Why?
Broadway Producer 2: I don't have an answer to that question.
Broadway Producer 1: Perfect! Let's do it.
Dialogue Coach: Do you want me to work in some Slavic accents?
Broadway Producer 1: Whoa whoa whoa!
Broadway Producer 2: Hold up there. We freed those people. We can't call them that anymore.
Dialogue Coach: What? But...
Broadway Producer 1: I'm starving. Who wants lunch?
Broadway Producer 2: Pastrami on rye?
Broadway Producer 1: You know it! Who's buying?
(Dialogue Coach sighs, slumps shoulders)
Broadway Producer 2: Yeah, I think so.
Broadway Producer 1: So we'll make them speak with Brooklyn accents.
Broadway Producer 2: Can we mix the Brooklyn accents with Boston ones?
Broadway Producer 1: Why?
Broadway Producer 2: I don't have an answer to that question.
Broadway Producer 1: Perfect! Let's do it.
Dialogue Coach: Do you want me to work in some Slavic accents?
Broadway Producer 1: Whoa whoa whoa!
Broadway Producer 2: Hold up there. We freed those people. We can't call them that anymore.
Dialogue Coach: What? But...
Broadway Producer 1: I'm starving. Who wants lunch?
Broadway Producer 2: Pastrami on rye?
Broadway Producer 1: You know it! Who's buying?
(Dialogue Coach sighs, slumps shoulders)
Monday, June 11, 2012
I'll Miss You: Ween Break Up
The key to being a (I'm just gonna go ahead and say it here; we're discussing Ween for God's sake) successful smart-ass is never letting on when you're joking. With that in mind, perhaps Ween will announce the impending release of their new album next week. They will almost certainly announce the dates of their new tour in a couple years, though it might be better for all parties concerned if they don't. After all, Ween were a band built largely upon spot on, unflinching musical genre parodies and the ingestion of anything not tied down that could fit into the mouth. And for everyone who chooses to travel down that road, a point arises when it has passed from questionable idea to very bad plan. Ween hit that point over a decade ago, and only with the news of the band's break-up has it become apparent that this isn't just some joke from a band waiting around the corner ready to laugh at us when we believe them.
It is now 2012, 28 years after two fourteen-year-olds decided to form a band, and fifteen years after they released their last good studio album. So what is the big deal? Well, that would be what came in the middle. In a span of eight years, Ween released six albums that ranged from absolutely brilliant to completely unlistenable, each of which was fairly mind-blowing even to those of us out there who plumb the varying ranges of sobriety. Beyond this, they recorded what seems to be an equal number of brilliant pieces which didn't even make their albums proper, spread out across soundtracks, compilations, EPs and probably their garage sales if they ran low on funds for drugs (Though even I wouldn't pay for the masters for Candy). This period saw them inexplicably given a major label deal which they responded to by recording their most bizarre album ever, which resulted in Push th' Little Daisies getting actual money pushing it on MTV, a situation which probably had some suits soiling their drawers at Elektra. The duo then became a full band, for the first time sounding as if they were recording songs that were clearly written on a load of drugs while actually fairly sober. Then they released a country album. It was a remarkably fertile creative span, and one that gave them a massive catalog to draw from during their marathon live performances, songs that stayed perenially fresh as the band changing from two guys with a drum machine to a five-piece rock powerhouse forced them to reconstruct the songs for each new stop along the way. And they toured those songs hard.
Every time they put out a new album, and quite a few times that they didn't, for the last decade, Ween would set out to play every town in America that would allow them to display their particular blend of drunken genre-hopping and jamming, playing gloriously extended versions of their songs that they inevitably seemed unlikely to remember upon waking up the following day unless someone had fortuitously taped the proceedings. And many times, it turned out someone had. And then Ween would release the tape. All in all, they wound up releasing six live albums over ten years. Granted, some of these were old tapes documenting prior iterations of the band's career, and they were usually somewhere between very good and excellent. But man, that is a lot of live albums for a span of years which only saw them release three proper studio records. That should probably have been the clue that the party was nearing its end. That and the rumors of rehab which constantly dogged the band. But every time the rumors seemed to threaten to overtake them they were back onstage, and look how much fun they're having! Of course they're still going.
At least until they weren't. It ended the only way it could, with most of the band not being aware of it. It happened after one of their last stage performances ended in a complete meltdown. It happened five years after their last studio album, without even any rumors of another one in the works. And when it happened it became apparent that they had actually been done for years. This is perfectly okay.
During their heyday, Ween had more ideas than they knew what to do with, throwing out brilliance and trash at a rate not seen since Robert Pollard lost the ability to write five songs on the can, three of which would be good (He can, however, still write five songs while in the can). And this furious pace is what keeps them alive. That track a couple lines above didn't make it onto one of their studio albums. Also, it is a gorgeous ballad. Yes, they did that. They also did everything else. How well and how fast they did it made it possible to ignore the obvious with each passing year after the release of The Mollusk, when it became apparent that the brilliance would be concentrated only in flashes rather than sprinkled over the bulk of their recorded output going forward. There was simply so much to catch up on. Sure, the entire second half of Quebec was incredibly dull, but have you heard this new collection of previously unreleased material? They've still got it!
While it seems inevitable that Ween will tour again down the road, it is entirely possible that they shouldn't. The odds of them releasing music that adds to their legacy seems very slim, outweighed by the possibility that the combination of Dean and Gene Ween may no longer be good for people who at this point in life may have a greater need for sobriety than they used to. If they do come back, it will generate money, not art. Until they die, they will likely enjoy playing music together, even if they no longer have any reason to record music together. Even if they shouldn't play music together anymore. When they do reunite, they will put on a fun concert, but it will be a nostalgia-laden exercise, as it has been for years now. There's nothing wrong with a bit of nostalgia here and there, but it cannot compare to the sheer joy of diving into the things the duo did in the past and hearing them communicate through a prog-rock epic that sounds like it is being written from the point of view of a child molester the simple message that they cannot believe they are being paid to do this. We had the best time at their party. I choose to thank them like this. By writing about them on the internet (Naughty words in the video below).
It is now 2012, 28 years after two fourteen-year-olds decided to form a band, and fifteen years after they released their last good studio album. So what is the big deal? Well, that would be what came in the middle. In a span of eight years, Ween released six albums that ranged from absolutely brilliant to completely unlistenable, each of which was fairly mind-blowing even to those of us out there who plumb the varying ranges of sobriety. Beyond this, they recorded what seems to be an equal number of brilliant pieces which didn't even make their albums proper, spread out across soundtracks, compilations, EPs and probably their garage sales if they ran low on funds for drugs (Though even I wouldn't pay for the masters for Candy). This period saw them inexplicably given a major label deal which they responded to by recording their most bizarre album ever, which resulted in Push th' Little Daisies getting actual money pushing it on MTV, a situation which probably had some suits soiling their drawers at Elektra. The duo then became a full band, for the first time sounding as if they were recording songs that were clearly written on a load of drugs while actually fairly sober. Then they released a country album. It was a remarkably fertile creative span, and one that gave them a massive catalog to draw from during their marathon live performances, songs that stayed perenially fresh as the band changing from two guys with a drum machine to a five-piece rock powerhouse forced them to reconstruct the songs for each new stop along the way. And they toured those songs hard.
Every time they put out a new album, and quite a few times that they didn't, for the last decade, Ween would set out to play every town in America that would allow them to display their particular blend of drunken genre-hopping and jamming, playing gloriously extended versions of their songs that they inevitably seemed unlikely to remember upon waking up the following day unless someone had fortuitously taped the proceedings. And many times, it turned out someone had. And then Ween would release the tape. All in all, they wound up releasing six live albums over ten years. Granted, some of these were old tapes documenting prior iterations of the band's career, and they were usually somewhere between very good and excellent. But man, that is a lot of live albums for a span of years which only saw them release three proper studio records. That should probably have been the clue that the party was nearing its end. That and the rumors of rehab which constantly dogged the band. But every time the rumors seemed to threaten to overtake them they were back onstage, and look how much fun they're having! Of course they're still going.
At least until they weren't. It ended the only way it could, with most of the band not being aware of it. It happened after one of their last stage performances ended in a complete meltdown. It happened five years after their last studio album, without even any rumors of another one in the works. And when it happened it became apparent that they had actually been done for years. This is perfectly okay.
During their heyday, Ween had more ideas than they knew what to do with, throwing out brilliance and trash at a rate not seen since Robert Pollard lost the ability to write five songs on the can, three of which would be good (He can, however, still write five songs while in the can). And this furious pace is what keeps them alive. That track a couple lines above didn't make it onto one of their studio albums. Also, it is a gorgeous ballad. Yes, they did that. They also did everything else. How well and how fast they did it made it possible to ignore the obvious with each passing year after the release of The Mollusk, when it became apparent that the brilliance would be concentrated only in flashes rather than sprinkled over the bulk of their recorded output going forward. There was simply so much to catch up on. Sure, the entire second half of Quebec was incredibly dull, but have you heard this new collection of previously unreleased material? They've still got it!
While it seems inevitable that Ween will tour again down the road, it is entirely possible that they shouldn't. The odds of them releasing music that adds to their legacy seems very slim, outweighed by the possibility that the combination of Dean and Gene Ween may no longer be good for people who at this point in life may have a greater need for sobriety than they used to. If they do come back, it will generate money, not art. Until they die, they will likely enjoy playing music together, even if they no longer have any reason to record music together. Even if they shouldn't play music together anymore. When they do reunite, they will put on a fun concert, but it will be a nostalgia-laden exercise, as it has been for years now. There's nothing wrong with a bit of nostalgia here and there, but it cannot compare to the sheer joy of diving into the things the duo did in the past and hearing them communicate through a prog-rock epic that sounds like it is being written from the point of view of a child molester the simple message that they cannot believe they are being paid to do this. We had the best time at their party. I choose to thank them like this. By writing about them on the internet (Naughty words in the video below).
Friday, May 4, 2012
Tuesday, February 28, 2012
The Adventures Of Stealth Goat Pt. 1
Barista: Here's your latte, Mr. Johnson.
Man: I'm not Mr. Johnson at all. I'm...
[Rips off man costume]
Stealth Goat: STEALTH GOAT!
All: [gasp]
Man: I'm not Mr. Johnson at all. I'm...
[Rips off man costume]
Stealth Goat: STEALTH GOAT!
All: [gasp]
Sunday, February 19, 2012
The Death of the Celebrity Chef
Here in America, the celebrity chef is a relatively new phenomenon. And, as so frequently happens, we are screwing it up incredibly badly. Rather than have it be about the quality of a chef's cooking, here it is more about who can get their face put on the greatest number of items readily available at Target™. As does most of our celebrity-worshiping culture, this treads a fine line between wasteful and completely ridiculous. These people are elevated more for how they look in half-hour segments than for how their food tastes, and this has created a television food culture that is somewhere between nauseating and embarrassing.
This is not to say that putting chefs on television is some sort of quixotic endeavor. Julia's ghost would probably turn all my rouxs to ash for even suggesting it. But rather, that we as a country are doing it wrong. In fact, the two best food shows currently on television are actually run by food personalities rather than chefs. I speak here of Anthony Bourdain and Alton Brown. Bourdain cane up through the ranks as a chef, though he has since left the profession for a lifestyle that he would probably call significantly easier and more opulent. Brown attended culinary school for the purpose of creating a tv show, and spent years making the wonderful Good Eats, a show which has now sadly ended, leaving Food Network with exactly zero shows worth watching. Most of the chefs we have running things on the magic box these days are more of the Guy Fieri "Watch me indiscriminately shovel things into the hole in my fat face while yelling vacuous catchphrases" school of television. There is an air of condescension that you do not get with Bourdain and Brown, who do not seem to feel the same contempt for the audience's collective iq that seems to accompany most other food-related programming. Which brings us to the current nexus of the problem: Paula Deen.
This is a fairly old story by this point, so forgive me for the rehash I am about to go into. Paula Deen has become of of Food Network's biggest stars by pandering to her audience with a big ol' Southern accent that has become more exaggerated and cartoonish over the years. She cooks good ol' down home food, which she seems to define as massive portions of fatty, sugary food drowned in butter. She is a wonderfully succinct symbol for most of what is wrong with the American diet, a woman whose recipes are the best possible solution for the Social Security crisis.
Yes, that is exactly what it looks like
So when the news came out recently that this symbol of ridiculous American excess has diabetes, it was somewhere between obvious and not at all surprising. If you spend years foisting what she has on the general populace, there are obviously going to be severe and painful health issues. If you can look at the above image and not understand the ramifications, well, I'm going to file that under natural selection. No, the surprising part was that she was diagnosed with diabetes years ago and has been hiding it, so as not to hurt her business. That's pretty slimy stuff right there. So why the change of heart? Well, it had been a long-running rumor that she had diabetes, so it was probably going to come out sooner or later. So why not put the story out there to pre-empt a messy revelation, as well as try to put your own spin on the matter? That's not how it happened.
No, in the end the Butter Queen made public that she was afflicted with the only possible endpoint for her own cooking because she signed a multi-million dollar deal with a drug company to promote their diabetes drug Victoza®. Part of the deal for her getting these millions was making her condition public. That is borderline despicable. But it gets better: Victoza® causes thyroid cancer in lab rats. Don't you go to hell for this sort of thing? Immediately after the announcement Deen's publicist, a job which requires you check your soul at the door, quit over moral issues with what Deen was doing. Making her the only person involved in any aspect of this mess who has a conscience.
In Bourdain's book Medium Raw, there's a scene where the author overhears two celebrity chefs discussing a potential endorsement deal for a new product. Not once is there any mention of the quality or usefulness of the item. Rather, the only aspect of it that is talked about is what the company is willing to pay the chef, and what the chefs are willing to put their name on a product they clearly have no intention of ever using for. This is where we stand. The entire celebrity chef culture has gone past the tipping point, and is currently striding the line between self-parody and actual destructive institution seemingly hell-bent in actively hurting us. Welcome to America, circa 2012. We're doing it wrong.
This is not to say that putting chefs on television is some sort of quixotic endeavor. Julia's ghost would probably turn all my rouxs to ash for even suggesting it. But rather, that we as a country are doing it wrong. In fact, the two best food shows currently on television are actually run by food personalities rather than chefs. I speak here of Anthony Bourdain and Alton Brown. Bourdain cane up through the ranks as a chef, though he has since left the profession for a lifestyle that he would probably call significantly easier and more opulent. Brown attended culinary school for the purpose of creating a tv show, and spent years making the wonderful Good Eats, a show which has now sadly ended, leaving Food Network with exactly zero shows worth watching. Most of the chefs we have running things on the magic box these days are more of the Guy Fieri "Watch me indiscriminately shovel things into the hole in my fat face while yelling vacuous catchphrases" school of television. There is an air of condescension that you do not get with Bourdain and Brown, who do not seem to feel the same contempt for the audience's collective iq that seems to accompany most other food-related programming. Which brings us to the current nexus of the problem: Paula Deen.
This is a fairly old story by this point, so forgive me for the rehash I am about to go into. Paula Deen has become of of Food Network's biggest stars by pandering to her audience with a big ol' Southern accent that has become more exaggerated and cartoonish over the years. She cooks good ol' down home food, which she seems to define as massive portions of fatty, sugary food drowned in butter. She is a wonderfully succinct symbol for most of what is wrong with the American diet, a woman whose recipes are the best possible solution for the Social Security crisis.
Yes, that is exactly what it looks likeSo when the news came out recently that this symbol of ridiculous American excess has diabetes, it was somewhere between obvious and not at all surprising. If you spend years foisting what she has on the general populace, there are obviously going to be severe and painful health issues. If you can look at the above image and not understand the ramifications, well, I'm going to file that under natural selection. No, the surprising part was that she was diagnosed with diabetes years ago and has been hiding it, so as not to hurt her business. That's pretty slimy stuff right there. So why the change of heart? Well, it had been a long-running rumor that she had diabetes, so it was probably going to come out sooner or later. So why not put the story out there to pre-empt a messy revelation, as well as try to put your own spin on the matter? That's not how it happened.
No, in the end the Butter Queen made public that she was afflicted with the only possible endpoint for her own cooking because she signed a multi-million dollar deal with a drug company to promote their diabetes drug Victoza®. Part of the deal for her getting these millions was making her condition public. That is borderline despicable. But it gets better: Victoza® causes thyroid cancer in lab rats. Don't you go to hell for this sort of thing? Immediately after the announcement Deen's publicist, a job which requires you check your soul at the door, quit over moral issues with what Deen was doing. Making her the only person involved in any aspect of this mess who has a conscience.
In Bourdain's book Medium Raw, there's a scene where the author overhears two celebrity chefs discussing a potential endorsement deal for a new product. Not once is there any mention of the quality or usefulness of the item. Rather, the only aspect of it that is talked about is what the company is willing to pay the chef, and what the chefs are willing to put their name on a product they clearly have no intention of ever using for. This is where we stand. The entire celebrity chef culture has gone past the tipping point, and is currently striding the line between self-parody and actual destructive institution seemingly hell-bent in actively hurting us. Welcome to America, circa 2012. We're doing it wrong.
Friday, February 10, 2012
Signs You Work Back Of House In A Restaurant #1
When you pick up something hot that burns your hand, you find someplace safe to set it down rather than dropping it.
Thursday, December 1, 2011
Go Watch The Muppet Movie
Right now. It is a movie and it stars the Muppets. If you haven't seen it yet, it is time.
However, if you can't immediately go, there is this. And it is amazing.
However, if you can't immediately go, there is this. And it is amazing.
Thursday, November 24, 2011
'Tis The Season
I was serenaded thusly this morning:
It's the holiday season
Thanksgiving Turkey
Is coming down the chimney
It's the holiday season
Thanksgiving Turkey
Is coming down the chimney
Friday, September 16, 2011
I Love My Smoke Alarm
Back at the dawn of time, prehistoric man would commonly wake up to find his cave on fire just before dying in the inferno. This eventually led mankind to move from caves to apartment buildings, which are equally flammable, but feature a device called a smoke alarm specifically designed to let you know if you are in impending danger of being cooked to medium-rare (Doneness may vary due to the strength of the blaze and the mass of the individual in question. Always use a thermometer to ensure precision). Simply by inserting that 9-volt battery you found in the bottom of the drawer where you keep your winter gloves under the hat your great-aunt knitted for you into the machine after first touching it to your tongue to make sure it still has a charge, you can be alerted of danger in time to escape to the great outdoors. But this clearly was not enough. Worried that the batteries might die and remain unchanged in the now-lifeless machines, someone came up with the idea of tying the smoke alarms into the power lines, ensuring that we apartment-dwellers shall always be safe.
As you may have guessed already, my apartment features one of these miracles of modern technology, and while I have not yet stress-tested it due to a desire to not burn my apartment down, I am certain it will alert me should that become a possibility. I believe this due to the impressive number of things it makes sure to alert me to on a daily basis. For example, I can always count on my smoke alarm to let me know that my oven is on. Smoke is not required for it to perform this vital task. I suspect that somewhere in my smoke alarm is a thermometer, and when it registers any sort of temperature, as heat is not native to Duluth, Minnesota, my alarm decides to warn me of this unnatural development. As it is hardwired into the wall, I do not even need to give it a nine-volt for it to perform this function, and I cannot prevent it from doing so, short of taking an axe to it. Which I have certainly debated doing from time to time. However, it does many other things too, this amazing multi-tasking safety device. For instance, last night it decided to alert me to the fact that it was 4:57 a.m. It did this, not by going off to signal any sort of danger, but by emitting an ear-piercing chirp that the Official Girlfriend somehow slept through for no reason whatsoever (We have two of these machines. The other remained blessedly silent the whole time) every ten seconds as I struggled with both it and my sleep-fogged brain in an attempt to figure out how to silence it for good (Cement shoes and Lake Superior being a leading option). I immediately recognized the chirping as coming from the smoke alarm because it had done that in the middle of the night once before, when it decided to let me know that the power was out and it did not have a battery installed in it, so it could not properly protect me. At this point, you may wish to re-read that sentence. That actually happened until I found a battery and jammed it into the alarm, at which point it shut up, leaving unanswered the obvious question: If it had no battery and the power was out, how was it yelling at me at a volume loud enough to wake the (probable) crack dealers in the vacant house next door?!? I still do not know this, but I am so happy with the security this device provides me that I am giving serious consideration to re-enacting the last fifteen minutes of The Shining with it. And then, and only then, will I finally be able to rest easily. At which point I will presumably die in a fire.
As you may have guessed already, my apartment features one of these miracles of modern technology, and while I have not yet stress-tested it due to a desire to not burn my apartment down, I am certain it will alert me should that become a possibility. I believe this due to the impressive number of things it makes sure to alert me to on a daily basis. For example, I can always count on my smoke alarm to let me know that my oven is on. Smoke is not required for it to perform this vital task. I suspect that somewhere in my smoke alarm is a thermometer, and when it registers any sort of temperature, as heat is not native to Duluth, Minnesota, my alarm decides to warn me of this unnatural development. As it is hardwired into the wall, I do not even need to give it a nine-volt for it to perform this function, and I cannot prevent it from doing so, short of taking an axe to it. Which I have certainly debated doing from time to time. However, it does many other things too, this amazing multi-tasking safety device. For instance, last night it decided to alert me to the fact that it was 4:57 a.m. It did this, not by going off to signal any sort of danger, but by emitting an ear-piercing chirp that the Official Girlfriend somehow slept through for no reason whatsoever (We have two of these machines. The other remained blessedly silent the whole time) every ten seconds as I struggled with both it and my sleep-fogged brain in an attempt to figure out how to silence it for good (Cement shoes and Lake Superior being a leading option). I immediately recognized the chirping as coming from the smoke alarm because it had done that in the middle of the night once before, when it decided to let me know that the power was out and it did not have a battery installed in it, so it could not properly protect me. At this point, you may wish to re-read that sentence. That actually happened until I found a battery and jammed it into the alarm, at which point it shut up, leaving unanswered the obvious question: If it had no battery and the power was out, how was it yelling at me at a volume loud enough to wake the (probable) crack dealers in the vacant house next door?!? I still do not know this, but I am so happy with the security this device provides me that I am giving serious consideration to re-enacting the last fifteen minutes of The Shining with it. And then, and only then, will I finally be able to rest easily. At which point I will presumably die in a fire.
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