[In]Defense[able] of TV

***Disclaimer: If you are under the age of 18, please disregard the limited verbal palette on display here.  The curators of this blog do not condone, nor do we condemn, all of the verbiage contained herein.  We ascribe only to the first amendment.   

A few days ago, an email exchange between some college friends prompted a response from me that reads now like a tongue in cheek defense of television.  At the time, I think I thought I was really defending it.  The original topic of conversation was LOST, which just started airing its new season.    Someone responded by listing their favorite shows, amongst which was Entourage.   I hate Entourage, and only partly because I don't get HBO.  Make no mistake; it's not clever television.  It's just male ID wish fulfillment... And sometimes that's enjoyable.  The pictures painted by two friends of mine in particular were too perfect to let disappear into the abyss of email chain history.  

Courtesy of Brendan:

I fucking HATE (that is a strong word) Entourage.  Here's a rundown of every episode ever:

"Oh shit Vince, I can't believe we're getting into this really tight spot with your career/girl/management. Oh no, it looks like our luck/dreams have finally run out."

"Wait a minute, it all works out, no biggie guys, I'm Vince for Christ's sake.  Now everybody just get back on board with my chill self."

Mike, a LA LA fixture, added:

Entourage... don't relate. Plus, I have to deal with all the douches that see that show and move to LA to get famous. I always tip them at least 10 percent.

And now, my soapbox stint:

I am resentful of your insinuation that, because someone is really into a given show(s), that they're somehow TV obsessed and wasting time while you're always extremely busy with things engrossing and worthwhile.  Know who is TV obsessed to the point of irrefutable fault? Moose.  Mostly because she has no job and can only go to yoga and look for a job for so long (especially in this economy) before she's lured back to the boob tube by the engrossing exploits of America's Top Nanny, America's Top Model, America's Top Idol, America's Favorite Runway Model, America's Favorite SoCal C*nts, Gossip C*nt, and America's Favorite SoCal C*nts Move to NYC to See Which Coast Has Bigger C*nts.

Animal Collective

I downloaded Merriweather Post Pavilion, Animal Collective's latest, last weekend.  It's pretty amazing.  Sounds like the synthesis of the best parts of their disparate past.  While not pop, it's certainly their most accessible.  While the album is saturated with standout tracks, "My Girls" is the first video.  Cool video, great song.         

Amazing Ladder Climbing Contest !!! - video powered by Metacafe

See more funny videos and funny pictures at CollegeHumor.

See more funny videos and funny pictures at CollegeHumor.

Read This, Watch This

It's Teddy Neldshmeim's blog.

He was there. 

Watch this:

Hilarious

HOW TO FIGHT - watch more funny videos

HOW TO WORK OUT FROM HOME - watch more funny videos

Fleet Foxes (Closed Captioned)

Wawa

Courtesy of Cro, this is a pretty sweet interview with John Gutwillig of the Disco Biscuits.  Dad, you should watch this.  

Forkcast Track # 256

Follow that link, scroll to that song, "Wham City (edit)", and listen.  Let me know how it goes.  I think this Dan Deacon guy is onto something.  

Killing Birds With Sour Grapes

Eagles fans have no class. This is a well known fact in every city. I was told today --by an Eagles fan-- that I should root for the Eagles to keep the Lombardi Trophy in the NFC East. This is like saying I should pull for the Red Sox when they play in the World Series. It's sacrilege. Not interested. (By the way, Donovan McNabb is the least intelligent star in all of sports to consistently have the media's attention while inexplicably flying under the radar for being an idiot who barely speaks english.)

I'm rooting for the Cardinals because they're the least of four evils. I felt like the Giants were the best team in football this year. For the first time in as long as I can remember, they were consistently fun to watch on both sides of the ball and for the vast majority of the season. They beat some really good teams - all four teams that are left, in fact. Then they lost last week to an Eagles team that barely made the playoffs.  While I can't say I'd even enjoy it, a Cardinal Superbowl victory would adequately emphasize the absurdity of this football season as a whole. I enjoy an underdog story, but only when it involves my team, like last year. When it's someone else's, it's for the birds.  Or maybe the Steelers.

The Ravens shouldn't win because they have a rookie quarterback. If they do, Flacco will be forever overrated just like Ben Roethlesberger, and that's annoying. While I enjoy Ed Reed, I cannot stand Ray Lewis. T-O-O-L.  (I was screaming that while I typed it.)  Forget the murder charges (innocent until proven guilty), it's like this guy thinks he's delivering a sermon every time someone sticks a microphone in his face. His voice gets all high pitched and raspy, he ceaselessly invokes the almighty, never failing to mention he's a Ravens fan. It's infuriating. As if these reasons were insufficient, Art Modell stole the Browns from Cleveland in the middle of the night, moving them to Baltimore before the 1996 season.  This would be their second Superbowl in Baltimore --SECOND-- since 2000. And who'd they beat in 2000? Jim Fassel's Giants, that's who.

Perpetually overrated Ben Roethlesberger is annoying. Additionally, the Steelers have Kevin Barry's fiance playing safety, and girls just don't belong in the NFL. It's a violent game.  She should start doing yoga or something.  Moreover, if Pittsburgh wins, the media will start talking about Roethlesberger's place in history as though he's a historically elite quarterback, which is a joke but not a very good one.  Ben manages games well.  He's a winner.  End of story. No need to anoint him amongst the greatest.                

This leaves us with the Cardinals, easily one of the most futile franchises in all of sports: They play in a stadium named after a college that exists in cyberspace.  They have a fumble prone quarterback who wears a glove on his throwing hand, humps bibles, and sprays the ball all over the place*.   Want to know who they beat during the regular season this year?  NO ONE.  Their best win, by far, was the Miami Dolphins, who they played in cyberspace at University of Phoenix stadium.  They have no business hosting this game, let alone playing in it.  This really is a no brainer for me.  Go Cards.  

 

*That is, when he doesn't fumble.

Battle of the Bulge

With most of my pants at the dry cleaner, I wore a pair to work yesterday that don't usually see the light of day; a pair I got during my senior year in college in anticipation of an internship interview.  They didn't fit.  I could barely breath all day.  I mean it.  By 3:00, I decided it made sense to undo the button, leaving the pants held up only by my belt and zipped up fly.  In denial, I chalked the whole thing up to an expected and typical waistline expansion that comes naturally with the latter twenties, having accumulated more sedentary time behind a desk than was spent in college altogether.     

This morning, while getting dressed, the button on a different pair of pants actually EXPLODED. 

This evening I found myself back at the gym.  Having run two miles and change, I was lifting some weights, Pearl Jam blaring on my iPod.  I was doing reverse curls with a 25 lb. bar when it happened.  I bent down.  Back straight.  Up we go.  Something popped.  Deprived of my hearing, I was left to play detective.  I was frantic.  It felt like a major pop.  Something big. Something terrible.  What the hell was that?  What just happened?  Did someone just slap me on the ass?  I looked at the strangers behind me in the reflection?  No.  Absolutely not.  That'd be ridiculous.  Did the herniated disc in my back just explode?  No.  As I twisted my back, it felt loose.  It was fine.  Did I just shart trying to pick up 25 lbs?  Worse yet, did I just blow my rectum trying to pick up 25 lbs?  I've read about that happening to weight lifters.  Presumably, they're lifting more than 25 lbs. I looked down at my legs and shoes.  Nothing.  No poop.  No blood.  Endlessly confused, I turned to look at the people behind me for clues in their gestures.  

My boxers actually split, errrr, EXPLODED, waist to grundle.  

Welcome to middle age, Seamus.  We've been waiting for you.  Do the Evolution.              

 

Barstool Sports

Call me a cynic. Call me a guy with a decidedly shitty job and a decidedly even shittier blog. Both are applicable. Likelihood, at least in the near future, of workplace happiness for me? Slim. Likelihood I'll ever attend a Barstool Sports event again? Even slimmer. Likelihood I'm writing partly out of jealousy for a guy who fixates on sports and breasts for a living? 40%. Likelihood the Giants' defeat yesterday colors my perspective today? 100%.

Barstool Sports is a blog. It's niche: boobs and sports, "by the common man, for the common man". It's a bit of a phenomenon in Boston.  Truth be told, this afternoon marked my first ever visit to the site. I still haven't read any of it.  Don't really want to, having reluctantly attended one of their events at The Harp last weekend. 

I was picked up by Marty under false pretense.  We were going somewhere low key for a few drinks.  As Marty's a bit of a "stool", we ended up at The Harp. (I hereby declare this is what you're supposed to call avid readers of Barstool Sports.)

As we approached the door there was some guy standing there, alongside two bouncers, with a list in his hands.  Though there was no line at that point, he offered immediately, "Are you on the list? You've got to be on the list to get in.  You can't just get in.  This is a list party," as though he was St. Peter guarding the gates of heaven.

Marty responds without missing a beat (he never does), "I'm on the list. I love the site lately by the way." Marty owns his shit.  It's undeniable.

The guy, who I later learned was the founder of Barstool, and who operates under the moniker,'El Prez', adds, "Well what about him?" motioning to me.

Marty fires back, pointing towards the list, "I'm on the list 'plus one'."

This struck me as funny.  Marty not only foresaw his own attendance, he took into account the fact that he'd likely bring someone with him.  "I'm plus one. I'm his date, 'plus one'. He's going to buy all my drinks," I added. El Prez wasn't amused but the bouncers started giggling like middle-schoolers.

"You his date?! You his date!" one of them said incredulously and patronizingly after he'd retrieved his composure and his undeniable masculinity.

"Don't tell nobody that in there!" the other advised, motioning towards the inside of the bar as he made way for us. I'm pretty sure they thought we were really gay.

Basically, scantily clad chicks with fake boobs and too much makeup slathered all over their faces walk around in their underwear, amidst hoards of meat heads. Never seen anything remotely like it outside a strip club. It was mostly twenty-somethings dressed in their best "Jagerbombs and Pussy!" outfits, running around vying desperately for the attention of, and photo opps with, the Barstool girls.

We didn't stay very long. My negativity soon became unbearable. While we left no later than 10:00, I can guarantee at least 10 fights broke out later in the evening over who would be lucky enough to get to be in the middle of a slut sandwich photo opp. God bless this great city.

SNL Next Week

Fleet Foxes are slated to perform on "Saturday Night Live". They'll play "Blue Ridge Mountains" and "Mykonos" on January 17. So mark your calendars or set your DVRs.

Useful

A pretty comprehensive list of upcoming new releases coming up this winter.  

Equilibrium

Pathetic I know but at least I'm trying to ease back into the whole blogging thing.  These are two of the funnier clips I've been shown lately: