Okay, so I know that some of you are looking forward to the thrilling conclusion of the Italian Pottery Model saga, but I really wanted to recap the important cultural events of the year because I’m lazy and uncreative at heart, and many more writers whose dogs are more talented than I am are doing the whole “year-end list” thing, so I think that I’ll follow suit. First, I shall start with the important stuff, like:
Movie of the Year: Knocked Up — Now, I know that No Country For Old Men was a better movie than Knocked Up, and I won’t deny it — the Coen brothers managed to make a genuine, beautiful work of art that stands up with the all-time great films of the 20th century — but when I’m looking to pop in a DVD that’ll entertain my idiot friends and me, I’ll head straight for Knocked Up, which, in case you spent the year living in a cave, is about a fat, semi-lovable goofball (played by Seth Rogen) who gets a beautiful young woman (played by Katherine Heigl, an actress on the atrocity of a television show that is Grey’s Anatomy) pregnant. Hilarity ensues. The DVD gets bonus points for including a deleted scene featuring one of Rogen’s roommates ranting about Brokeback Mountain.
Album of the Year: “In Rainbows” by Radiohead — While there were a bunch of critically adored albums put out this year by the likes of Bruce Springsteen, Jay-Z, and Kanye West, they were all, when you get down to the nitty-gritty, pretty boring. Bruce’s album really only had about two good songs on it, Jay-Z just kept rapping about killing people, and Kanye wouldn’t shut up about how much money he had and how everybody was after him. Which brings me to Radiohead, undeniably the most creative group of blokes over in England. The songs on the album are completely unique from any other artist’s body of work (probably because nobody can figure out how to successfully rip them off yet), and every song is jaw-droppingly awesome. Oh yeah, and the fact that the band decided to release the album on the internet, allowing you to name your own price for it, is pretty cool too.
TV Show of the Year: The Office — In recent years, The Office has gone from a quick adaptation of the hit British show to a full-blown cultural phenomenon. That said, having the characters of Jim and Pam enter into a relationship pretty much signals that the show’s writers are running out of ideas, and by next season, the show will have completely jumped the shark. Enjoy it while you can, kids.
Overreaction of the Year: Baseball’s Steroid Scandal — Okay, we get it. Everybody in Major League Baseball is on steroids. Really, is it that big a deal? Last time I checked, people like to see home runs. If a baseball player’s on steroids, then he’s more likely to hit a home run. So who cares? And if every baseball player is juicing up, don’t you get the same result as if everybody wasn’t on steroids? At this point, it almost seems like a dumb idea — or at least a bad career move — to not have some bat boy inject you with HGH. And I know that baseball is the national pastime, and it is a tragedy that our icons are dishonestly gaining an unfair advantage, but really… having the Senate get involved? We’re at war! Our economy is in the dump! Social Security needs reform! We’re trying to change our health care system! And the Senate decides to investigate steroids in baseball? Come on, man. The presidential election is coming up, and the intense publicity of the Mitchell Report seems to me to be a mindless move by the Senate that shows no real logical thinking when given the sense of the current political climate. Oy vey.
The Only Event More Pointless and Stupid than the Mitchell Report: The Hollywood Writers’ Strike — Now, I know that the writers in Hollywood are in the right, and when you boil it all down, they’ve got an excellent point. They’re not getting paid for their work that appears on the internet, and that’s fundamentally wrong. However, the writers’ strike is getting annoying. The media (probably because it, too, is made up of writers) is unabashedly taking the writers’ side. Additionally, celebrities, those shining examples of physical and mental perfection, have decided to take the writers’ side. Members of the band Rage Against the Machine have recently shown their support for the writers, saying that the writers are suffering and the big, bad entertainment executives are getting fat and rich off of their wares. While that may be true, the writers aren’t the ones who are really suffering. The people of America are getting hit the hardest because there isn’t anything new coming on TV besides brainless drivel like NBC’s Clash of the Choirs, a concept so mind-numbingly boring that it makes me want to rip my hair out and then shoot my TV with a potato gun. Sorry for the rant. Anyways, the writers’ strike is really just helping to dumb down American TV audiences because we can’t see any more shows with a modicum of intelligent thought, even if the current pinnacle of network TV happens to be junk like Grey’s Anatomy and Two and a Half Men. So, either way, America is hopeless.
With that in mind…
Happy Festivus and Happy New Year!
Wednesday, December 26, 2007
Wednesday, December 12, 2007
Fabio, eat your heart out
Hey kids! I just wanted to stop in, see how everybody was doing, and say that this is definitely my last column for the Bulletin. Why?
Because I found a new job. One that pays more than this racket. Jeff Byrd, I’m looking at you.
Okay, just kidding, this isn’t actually my last column for the Bulletin, but I did find a new job. Unfortunately, I managed to be semi-horrible at it, so they’re probably never going to call me back.
What did I do, you ask? Good question.
Italian pottery model.
To break those words down, in case you failed to completely comprehend their meaning, I must tell you a story:
So I’m standing on campus one day (in the area known as The Pit, for you Carolina aficionados) with a couple of friends, when out of the blue, a woman approaches me and asks, “Excuse me, but have you ever thought about being a model?”
Now for any normal person, hearing a question like that — completely unprovoked, remember — brings one response and one response only to mind: No! Because you may end up being asked to assume poses that are illegal in most states.
However, because I’m not the fastest horse in the stable, my response was instead a highly articulate, sublimely intelligent, “Uh. . . .”
“I’m sorry,” this woman, who had still not introduced herself to me, said in one breath, “I’m with Vietri — we’re an Italian pottery company, and we’re doing a photo shoot in a few days and we need models and you look Italian - are you Italian - will you do it?”
“Uh. . . .”
Sensing that my hesitancy was clearly a sign of my overwhelming enthusiasm for all things Italian and clay-based, the woman said, “Great! Just let me take a picture of you and then have my boss take a picture of you, and then we’ll get your info and give you a call.” So this woman’s boss — who was five feet tall and one of the most terrifying women I have ever met in my life — took a picture of me using her iPhone, and I gave them my phone number and my e-mail address. According to one of my friends who had been in the area for a while, the pair had been attempting to recruit models all afternoon, so I thought nothing of the incident, and went to my dorm room.
Problem is, about 5:30 that afternoon, my phone rang and it was the boss who had taken my picture with her iPhone. Life is crazy. “So would you be interested in being featured in our campaign? We’ll pay you three hundred dollars.”
In a complete state of shock yet cognizant enough that in college, you never turn down three hundred dollars, I said, “Uh. . . .sure. . . .”
“Great! Well I’m going to need to take you shopping on Saturday so we can get you some clothes. I’ll pick you up at 10:30 in the morning and we’ll go to the mall. Okay? Great. Bye.”
Now, at this point I should clarify two things:
1) I am not Italian. I have somewhat dark skin, but that really has more to do with the amount of time I spent outside when I was a kid than my ethnic background. Honestly, I’m not really sure why this woman thought that I must have come from the Mediterranean.
2) I am not a beautiful man. I am by no means a repulsive individual, but I am not exactly the picture of unadulterated physical perfection. To me, the epitome of Italian Model Perfection would be Fabio, and I look like somebody whom Fabio could break with his face while riding a rollercoaster.
Nor am I cool — it is my opinion that human beings have the ability to, through the fine art of cool, make themselves attractive. However, I am not cool. To paraphrase Chuck Klosterman, if cool had a color, it would be black. I, on the other hand, would be some shade of burnt orange, which I am. On the other hand, I’m skinny, tan, don’t suffer from any severe physical deformities, and I look significantly better than terrible if you put a suit on me.
Still, I am unable to comprehend why in the wide expanse of the universe someone would actually select me to model anything, let alone pottery. Why does anybody need to model pottery, anyway? It’s not like you wear the stuff, is it? Really, doesn’t pottery pretty much sell itself?
No, silly. This is what separates me, the Italian Pottery Model (IPM), from you, the common person. Clearly, this pottery was special and needed my assistance in selling it. So I looked on Vietri’s website, and discovered that the company had never before used models, and the term Italian Pottery was a misnomer. I quickly learned that the product Vietri pushed the most was dinnerware (e.g., cups, plates, etc). Later conversations with Vietri employees revealed that the company’s plates were the only ones featured on a little show called Sex and the City, and that Oprah had prominently endorsed the company on her show. So I guess you could say that this company was kind of a big deal.
So if this pottery company is such a big deal, why would they use schmucks like me for models? Tune in, not next time (next column is going to be on something Christmas-y, because I’m in the holiday spirit), but the time after next to find out!
Hot Jam of the week: “Protect Ya Neck” by the Wu-Tang Clan. The Wu-Tang Clan is essentially the sweetest rap group ever, and if you don’t like them, then we can’t be friends. Basically this song will rock your face off. Note: Wu-Tang Clan is not suitable for children, women who are pregnant or may become pregnant, or those with back injuries.
Because I found a new job. One that pays more than this racket. Jeff Byrd, I’m looking at you.
Okay, just kidding, this isn’t actually my last column for the Bulletin, but I did find a new job. Unfortunately, I managed to be semi-horrible at it, so they’re probably never going to call me back.
What did I do, you ask? Good question.
Italian pottery model.
To break those words down, in case you failed to completely comprehend their meaning, I must tell you a story:
So I’m standing on campus one day (in the area known as The Pit, for you Carolina aficionados) with a couple of friends, when out of the blue, a woman approaches me and asks, “Excuse me, but have you ever thought about being a model?”
Now for any normal person, hearing a question like that — completely unprovoked, remember — brings one response and one response only to mind: No! Because you may end up being asked to assume poses that are illegal in most states.
However, because I’m not the fastest horse in the stable, my response was instead a highly articulate, sublimely intelligent, “Uh. . . .”
“I’m sorry,” this woman, who had still not introduced herself to me, said in one breath, “I’m with Vietri — we’re an Italian pottery company, and we’re doing a photo shoot in a few days and we need models and you look Italian - are you Italian - will you do it?”
“Uh. . . .”
Sensing that my hesitancy was clearly a sign of my overwhelming enthusiasm for all things Italian and clay-based, the woman said, “Great! Just let me take a picture of you and then have my boss take a picture of you, and then we’ll get your info and give you a call.” So this woman’s boss — who was five feet tall and one of the most terrifying women I have ever met in my life — took a picture of me using her iPhone, and I gave them my phone number and my e-mail address. According to one of my friends who had been in the area for a while, the pair had been attempting to recruit models all afternoon, so I thought nothing of the incident, and went to my dorm room.
Problem is, about 5:30 that afternoon, my phone rang and it was the boss who had taken my picture with her iPhone. Life is crazy. “So would you be interested in being featured in our campaign? We’ll pay you three hundred dollars.”
In a complete state of shock yet cognizant enough that in college, you never turn down three hundred dollars, I said, “Uh. . . .sure. . . .”
“Great! Well I’m going to need to take you shopping on Saturday so we can get you some clothes. I’ll pick you up at 10:30 in the morning and we’ll go to the mall. Okay? Great. Bye.”
Now, at this point I should clarify two things:
1) I am not Italian. I have somewhat dark skin, but that really has more to do with the amount of time I spent outside when I was a kid than my ethnic background. Honestly, I’m not really sure why this woman thought that I must have come from the Mediterranean.
2) I am not a beautiful man. I am by no means a repulsive individual, but I am not exactly the picture of unadulterated physical perfection. To me, the epitome of Italian Model Perfection would be Fabio, and I look like somebody whom Fabio could break with his face while riding a rollercoaster.
Nor am I cool — it is my opinion that human beings have the ability to, through the fine art of cool, make themselves attractive. However, I am not cool. To paraphrase Chuck Klosterman, if cool had a color, it would be black. I, on the other hand, would be some shade of burnt orange, which I am. On the other hand, I’m skinny, tan, don’t suffer from any severe physical deformities, and I look significantly better than terrible if you put a suit on me.
Still, I am unable to comprehend why in the wide expanse of the universe someone would actually select me to model anything, let alone pottery. Why does anybody need to model pottery, anyway? It’s not like you wear the stuff, is it? Really, doesn’t pottery pretty much sell itself?
No, silly. This is what separates me, the Italian Pottery Model (IPM), from you, the common person. Clearly, this pottery was special and needed my assistance in selling it. So I looked on Vietri’s website, and discovered that the company had never before used models, and the term Italian Pottery was a misnomer. I quickly learned that the product Vietri pushed the most was dinnerware (e.g., cups, plates, etc). Later conversations with Vietri employees revealed that the company’s plates were the only ones featured on a little show called Sex and the City, and that Oprah had prominently endorsed the company on her show. So I guess you could say that this company was kind of a big deal.
So if this pottery company is such a big deal, why would they use schmucks like me for models? Tune in, not next time (next column is going to be on something Christmas-y, because I’m in the holiday spirit), but the time after next to find out!
Hot Jam of the week: “Protect Ya Neck” by the Wu-Tang Clan. The Wu-Tang Clan is essentially the sweetest rap group ever, and if you don’t like them, then we can’t be friends. Basically this song will rock your face off. Note: Wu-Tang Clan is not suitable for children, women who are pregnant or may become pregnant, or those with back injuries.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
