Discovering these, the most obtuse and useless form of found art imaginable, are enough to drive a man mad. YouTube comments are perhaps the lowest form of human communication, and the more of them you read the closer you are to going into a grocery store one day and walloping on people with a ball peen hammer at random.
Anyway, having said that, I now present YouTube Comment Haikus for one of today's featured videos, Jimi Hendrix on Fire (summary: man makes portrait of Jimi Hendrix out of matchsticks, then lights it on fire).
Via user Knobbsy, a teenage metal fan from the United Kingdom:
seems a shame to make
summit like that only to
burn it was great though!!
From madmonk66, a 40-year-old music afficionado (tastes veering from Venom to Soft Cell):
Wow. Is that Jimi's
schlong on fire? What is this -
Mississippi? LOL
(note: "LOL," of course, counts as one syllable ("lole") rather than three ("ell oh ell"). I made up the artform; I make up the rules)
There are probably more buried in here, but I'm slowly losing my mind looking for more so I'll stop at two for today.
Friday, August 31, 2007
Tuesday, August 28, 2007
I think Larry Flint did this kind of thing once
(Context: Something I heard about in the news)
Let it be known that I, Joe Mathlete, will pay a sum of one hundred dollars to any man who can prove that a Senator from Idaho had sex with him in a bathroom, or tried to indicate via hand-jive signals that he wanted to have sex with him in a bathroom.
Let it also be known that I, Joe Mathlete, will duly accept full financial backing for the above from any and all advocacy groups who would like this information to be made public but are too classy to make this offer on their own.
Let it be known that I, Joe Mathlete, will pay a sum of one hundred dollars to any man who can prove that a Senator from Idaho had sex with him in a bathroom, or tried to indicate via hand-jive signals that he wanted to have sex with him in a bathroom.
Let it also be known that I, Joe Mathlete, will duly accept full financial backing for the above from any and all advocacy groups who would like this information to be made public but are too classy to make this offer on their own.
THE MATHLETES OWN OTHER PEOPLE'S SONGS: THE BEST ALBUM OF THIS YEAR, OR NEXT, OR BASICALLY ANY OTHER
You guys know I make music, right?
Yeah, I make music. I've put out close to 25 albums since 2000 or so, very quietly and usually with "print runs" of under 30. I write all the songs and play all the instruments (except when we play live, but that's a tale for another day), and I enjoy it quite a bit. I'm not great at talking it up, but I will say this: It's amazing. I/we am/are called "The Mathletes," because I thought it would be funny to pretend I was a real band and not just a person. It wasn't, really, but I kept up with it just 'cuz.
So my newest album has been alluded to for close to a year (on, among other places, our MySpace page), and it's finally out. It's a covers album, and I'm releasing it for free online (though you can donate a few bucks via Paypal if you like what you hear, or if you're just feeling super nice, or if you don't believe Paypal actually works and you want to test your luck).
If you're a fan of lo-fi home recorded bedroom pop (and who besides most people isn't?), you should probably check out THE MATHLETES OWN OTHER PEOPLE'S SONGS. At the very least, there are some quasi-amusing anecdotes for each song, as well as some crayony album cover reproductions. Go on, go for it! Hey, nothing to lose, right?
Tracklist:
01. Linger (The Cranberries)
02. Only Shallow (My Bloody Valentine)
03. ROYGBIV (Boards of Canada)
04. Choking Tara (Guided by Voices)
05. Unravel (Bjork)
06. Les Os (The Unicorns)
07. Race for the Prize (The Flaming Lips)
08. Seeing Other People (Belle and Sebastian)
09. Rocket (The Smashing Pumpkins)
10. Never Let Me Down Again (Depeche Mode)
11. Ghost (Neutral Milk Hotel)
12. True Love Will Find You In The End (Daniel Johnston)
13. What Goes On (The Velvet Underground)
Yeah, I make music. I've put out close to 25 albums since 2000 or so, very quietly and usually with "print runs" of under 30. I write all the songs and play all the instruments (except when we play live, but that's a tale for another day), and I enjoy it quite a bit. I'm not great at talking it up, but I will say this: It's amazing. I/we am/are called "The Mathletes," because I thought it would be funny to pretend I was a real band and not just a person. It wasn't, really, but I kept up with it just 'cuz.
So my newest album has been alluded to for close to a year (on, among other places, our MySpace page), and it's finally out. It's a covers album, and I'm releasing it for free online (though you can donate a few bucks via Paypal if you like what you hear, or if you're just feeling super nice, or if you don't believe Paypal actually works and you want to test your luck).
If you're a fan of lo-fi home recorded bedroom pop (and who besides most people isn't?), you should probably check out THE MATHLETES OWN OTHER PEOPLE'S SONGS. At the very least, there are some quasi-amusing anecdotes for each song, as well as some crayony album cover reproductions. Go on, go for it! Hey, nothing to lose, right?
Tracklist:
01. Linger (The Cranberries)
02. Only Shallow (My Bloody Valentine)
03. ROYGBIV (Boards of Canada)
04. Choking Tara (Guided by Voices)
05. Unravel (Bjork)
06. Les Os (The Unicorns)
07. Race for the Prize (The Flaming Lips)
08. Seeing Other People (Belle and Sebastian)
09. Rocket (The Smashing Pumpkins)
10. Never Let Me Down Again (Depeche Mode)
11. Ghost (Neutral Milk Hotel)
12. True Love Will Find You In The End (Daniel Johnston)
13. What Goes On (The Velvet Underground)
Sunday, August 26, 2007
"anime" is almost an anagram for "enema"
I'm not making any judgment call or stating any opinions here. I just realized that, and wanted to share.
Sorry.
Sorry.
Friday, August 24, 2007
After six hours of garbage, I have an internet connection at my home
I don't wanna talk about it any further. But anyway, at the risk of turning this blog into, well, a blog, here's a clip from youtube in lieu of actual, original content. These two minutes amount to one of the most profoundly affecting influences from my formative, toddling-oriented years; thank god for YouTube, and thank god for anyone and everyone who dropped acid and worked at PBS when I was a child.
This song is glorious.
This song is glorious.
Thursday, August 23, 2007
Jolly Jolly Jinglebeans: an original play I wrote in five or so hours, under considerable arbitrary restrictions
I mentioned this last week (http://joemathlete.blogspot.com/2007/08/guess-what.html)... I figured I've got nothing to lose save for some dignity, and this is the internet so whatever to that. Remember: the first and last lines of dialogue ( "I never meant to hurt you… really. But it felt so goddamned good" and "I figured it couldn’t be any longer than 3,000 pages… All the best books are under 3,000 pages," respectively) were preordained. And did I mention it was written in like five hours?
Anyway, here you go. Copypaste ahoy!
JOLLY JOLLY JINGLEBEANS
by Joe Mathlete
(Darkness. A woman’s voice is heard)
DERNA: I never meant to hurt you… really. But it felt so goddamned good.
(silence)
DERNA: I had my eye on you for some time, you know.
(silence)
DERNA: I know there will be repercussions. It’s a shame things had to turn out this way. I assure you my intentions were far subtler. But this was inevitable. This was meant to be.
(silence)
DERNA: Sometimes I wonder if you really can feel pain. Or if that’s just some grand, whimsical flight of fancy. Sometimes I wonder if you can feel anything at all.
(silence)
DERNA: Why won’t you speak to me? Why won’t you say anything? You’re so famously talkative around him, but when it’s me you just clam up? Is that it?
(long silence)
DERNA: I want all of you. I want to have all of you inside of me. Oh god--
TORP: Honey, I’m home!
(lights up on DERNA, seated at a table, holding a sandwich and frozen in fear)
TORP: (still offstage) Derna, have you seen my magic sandwich?
(DERNA frantically stuffs the rest of the sandwich in her mouth)
TORP: Derna?
DERNA: Hello!
(TORP walks into the kitchen)
TORP: Honey, have you seen my magic sandwich?
DERNA: (mouth still full of sandwich) Which one?
TORP: The one that talks to me and is alive. My magic sandwich.
DERNA: I don’t think so.
TORP: You didn’t… Derna, did you just eat my magic sandwich?
(silence)
TORP: Derna! I can’t believe you!
DERNA: Sorry…
TORP: Spit it out! Spit that out right now!
(DERNA complies. TORP grabs away the sandwich’s remains)
TORP: How could you?
DERNA: Torp…
TORP: HOW COULD YOU DO THIS???
DERNA: I don’t know, it just happened…
TORP: How many times, Derna?? How many times did I tell you not to do the thing that you just did??
DERNA: Seventy-nine…
TORP: (cutting her off) SEVENTY-NINE TIMES, DERNA!
DERNA: Well, but… You told me that I should eat it that one time, that it was a good idea to eat it…
TORP: That was just once! I got confused.
(Silence. DERNA wipes the corners of her mouth off with the oversized napkin tied around her neck. TORP tenderly cradles the desecrated sandwich and begins to sob)
DERNA: Well I don’t see what the big deal is anyway! It never talked to me, not even once. I never heard it say anything this whole time.
TORP: It doesn’t talk to just ANYONE, Derna! You’re not an elf.
DERNA: What? What are you talking about? You’re not an elf either.
TORP: No, but the elf I was borrowing it from gave it permission to speak to me. It only talks to elves unless given permission to do otherwise. It was… it was such a good sandwich…
DERNA: What elf? What on earth are you talking about? We don’t know any elves.
TORP: I know an elf, Derna, godDAMMIT. And he let me borrow his magic sandwich that talks and is alive and now look! Now look what you’ve done!
DERNA: Since when do you know an elf?
TORP: I met him online. He’s in my fantasy football league. SHUT UP! Oh god, this isn’t happening, this isn’t happening…
DERNA: Calm down, Torp. Jesus. Look, I’m sorry I ate your stupid magic elf sandwich, okay? I was really, really hungry for a sandwich, and I’m getting sick of Blimpie’s all the time, and I’m still banned from Quizno’s until they drop their dumbass restraining order… Look, you know how much I love sandwiches, and you know I never learned how to make one. It was just a matter of time before something gave…
TORP: You don’t get it, do you? You just don’t get it.
DERNA: Torp…
TORP: You listen to me and you listen good. That sandwich was not mine, it was on loan from an elf and I am in SERIOUS trouble when he finds out what happened to it. And you are, too.
DERNA: What the fuck, Torp, it’s just some little twerpy little elf--
TORP: Do NOT call Jolly Jolly Jinglebeans twerpy!
(JOLLY JOLLY JINGLEBEANS appears in a fantastical burst of magic)
JINGLEBEANS: Did somebody say Jolly Jolly Jinglebeans?
TORP: Oh fuck… (whispering to DERNA as he stuffs the sandwich remains in his pockets) Just stay calm.
(JOLLY JOLLY JINGLEBEANS, a merry old elf with cherry-red cheeks and a spring to his step, gleefully dances around the kitchen and sings his song)
JINGLEBEANS: Jolly Jolly Jinglebeans is here
Say my name just once and I appear
With magic shoes and fancy pants
I do my Jolly Jingledance
To make all of your troubles disappear!
TORP: Ha ha ha! Way to go, JJ! I never get tired of that one!
JINGLEBEANS: Why, if it isn’t my good friend Torp! How’ve you been, you old peach basket?
TORP: Great as ever, old buddy. Yourself?
JINGLEBEANS: Why, I’m as merry as a country meadow filled with honey blossoms! Ha ha!
(They share a hearty laugh, then sigh in unison. DERNA is somewhat aghast. JINGLEBEANS leans close to TORP, eyeing her suspiciously)
JINGLEBEANS: (whispering) Is she cool?
TORP: (whispering) She’s cool.
DERNA: Hello?
TORP: I’d like you to meet my wife, Derna. Derna, this is my good friend Jolly Jolly Jinglebeans. You know, the one I was just telling you about.
JINGLEBEANS: Hello there, Derna. Lovely to meet you.
DERNA: Hello… Mr. Jinglebeans.
JINGLEBEANS: Please, call me JJ. Mr. Jinglebeans was my father’s name.
DERNA: Ah.
(Beat. JINGLEBEANS and TORP both briefly struggle to keep straight faces, then burst into laughter).
DERNA: I don’t, um… I’m sorry, what?
JINGLEBEANS: Oh, Derna… I have no father! I was born inside of a dewdrop on the tip of a bumblebee’s nose! For you see… I am an elf!
DERNA: Oh really. You are.
JINGLEBEANS: Yes… I am! (to TORP) Is she simple or something?
TORP: Ha ha ha! Oh, don’t mind Derna, JJ… She doesn’t know much about elves, I’m afraid.
JINGLEBEANS: I see. Well, no worries, darling, I’m very pleased to make your acquaintance.
DERNA: Um… Yes. Me too. (DERNA is extremely uncomfortable)
JINGLEBEANS: Well, I can only assume that you’ve said my name and summoned me here today because you’re ready to give me back my magic sandwich that talks and is alive… I’ve missed it terribly.
(beat)
TORP: Yes, the sandwich… Well, you see, JJ, the thing about your sandwich--
JINGLEBEANS: You do still have it, don’t you? I would be ever so upset if it were to go missing. I love that sandwich so very very much… Always with a kind word or a delightful tale to make even the grumpiest day shine and sparkle like the twinkling of a forest full of fireflies.
TORP: Yes, yes… Yes. Well, it’s not so much that we don’t have it, but you see, the thing about your sandwich--
JINGLEBEANS: I would be simply crestfallen if anything ever happened to that sandwich. Why, I’d probably cut out your tongue, tape your mouth shut and laugh at you while you choked to death on your own blood. Your bitch wife, too. (beat) Ha ha ha ha ha ha ha!
(TORP and DERNA join in his manic laughter, understandably terrified)
JINGLEBEANS: So. Where is my sandwich?
TORP: It’s, ah--
DERNA: I know where it is, Mr. Jinglebeans.
JINGLEBEANS: (turning to face her) Is that so?
DERNA: Yes… I must confess, I pulled a little prank on Torp earlier today. You see, I hid the sandwich before he got home from work, then made him think I’d eaten it by mistake. Pretty funny, huh?
JINGLEBEANS: Oh… Oh. Well… Well you’re quite the naughty little scamp, aren’t you? Torp, you didn’t tell me your wife was such a jokester!
TORP: (his terror now mixed with confusion) Ag.
DERNA: I’m sorry about all that, honey. I’ll go grab it. You two have a seat here and catch up, m’kay?
TORP: … hhhh.
JINGLEBEANS: Splendid idea, willow blossom.
(DERNA exits. TORP and JINGLEBEANS slowly sit down at the table. JINGLEBEANS is mildly suspicious; TORP is incredibly uneasy. They sit in silence for several moments)
JINGLEBEANS: I’m really excited about fantasy football this year.
TORP: Huh? Oh, yeah, yeah.
JINGLEBEANS: I bet you’re kicking yourself for drafting Michael Vick, huh?
TORP: Oh… Yeah. I don’t know the rules for what happens if one of your players is gets suspended for making dogs try to kill other dogs, but…
(DERNA enters the room with a revolver and shoots JINGLEBEANS in the chest, knocking him to the ground. She walks over to him and shoots him many, many, many, many more times)
(beat)
TORP: JESUS CHRIST WHAT THE FUCK WAS THAT???
DERNA: Well, come on, Torp! We didn’t have any other options. It was either him or us!
TORP: Well what the hell are we going to do with a dead elf?? We have to get rid of the body… The police are going to… Oh god, I can’t go to prison, I’m too fragile for prison…
DERNA: Jesus, Torp, calm down… He’s an elf. The police aren’t going to do shit. He’s a mythical creature… He doesn’t have a social security number. He was born in a fucking dewdrop.
TORP: I… I guess you’re right…
DERNA: Of course I’m right. (sweetly) Look, honey, I’m sorry about all this. It was wrong of me to eat your magic sandwich that talked and was alive. I promise it’ll never happen again. And I’m finally going to teach myself how to make sandwiches. Just you wait!
TORP: Aw, Derna… You don’t have to go through all that trouble…
DERNA: Too late, baby… I wasn’t going to tell you, but I ordered the Norton’s Anthology of Sandwich Recipes and Craftsmanship Techniques on Amazon just yesterday! I’ll be making us sandwiches in no time.
TORP: Oh, Sweetie Bear… You’re too good to me.
DERNA: You deserve the best, Doo Doo Butter. (she kisses him, the sort of sanitized ‘50s suburban kiss Donna Reed would’ve given her husband (Mr. Reed?))
TORP: (putting his arm around her as they leave the kitchen) Wait, now—Did you get the Norton’s Anthology of AMERICAN Sandwich Recipes and Craftsmanship Techniques, or the Norton’s Anthology of BRITISH Sandwich Recipes and Craftsmanship Techniques?
DERNA: Oh, the American. The British edition was close to thirty-five hundred pages. I figured it couldn’t be any longer than 3,000 pages… All the best books are under 3,000 pages.
(They exit. The play is now over. The audience reacts to this somehow)
Anyway, here you go. Copypaste ahoy!
JOLLY JOLLY JINGLEBEANS
by Joe Mathlete
(Darkness. A woman’s voice is heard)
DERNA: I never meant to hurt you… really. But it felt so goddamned good.
(silence)
DERNA: I had my eye on you for some time, you know.
(silence)
DERNA: I know there will be repercussions. It’s a shame things had to turn out this way. I assure you my intentions were far subtler. But this was inevitable. This was meant to be.
(silence)
DERNA: Sometimes I wonder if you really can feel pain. Or if that’s just some grand, whimsical flight of fancy. Sometimes I wonder if you can feel anything at all.
(silence)
DERNA: Why won’t you speak to me? Why won’t you say anything? You’re so famously talkative around him, but when it’s me you just clam up? Is that it?
(long silence)
DERNA: I want all of you. I want to have all of you inside of me. Oh god--
TORP: Honey, I’m home!
(lights up on DERNA, seated at a table, holding a sandwich and frozen in fear)
TORP: (still offstage) Derna, have you seen my magic sandwich?
(DERNA frantically stuffs the rest of the sandwich in her mouth)
TORP: Derna?
DERNA: Hello!
(TORP walks into the kitchen)
TORP: Honey, have you seen my magic sandwich?
DERNA: (mouth still full of sandwich) Which one?
TORP: The one that talks to me and is alive. My magic sandwich.
DERNA: I don’t think so.
TORP: You didn’t… Derna, did you just eat my magic sandwich?
(silence)
TORP: Derna! I can’t believe you!
DERNA: Sorry…
TORP: Spit it out! Spit that out right now!
(DERNA complies. TORP grabs away the sandwich’s remains)
TORP: How could you?
DERNA: Torp…
TORP: HOW COULD YOU DO THIS???
DERNA: I don’t know, it just happened…
TORP: How many times, Derna?? How many times did I tell you not to do the thing that you just did??
DERNA: Seventy-nine…
TORP: (cutting her off) SEVENTY-NINE TIMES, DERNA!
DERNA: Well, but… You told me that I should eat it that one time, that it was a good idea to eat it…
TORP: That was just once! I got confused.
(Silence. DERNA wipes the corners of her mouth off with the oversized napkin tied around her neck. TORP tenderly cradles the desecrated sandwich and begins to sob)
DERNA: Well I don’t see what the big deal is anyway! It never talked to me, not even once. I never heard it say anything this whole time.
TORP: It doesn’t talk to just ANYONE, Derna! You’re not an elf.
DERNA: What? What are you talking about? You’re not an elf either.
TORP: No, but the elf I was borrowing it from gave it permission to speak to me. It only talks to elves unless given permission to do otherwise. It was… it was such a good sandwich…
DERNA: What elf? What on earth are you talking about? We don’t know any elves.
TORP: I know an elf, Derna, godDAMMIT. And he let me borrow his magic sandwich that talks and is alive and now look! Now look what you’ve done!
DERNA: Since when do you know an elf?
TORP: I met him online. He’s in my fantasy football league. SHUT UP! Oh god, this isn’t happening, this isn’t happening…
DERNA: Calm down, Torp. Jesus. Look, I’m sorry I ate your stupid magic elf sandwich, okay? I was really, really hungry for a sandwich, and I’m getting sick of Blimpie’s all the time, and I’m still banned from Quizno’s until they drop their dumbass restraining order… Look, you know how much I love sandwiches, and you know I never learned how to make one. It was just a matter of time before something gave…
TORP: You don’t get it, do you? You just don’t get it.
DERNA: Torp…
TORP: You listen to me and you listen good. That sandwich was not mine, it was on loan from an elf and I am in SERIOUS trouble when he finds out what happened to it. And you are, too.
DERNA: What the fuck, Torp, it’s just some little twerpy little elf--
TORP: Do NOT call Jolly Jolly Jinglebeans twerpy!
(JOLLY JOLLY JINGLEBEANS appears in a fantastical burst of magic)
JINGLEBEANS: Did somebody say Jolly Jolly Jinglebeans?
TORP: Oh fuck… (whispering to DERNA as he stuffs the sandwich remains in his pockets) Just stay calm.
(JOLLY JOLLY JINGLEBEANS, a merry old elf with cherry-red cheeks and a spring to his step, gleefully dances around the kitchen and sings his song)
JINGLEBEANS: Jolly Jolly Jinglebeans is here
Say my name just once and I appear
With magic shoes and fancy pants
I do my Jolly Jingledance
To make all of your troubles disappear!
TORP: Ha ha ha! Way to go, JJ! I never get tired of that one!
JINGLEBEANS: Why, if it isn’t my good friend Torp! How’ve you been, you old peach basket?
TORP: Great as ever, old buddy. Yourself?
JINGLEBEANS: Why, I’m as merry as a country meadow filled with honey blossoms! Ha ha!
(They share a hearty laugh, then sigh in unison. DERNA is somewhat aghast. JINGLEBEANS leans close to TORP, eyeing her suspiciously)
JINGLEBEANS: (whispering) Is she cool?
TORP: (whispering) She’s cool.
DERNA: Hello?
TORP: I’d like you to meet my wife, Derna. Derna, this is my good friend Jolly Jolly Jinglebeans. You know, the one I was just telling you about.
JINGLEBEANS: Hello there, Derna. Lovely to meet you.
DERNA: Hello… Mr. Jinglebeans.
JINGLEBEANS: Please, call me JJ. Mr. Jinglebeans was my father’s name.
DERNA: Ah.
(Beat. JINGLEBEANS and TORP both briefly struggle to keep straight faces, then burst into laughter).
DERNA: I don’t, um… I’m sorry, what?
JINGLEBEANS: Oh, Derna… I have no father! I was born inside of a dewdrop on the tip of a bumblebee’s nose! For you see… I am an elf!
DERNA: Oh really. You are.
JINGLEBEANS: Yes… I am! (to TORP) Is she simple or something?
TORP: Ha ha ha! Oh, don’t mind Derna, JJ… She doesn’t know much about elves, I’m afraid.
JINGLEBEANS: I see. Well, no worries, darling, I’m very pleased to make your acquaintance.
DERNA: Um… Yes. Me too. (DERNA is extremely uncomfortable)
JINGLEBEANS: Well, I can only assume that you’ve said my name and summoned me here today because you’re ready to give me back my magic sandwich that talks and is alive… I’ve missed it terribly.
(beat)
TORP: Yes, the sandwich… Well, you see, JJ, the thing about your sandwich--
JINGLEBEANS: You do still have it, don’t you? I would be ever so upset if it were to go missing. I love that sandwich so very very much… Always with a kind word or a delightful tale to make even the grumpiest day shine and sparkle like the twinkling of a forest full of fireflies.
TORP: Yes, yes… Yes. Well, it’s not so much that we don’t have it, but you see, the thing about your sandwich--
JINGLEBEANS: I would be simply crestfallen if anything ever happened to that sandwich. Why, I’d probably cut out your tongue, tape your mouth shut and laugh at you while you choked to death on your own blood. Your bitch wife, too. (beat) Ha ha ha ha ha ha ha!
(TORP and DERNA join in his manic laughter, understandably terrified)
JINGLEBEANS: So. Where is my sandwich?
TORP: It’s, ah--
DERNA: I know where it is, Mr. Jinglebeans.
JINGLEBEANS: (turning to face her) Is that so?
DERNA: Yes… I must confess, I pulled a little prank on Torp earlier today. You see, I hid the sandwich before he got home from work, then made him think I’d eaten it by mistake. Pretty funny, huh?
JINGLEBEANS: Oh… Oh. Well… Well you’re quite the naughty little scamp, aren’t you? Torp, you didn’t tell me your wife was such a jokester!
TORP: (his terror now mixed with confusion) Ag.
DERNA: I’m sorry about all that, honey. I’ll go grab it. You two have a seat here and catch up, m’kay?
TORP: … hhhh.
JINGLEBEANS: Splendid idea, willow blossom.
(DERNA exits. TORP and JINGLEBEANS slowly sit down at the table. JINGLEBEANS is mildly suspicious; TORP is incredibly uneasy. They sit in silence for several moments)
JINGLEBEANS: I’m really excited about fantasy football this year.
TORP: Huh? Oh, yeah, yeah.
JINGLEBEANS: I bet you’re kicking yourself for drafting Michael Vick, huh?
TORP: Oh… Yeah. I don’t know the rules for what happens if one of your players is gets suspended for making dogs try to kill other dogs, but…
(DERNA enters the room with a revolver and shoots JINGLEBEANS in the chest, knocking him to the ground. She walks over to him and shoots him many, many, many, many more times)
(beat)
TORP: JESUS CHRIST WHAT THE FUCK WAS THAT???
DERNA: Well, come on, Torp! We didn’t have any other options. It was either him or us!
TORP: Well what the hell are we going to do with a dead elf?? We have to get rid of the body… The police are going to… Oh god, I can’t go to prison, I’m too fragile for prison…
DERNA: Jesus, Torp, calm down… He’s an elf. The police aren’t going to do shit. He’s a mythical creature… He doesn’t have a social security number. He was born in a fucking dewdrop.
TORP: I… I guess you’re right…
DERNA: Of course I’m right. (sweetly) Look, honey, I’m sorry about all this. It was wrong of me to eat your magic sandwich that talked and was alive. I promise it’ll never happen again. And I’m finally going to teach myself how to make sandwiches. Just you wait!
TORP: Aw, Derna… You don’t have to go through all that trouble…
DERNA: Too late, baby… I wasn’t going to tell you, but I ordered the Norton’s Anthology of Sandwich Recipes and Craftsmanship Techniques on Amazon just yesterday! I’ll be making us sandwiches in no time.
TORP: Oh, Sweetie Bear… You’re too good to me.
DERNA: You deserve the best, Doo Doo Butter. (she kisses him, the sort of sanitized ‘50s suburban kiss Donna Reed would’ve given her husband (Mr. Reed?))
TORP: (putting his arm around her as they leave the kitchen) Wait, now—Did you get the Norton’s Anthology of AMERICAN Sandwich Recipes and Craftsmanship Techniques, or the Norton’s Anthology of BRITISH Sandwich Recipes and Craftsmanship Techniques?
DERNA: Oh, the American. The British edition was close to thirty-five hundred pages. I figured it couldn’t be any longer than 3,000 pages… All the best books are under 3,000 pages.
(They exit. The play is now over. The audience reacts to this somehow)
Wednesday, August 22, 2007
Film/television/entertainment industry, I am catching up to your ass (I got Netflix)
Took me long enough. I haven't seen a movie in theaters in close to a year, don't own a TV (I hate to be one of, y'know, those guys, but... yeah, I don't own a TV), and still don't have a home internet connection (that's changing this Friday, though... stay tuned as this blog changes into a regular series of hourly posts, mostly about how wonderful and/or shitty Comcast's customer service is). Books are all well and good, but I needed some proof that I am alive after the 19th century and know how to entertain myself, so I signed up for Netflix. It's nice catching up to popular culture.
Some things that have occurred to me so far:
-Jesus is Magic was funny, but would have been a lot funnier if a bunch of my friends hadn't told me most of the punchlines a year ago. I wonder how many movies/stand up routines I've done that with over the years. "Oops!"
-Ricky Gervais is funny, British accents are amazing, Kate Winslet is both hilarious and really hot miming jokey phone sex (thank God I'm not Catholic and wasn't weirded out by the fact that she was dressed as a nun), and I wish Patrick Stewart would actually make the movie he was talking about in season one of Extras.
-Every new Christopher Guest movie is worse than the one preceding it, but I like at least bits of every one. Usually the bits that have Fred Willard.
-Showing that they were mean-spirited, drug-addled pigeon murderers doesn't change my opinion of the Happy Mondays one bit: they were an incredibly shitty band.
-Blackface is back! But primarily as an ironic cultural educational tool. Also, it's funniest when worn by an Englishman. Also, it's weird growing up in the South (as much as Texas counts as "the South").
-I don't think I would want to date Sarah Silverman, as I can see her mostly making fun of me. But I wouldn't mind having lots of sex with her, provided the making fun of thing wasn't part of the bargain. If anyone reading this is friends with Sarah Silverman, or is Sarah Silverman, let her/yourself know: the offer's on the table. Nothing celebrities like more than semi-anonymous requests for intercourse on the internet!
Some things that have occurred to me so far:
-Jesus is Magic was funny, but would have been a lot funnier if a bunch of my friends hadn't told me most of the punchlines a year ago. I wonder how many movies/stand up routines I've done that with over the years. "Oops!"
-Ricky Gervais is funny, British accents are amazing, Kate Winslet is both hilarious and really hot miming jokey phone sex (thank God I'm not Catholic and wasn't weirded out by the fact that she was dressed as a nun), and I wish Patrick Stewart would actually make the movie he was talking about in season one of Extras.
-Every new Christopher Guest movie is worse than the one preceding it, but I like at least bits of every one. Usually the bits that have Fred Willard.
-Showing that they were mean-spirited, drug-addled pigeon murderers doesn't change my opinion of the Happy Mondays one bit: they were an incredibly shitty band.
-Blackface is back! But primarily as an ironic cultural educational tool. Also, it's funniest when worn by an Englishman. Also, it's weird growing up in the South (as much as Texas counts as "the South").
-I don't think I would want to date Sarah Silverman, as I can see her mostly making fun of me. But I wouldn't mind having lots of sex with her, provided the making fun of thing wasn't part of the bargain. If anyone reading this is friends with Sarah Silverman, or is Sarah Silverman, let her/yourself know: the offer's on the table. Nothing celebrities like more than semi-anonymous requests for intercourse on the internet!
Monday, August 20, 2007
Friday, August 17, 2007
The Grone Protocol: N Is For Murder, Chapter 007
Like most of you, I am a popular writer of highbrow thrillers and suspense novels in my spare time. For your entertainment and erudition (both of which I care about so much it stings), I will be serializing my latest work, THE GRONE PROTOCOL, here in my “blog” (short for “web blog”) every week (unless I forget or something like last week). Here’s the seventh chapter, which should more than fill your daily quota of gripping intrigue. If not, well boy howdy... I'm fresh out of ideas.
007
Fender Davenport was a man at the end of his rope. It was not a very long rope, nor was it extremely thick. He had been at the end of it for a long time, longer than he would have liked to admit. And there was no other rope anywhere in sight that he could transfer to. It was a blue rope. Navy blue. A man's blue. Fender Davenport was a man. A man's man. At the end of his rope. A man's man's rope. Man man rope ropey rope man rope ram mope.
For seventeen years, Fender had served as Executive Administrative Executive for Vermillion and Felch, the largest ad agency in the contiguous 48 states (there was a larger firm in Hawaii, and seven even larger than that in Alaska) and a subsidiary of the Grone Corporation. He had overseen dozens of ad campaigns in his time, including Nike's "We Make You Run Good" TV spots, Arby's "Forty Pounds Of Undigestable Roast Beef In Your Colon = Sexy Town" radio promos, and Coca-Cola's award-winning "Fuck Pepsi To Hell" billboards. In later years, he even picked up a few government contracts, not the least of which was the Food and Drug Administration's "Got Food and Drugs?" campaign.
With a list of achievements longer than the rope at the end of which he was, Fender Davenport should have been on Cloud Nine, snorting blow off an angel's titties. Instead, he was at the end of his rope. Still, no matter how at the end of his rope Fender was, he didn't have a snowball's chance in a fat guy's pants to predict, let alone prevent, what was about to happen.
007
Fender Davenport was a man at the end of his rope. It was not a very long rope, nor was it extremely thick. He had been at the end of it for a long time, longer than he would have liked to admit. And there was no other rope anywhere in sight that he could transfer to. It was a blue rope. Navy blue. A man's blue. Fender Davenport was a man. A man's man. At the end of his rope. A man's man's rope. Man man rope ropey rope man rope ram mope.
For seventeen years, Fender had served as Executive Administrative Executive for Vermillion and Felch, the largest ad agency in the contiguous 48 states (there was a larger firm in Hawaii, and seven even larger than that in Alaska) and a subsidiary of the Grone Corporation. He had overseen dozens of ad campaigns in his time, including Nike's "We Make You Run Good" TV spots, Arby's "Forty Pounds Of Undigestable Roast Beef In Your Colon = Sexy Town" radio promos, and Coca-Cola's award-winning "Fuck Pepsi To Hell" billboards. In later years, he even picked up a few government contracts, not the least of which was the Food and Drug Administration's "Got Food and Drugs?" campaign.
With a list of achievements longer than the rope at the end of which he was, Fender Davenport should have been on Cloud Nine, snorting blow off an angel's titties. Instead, he was at the end of his rope. Still, no matter how at the end of his rope Fender was, he didn't have a snowball's chance in a fat guy's pants to predict, let alone prevent, what was about to happen.
Thursday, August 16, 2007
I am not sure whether or not I ought to post that script I wrote
First of all, it's really long. Not so much long for a play, necessarily, but way too long to fit here comfortably; it's about seven pages according to Microsoft Word, and that seems kind of extravagant for a blog.
Second, it's not really all that great, taken out of context. I was assigned the first and last lines I was to use ("I didn't mean to hurt you... really. But it felt so goddamned good" and "I figured it should be less than 3,000 pages... All the best books have less than 3,000 pages," respectively) and had roughly five hours to write the whole thing (not counting the time I spent fighting with my computer, or getting sidetracked by KIDS director Larry Clark's endearingly clumsy 2005 film Wassup Rockers, which despite the absence of Lou Barlow or Daniel Johnston songs was pretty interesting). So the best you can say about it is "for something produced under considerable constraints, it succeeds on its own terms!"
Third, it's called "Jolly Jolly Jinglebeans." Probably because I hate theatre.
Fourth, I don't have the script on the computer I'm on now so the issue's moot at the moment anyway. God I'm sick to death of not having internet access at home... Comcast is supposed to come a week from tomorrow and end my exile in 1995, and not a moment too soon; I'm really fed up with having to check my email at work, like the frigging Pilgrims did.
On a 170% unrelated note, that movie Superbad opens tomorrow. For one reason or another, I haven't seen a movie in theaters in close to a year, but I might see this one. Michael Cera is going to own Hollywood within five years... You heard it here fifth.
Second, it's not really all that great, taken out of context. I was assigned the first and last lines I was to use ("I didn't mean to hurt you... really. But it felt so goddamned good" and "I figured it should be less than 3,000 pages... All the best books have less than 3,000 pages," respectively) and had roughly five hours to write the whole thing (not counting the time I spent fighting with my computer, or getting sidetracked by KIDS director Larry Clark's endearingly clumsy 2005 film Wassup Rockers, which despite the absence of Lou Barlow or Daniel Johnston songs was pretty interesting). So the best you can say about it is "for something produced under considerable constraints, it succeeds on its own terms!"
Third, it's called "Jolly Jolly Jinglebeans." Probably because I hate theatre.
Fourth, I don't have the script on the computer I'm on now so the issue's moot at the moment anyway. God I'm sick to death of not having internet access at home... Comcast is supposed to come a week from tomorrow and end my exile in 1995, and not a moment too soon; I'm really fed up with having to check my email at work, like the frigging Pilgrims did.
On a 170% unrelated note, that movie Superbad opens tomorrow. For one reason or another, I haven't seen a movie in theaters in close to a year, but I might see this one. Michael Cera is going to own Hollywood within five years... You heard it here fifth.
Tuesday, August 14, 2007
Do you think Bono ever gets tired of being in U2?
Of course not! Have you even SEEN Bono in the last ten years? How many elderly mullet-survivors are convinced they're saving the world by doing this:
That is the rock squat of a man who loves what he does.
That is the rock squat of a man who loves what he does.
Friday, August 10, 2007
TOMORROW NIGHT: Come see a play I wrote (if you live in or around the city where I live)
LIVE THEATRE: NOT JUST FOR DUMBFUCKS AND ELDERLIES ANYMORE!
I was asked to participate in something called MADCAP 24 ("an avant-garde multi-theatrical event involving a collaboration on the production of 8 original one-act plays," according to some of the first words on the website I just linked you to). Technically I haven't written it yet, because the whole deal is everything has to be written, rehearsed and performed within 24 hours (and they're gonna give me some parameters so I don't cheat and just show up with a pre-written script), but I'm already fairly confident that it's going to be the best short play ever written ever so you should come and see it is what you should do.
If you can't, I'll post the script next week and you can print a few copies out to put on your own independent production / staged reading with your friends, family, or stuffed animals. If you do so, make sure to film the results and put them on YouTube, especially if it's the stuffed animals thing.
I was asked to participate in something called MADCAP 24 ("an avant-garde multi-theatrical event involving a collaboration on the production of 8 original one-act plays," according to some of the first words on the website I just linked you to). Technically I haven't written it yet, because the whole deal is everything has to be written, rehearsed and performed within 24 hours (and they're gonna give me some parameters so I don't cheat and just show up with a pre-written script), but I'm already fairly confident that it's going to be the best short play ever written ever so you should come and see it is what you should do.
If you can't, I'll post the script next week and you can print a few copies out to put on your own independent production / staged reading with your friends, family, or stuffed animals. If you do so, make sure to film the results and put them on YouTube, especially if it's the stuffed animals thing.
Thursday, August 09, 2007
Let's get snarky!
I went back and read some old comments this morning. I was hoping to feed my insatiable Thursday morning narcissism (it only seems to flare up Thursday mornings... I'm supposed to schedule a doctor's appointment but I keep putting it off), but in doing so I discovered that a couple folks didn't seem to appreciate my Magritte Explained post dealing with "The Treachery Of Images." Sort of:
Loathe as I am to get into such a discourse (on the fucking internet, no less) I figured I ought to somehow respond. When I was done, it seemed like I had enough for today's post, so enjoy my rebuttal as I go back to looking at myself in the mirror until it's time for lunch.
Sue Who said...
Of course not. It's a painting.
Duh.
12:37 PM
Danny said...
It's not a pipe. It's a picture of a pipe, and that's the GOSH WOW difference.
5:46 AM
Loathe as I am to get into such a discourse (on the fucking internet, no less) I figured I ought to somehow respond. When I was done, it seemed like I had enough for today's post, so enjoy my rebuttal as I go back to looking at myself in the mirror until it's time for lunch.
Joe Mathlete said...
This is a "humor blog," where I write jokes and things similar to jokes. I did not think I would confuse anyone with this or any other of the Magritte Explained posts into believing I was turning it into a legitimate surrealist painting discussion/interpretation blog, but I forgot that you can now get college credit for smugly commenting on inaccuracies in blog entries, so my mistake for leaving any room for error.
I understand that getting that degree (and proving to the internet that you've grasped the meaning of a half-century old painting) can win out over any desire to give a guy the benefit of the doubt, so from now on I'll be eschewing subtlety, ambiguity and irony altogether. Tune in tomorrow for a list of my Grandpa Nestor's favorite Polish jokes.
Sincerely,
Joe Mathlete
p.s.-- To take a different angle: don't you suppose that I'd know a thing or two about Rene Magritte and his art if I was writing these entries? I didn't just google "apple face guy painting" and go from there.
6:57 AM
Wednesday, August 08, 2007
The Grone Protocol: Remembrance’s Deceptitude, Chapter 006
Like most of you, I am a popular writer of highbrow thrillers and suspense novels in my spare time. For your entertainment and erudition (both of which I care about so much it hurts), I will be serializing my latest work, THE GRONE PROTOCOL, here in my “blog” (short for “web blog”) every week (unless I forget or something like last week). Here’s the sixth chapter, which should more than fill your daily quota of gripping intrigue. If not, go down to the library and start yelling “MYSTERY BOOK MYSTERY BOOK I WANT A MYSTERY BOOK!!!” until somebody helps you.
006
Sassafras Jones had been through plenty of troubles in her time, but she had also had her fair share of worries.
She fancied herself happy in her position at the Grone Corporation, doing office type things in an office amongst office people, but she found her thoughts often returning to her childhood. The youngest of three children in her family, she was also the eldest of six others, ranking third out of eight total. She loved each and every one of her brothers and sisters more than anything in the world, though she often entertained the notion that they were all robots, part of some sort of grand psychological experiment devised by her parents, the government, or worse. Lately she had been able to convince herself that this was, all things considered, fairly unlikely.
Sassafras opened the door to the seventy-second floor's supply room gingerly, touching the doorknob the way you'd touch your grandfather while bathing him. She opened the door as quietly as she could, hoping that whoever might be inside wouldn't hear. Three weeks ago, she had accidentally walked in on one of the secretaries going down on the mail boy, and she was hoping to witness something similar. Alas, as she peeked around the door her eyes fell upon an empty room. Putting her camera away, Sassafras cursed to herself under her breath. "If I want to run a famous porn website," she thought, "I'm going to have to actually pay people to have sex and let me photograph them."
As she filled a plastic bag with chicken feed, she felt a strange longing in her heart. Before she began working for Grone, she had been a champion jockey, but it had been years since she had so much as stepped in horse poopoo. She missed the thrill of the race, the roar of the crowd, the friction between the saddle and her ladyparts, but she knew that it was a world she could never return to. However, she would always, in her heart, be a good horse riding person.
Still, no matter how well she could sit on a horse that was running, in the end it would not be able to save her from what was about to happen.
006
Sassafras Jones had been through plenty of troubles in her time, but she had also had her fair share of worries.
She fancied herself happy in her position at the Grone Corporation, doing office type things in an office amongst office people, but she found her thoughts often returning to her childhood. The youngest of three children in her family, she was also the eldest of six others, ranking third out of eight total. She loved each and every one of her brothers and sisters more than anything in the world, though she often entertained the notion that they were all robots, part of some sort of grand psychological experiment devised by her parents, the government, or worse. Lately she had been able to convince herself that this was, all things considered, fairly unlikely.
Sassafras opened the door to the seventy-second floor's supply room gingerly, touching the doorknob the way you'd touch your grandfather while bathing him. She opened the door as quietly as she could, hoping that whoever might be inside wouldn't hear. Three weeks ago, she had accidentally walked in on one of the secretaries going down on the mail boy, and she was hoping to witness something similar. Alas, as she peeked around the door her eyes fell upon an empty room. Putting her camera away, Sassafras cursed to herself under her breath. "If I want to run a famous porn website," she thought, "I'm going to have to actually pay people to have sex and let me photograph them."
As she filled a plastic bag with chicken feed, she felt a strange longing in her heart. Before she began working for Grone, she had been a champion jockey, but it had been years since she had so much as stepped in horse poopoo. She missed the thrill of the race, the roar of the crowd, the friction between the saddle and her ladyparts, but she knew that it was a world she could never return to. However, she would always, in her heart, be a good horse riding person.
Still, no matter how well she could sit on a horse that was running, in the end it would not be able to save her from what was about to happen.
Tuesday, August 07, 2007
Oh crud I was supposed to come back yesterday
Uh, sorry about that, internet. To be fair, returning to your side wasn't the only promise I failed to keep yesterday; I also neglected to make it into work, which meant I didn't have access to the internet save for a brief jaunt over to a friend's house (which mostly involved checking a couple email and MySpace accounts and searching YouTube for that video of the guy who programmed Showbiz Pizza robots to sing a Fergie song).
That's right. I don't have internet access at home. I also don't have cable TV, or even rabbit ears. Or a radio, now that I think about it... I'm actually starting to see a pattern emerge, but it's not like I live in a lean-to on Walden Pond or just make dolls out of corn cobs after I get off work; I'm terribly used to having the internet where I live, so much so that it has completely and totally taken the place of both television and radio as a form of passive entertainment in my life (and anyway if I wanted either one, I've got youtube, last.fm, bittorrent, and like a hundred kajillion other things). Or it had, until I moved a couple months ago and neglected to call Time Warner or Comcast or a third, theoretically/hopefully cheaper provider.
Anyway it's worked out alright so far, seeing as I work with a computer in a tiny room at a company where most people really don't seem to realize I do anything, or at least pay attention to it. But I will not be working here forever; I'm what you refer to as a "contract employee," and plus I don't seem to show up to work every day (see: yesterday) so it might even be shorter than I'm expecting.
So: sorry I balked on returning to writing on you, internet. I like you loads more than I like doing my job. Here's that Showbiz Pizza video... Someone emailed the link to me; I have yet to watch it a hundred times since YouTube videos won't play on my work computer (other things I can't do here: access MySpace; use AIM, AIM express, Yahoo Messenger or Meebo; look at pornography; not wear shoes; hit people; urinate OR defecate anywhere except a men's or unisex bathroom; make out with the cute girl in the room down the hall without probably at least asking her first*), but as far as I could tell it's the best thing that's ever happened anywhere ever.
*: I guess these last few things are pretty much true of most of society and not just where I work
That's right. I don't have internet access at home. I also don't have cable TV, or even rabbit ears. Or a radio, now that I think about it... I'm actually starting to see a pattern emerge, but it's not like I live in a lean-to on Walden Pond or just make dolls out of corn cobs after I get off work; I'm terribly used to having the internet where I live, so much so that it has completely and totally taken the place of both television and radio as a form of passive entertainment in my life (and anyway if I wanted either one, I've got youtube, last.fm, bittorrent, and like a hundred kajillion other things). Or it had, until I moved a couple months ago and neglected to call Time Warner or Comcast or a third, theoretically/hopefully cheaper provider.
Anyway it's worked out alright so far, seeing as I work with a computer in a tiny room at a company where most people really don't seem to realize I do anything, or at least pay attention to it. But I will not be working here forever; I'm what you refer to as a "contract employee," and plus I don't seem to show up to work every day (see: yesterday) so it might even be shorter than I'm expecting.
So: sorry I balked on returning to writing on you, internet. I like you loads more than I like doing my job. Here's that Showbiz Pizza video... Someone emailed the link to me; I have yet to watch it a hundred times since YouTube videos won't play on my work computer (other things I can't do here: access MySpace; use AIM, AIM express, Yahoo Messenger or Meebo; look at pornography; not wear shoes; hit people; urinate OR defecate anywhere except a men's or unisex bathroom; make out with the cute girl in the room down the hall without probably at least asking her first*), but as far as I could tell it's the best thing that's ever happened anywhere ever.
*: I guess these last few things are pretty much true of most of society and not just where I work
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