Greetings. Aaye! QaQ Daq legh SoH! 0110100001101001! This week, we are going to roll up the black sleeves of our arcane robes, open a copy of Necromancy for Dummies and take a look at stories involving the undead, the soon to be dead those lucky few who have been brought back from Death’s cold grasp. Listen, and you’ll hear the Assassin’s song of Death. It’s the kind of music one would hear in a movie about a zombie falling for a girl. It’s certainly better than Archie and Jughead will be subjected to, that poor soul. We’ll take a look at these tales and learn why Gary is a horrible, horrible person who deserves swift kick in the groin in this NERD NEWS ROUNDUP!
Comedian Kevin Bartini has started a petition to rename the block of W 121st Street where Carlin grew up “George Carlin Way.” Carlin’s daughter, Kelly, supports the proposal. She told ABC News Radio: “I feel it’s very important to protect his legacy and keep the torch lit and to keep the conversation going the next 40 years and I’m very proud and honored to do it.” Many blocks of New York’s streets have been named for famous residents. Is there any reason why Carlin shouldn’t also be memorialized in such a way? Comment.
Simple one today. Travel broadens the mind, which is why insular Tea Party types so often have never even applied for a passport while some of us elitist liberal international jetsetters have acquired such big heads.
Pop music is just short for “popular” music and what is popular has changed over generations. Prior to the rock n’ roll music, the big, rich sound made my velvet-voiced ladies and remarkably talented musicians was the popular music – we were all so civilized then. American Standards crossed musical genres, races and styles and transport you to a hot club populated by elegantly dressed patrons at tiny two-top tables, cigarette smoke billowing to the rafters. You’ve heard it all before, probably a few different ways, but the originals really did it best. Continue reading
Hi there. Are you centered? Are you grounded? Let’s do a few deep breaths, and get into our me-space.
This week on Project Runway, also known as Amateur Therapy Hour, we saw so many emotions, didn’t we? So many emotions, all mixed up in a big old stew of crazy. You need a tissue? Here, take the box. Looks like our remaining sewtestants were divided into two groups in some sort of daisy-chain selection method, where each person selected then turns around and selects the next team member. Very John Dewey, wouldn’t you say?
Now, before you click ahead to read more, remember your trigger words, because there’s spoilers under the link. Continue reading
Good morning Crasstalk. Here are your headlines. Continue reading
Almost time to relax. Continue reading
I’m guest hosting tonight for OneryBabe who won’t be able to make it.
Tonight we get to see Mike and Vin in those great Italian Guido outfits! Aside from seeing Snooks get in that car accident, this is the moment I have been waiting forall season!
So here we are. Week seven. Do you care about any of these goblins? Are you rooting for anyone? I’m not, and I don’t. This has been one of the weakest seasons of Project Runway to date, wouldn’t you say? Still, it’s pretty entertaining television, and the judges are a three ring circus unto themselves. Tonight the design goblins will be working in groups again, and that’s always a recipe for friendly cooperation and smiles.
No it’s not, but I don’t really need to explain that to you because you’ve seen it all before, and this season is shuffling along its predetermined path like an obedient automaton in a chiffon robe. The breakdowns are becoming more epic, the bitchery more spectacular. Continue reading
AMERICAN FOOTBALL IS BACK, DICKWAGONS. That means hard hitting, butt slapping, 3-4 defense, butt slapping, zone blocking, butt slapping, dreadlocks and butt slapping! After a bitter lockout and frenzied free agent season, the NFL kicks off (Wordplay, yo) the 2011 season with the defending Super Bowl champion Green Bay Packers defending their cheese-encrusted tundra against the New Orleans Saints.
The NFL is the epitome of American culture. There is nothing subtle or muted about the sport. Every play is celebrated with a dance no matter the context, the pregame shows are packed with fake, unfunny jocks in their 40s. The owners and networks rake in billions of dollars in profits, yet the only people to catch shit are the athletes who are the ones actually getting concussed for entertainment. Continue reading