Oops, I’m too tired to formulate anything clever, but E+I is finally movin’ on up from WordPress.com to WordPress.org — which is super exciting, whether or not you know what I’m talking about.
So revise your bookmarks and whatnot, as your two favorite Brooklynites will now be posting at www.ebonyirony.com.
Casiotone for the Painfully Alone (post coming soon) has a song called “White Jetta” — a nostalgic tune with a killer “Had this little car since I was seventeen” stanza-starter that gets me going every time.
That’s how long I had my little car! It wasn’t actually little — it was a boxy Volvo station wagon circa 1997 — nor was it mine, but it remained my vehicle of choice until we sold it to some family friends. Dicks.
Do I miss the sex I had in the Volvo? Sure. The weed that I consumed via punctured soda can? Obv. But more than any of that, I miss doing the only thing that I could only ever do in my car, alone: SING.
I have a terrible voice, and I’m terribly shy about it, and wayyy too many of my favorite artists flaunt Emily Haines-level vocals, which means that the Volv’s isolated driver’s seat was my only place to let loose, belting out “I believe in a thing called love!” and “The smell of wine and cheap perfume…” and, sometimes,
But I’m the luckiest guy on the Lower East Side
’Cause I’ve got wheels and you want to go for a ride
Which brings us to this moment’s catchiest song: “The Luckiest Guy on the Lower East Side” — a tune off of The Magnetic Fields’ 69 Love Songs epic (1999), representing the top-end of said epic’s widely varying spectrum.
You know a show is worthwhile if it’s given the axe after one or two or three seasons. You know, the Arrested Development, Party Down, Freaks & Geeks, Golden Palace types (obviously, I had to include the Golden Girls spinoff, have you forgotten who I am?), and whatever else caught on late, or never caught on, or later became a cult phenomenon, or was just completely forgotten. Which, of course, leaves us with shows that should have been killed after their first years, shows that have become repetitive, cranky and worthless. You know, the Grey’s Anatomys and the Heroes, and frankly, It’s Always Sunny in Philadelphia because last season was terribly underwhelming.
I type all of these run-on sentences to say, essentially, that good television isn’t meant to last. Which is why I spend the same amount of time cruising on Netflix instant watch as a cougar spends cruising in bars and clubs where they don’t card their underage drinkers with poor taste in alcohol (Vladi? Malibu? Come on, at least act like an adult).
My favorite show of all time for this week is the defunct Pushing Daisies, which is unexpectedly hilarious, witty, and at times inappropriate; and yet! The show and a few of its characters still have the saccharine sweet tint of romance: childhood sweethearts, life threatening secrets, eye patches, and a sweet restaurant called the Pie Hole, “As in shut your.” And mystery murders and magic! I do love some good magic.
I wouldn’t wish antidepressants on anyone — especially not anyone suffering from depression. It’s just unfortunate (and probably ironic) that the same medications designed to alleviate depression are also ripe to turn you into some combination of bloated, asexual, jittery, lethargic, suicidal, and manic.
And those are just the normal side effects. I’ve also encountered drugs threatening diabetes (unrelated to the weight gain, somehow), hair loss, and a nasty sort of rash that makes your skin fall off. (Remember the philandering ballerina last season of House? It’s that rash.)
I’m not saying that antidepressants never work. They do. But the journey from SSRIs to SNRIs to MAOIs and so on is trial and error methodology at its worst, begetting a roadway fraught with side effects and, you know, that depression you’ve been trying to cure.
And, although many of these drugs’ side effects fucking blow, I’d like to talk to you about one in particular: loss of libido. Continue reading
Whenever I come home and press play on my iTunes, I get a lot of “What the hell are you listening to?” from blood relative passerbys. To the point where the strange coming from my speakers is kind of ignored, or someone will just mumble, “You listen to some strange stuff, girl.” Which is fine. In the same vein that I am an insufferable book snob, I (usually) have (a little) reason for listening to the non traditional music I listen to.
One of the huge reasons is that I listen to what people in Brooklyn listen to. My favorite days at work are when someone lets me turn on the alternative station or Sirius’ university station— things outside of my admittedly distinct taste are sure to play (ugh, Animal Collective) but also, I’m going to hear some Vampire Weekend, Lykke Li, or The Xx. The last gets me particularly excitable. I’ve got a pretty varied taste, and even though I’ve recently been lacking in hoodrat music (shame on me! No, seriously) I enjoy a great deal of different kinds of music.
And so, a segue to Dirty Projectors. Continue reading
I was skeptical about Get Him to the Greek.
First of all, I initially thought that “the Greek” was a person, connoting in my mind an unnecessary action flick the likes of Lucky Number Slevin or In Bruges.
Then, I worried I’d wind up feeling the way I did after Knocked Up or Forgetting Sarah Marshall — half amused, half scratching my head at why people love these movies. Enough to buy them and everything. I mean shit, have you seen Jawbreaker? Now that’s a film.
(I’m kind of ignoring Funny People here, since that was a part of Genre Apatow and yet much more substantial.)
Other concerns included Puff Daddy — oh, I’m sorry, the actor Sean Combs — and Russell Brand, who is arguably insufferable and definitely engaged to Katy Perry, cream filling and all.
But fuck everything, Get Him to the Greek was fantastic. I might see it again. In theaters! With more real money!
Why? Several reasons: Continue reading
"Hey guys, let's have an overemoting contest. I'm going to say 'I'm gonna fight for you until your heart stops beating' and you're going to be all, that won't be too long because I'm going to be a vampire and have vampire babies and... what is Cedric Diggory doing here?"
Let’s be honest. I can’t remember much of this terrible thing, because I was force fed unnecessarily expensive margaritas beforehand, and of course I welcomed them. If you don’t know about the disdain I have for my liver, then you better find out. In the future, when I try to remember my experience watching this film in a nearly empty theater, I will remember cackling the entire time, the old ladies in front of me cooing about how delicious all of the underage children in the film were, and my boss cursing out a woman who asked us to be quiet— not sparkly skin and and uncomfortable lines like “She’d be even warmer if I took my clothes off.” I’m pretty sure that’s what he said. But maybe it was the booze talking.
As far as I can tell, Vampire Weekend’s “Ottoman” — this moment’s catchy song — materialized out of thin air. Where else could it have come from?
“Ottoman” fails to appear on any albums or EPs — not even as a stupid iTunes bonus track — save a spot on the soundtrack for Nick & Nora’s Bogus Journey. (The song played during Nick & Nora’s credits, in what was presumably the film’s only tolerable moment.)
Despite said cinematic debut, “Ottoman” sounds more Wes Anderson than, um, whoever the fuck directed N&N. VW’s Anderson fanship has been evident from the start (Futura, hello), but this song really nails it; I can totally envision “Ottoman” — or at least an instrumental version — complementing a memorable “Let me tell you about my boat” sort of scene.
Patrick Duffy of Step by Step fame! Weed cookies and a white lady named Rihanna! Megan Mullally’s character on coke! So many memories.
If you read our twitter (I won’t blame you if you don’t. Honestly.), then you know that the Greatest Show on Earth, not to be confused with the Greatest Show of Our Time, is no longer. Like so many other critically adored comedies (Arrested Development, anyone?) that no real people actually pay attention to, Party Down is kaput. A goner. Out and out. I would cry if I were able.
My music-listening habits are strange, subsisting laissez-faire in a system reliant upon torrents and happenstance (and, occasionally, legit music purchases). Once a song enters my library, there’s no telling how long it will take me to really give it an honest listen — and, hopefully, to fall in love with it.
I hardly ever pay attention to albums, so for any given band the songs I like tend to crop up in waves. First-wave songs are the ones that get me right away — they could be singles or simply super-catchy regulars, tracks from the first album I decided to download or perhaps songs with intriguing titles (The Format’s “Let’s Make This Moment a Crime” gets me every time).
Second- and third-wave songs (and all those subsequent) are underdogs. I almost missed them. Maybe I didn’t like them at first. Maybe they were on that other EP. Whatever.
The other two songs I mentioned perusing via Youtube last Monday were from my most recent Voxtrot wave. Since Vox broke up, this wave might be my last, but hopefully not. I still need to pay “Berlin Without Return” some more attention.