A Film Called Fuckhead.

For those fortunate enough to have glimpsed my batshit insane (read: hopelessly sleep-deprived) Facebookery as of late, you are likely all too aware of the endeavor that consumed my past 72 hours. For those who didn't, a sampling:

5:37 AM—Still shackled to the editing bay through hour 15, I realize that, in order to have broken records in the credit sequence of my movie, I have to, you know, break some records. 

5:52 AM—Back at my dorm, so as not to disturb my roommate / floormates, I take records one by one into the elevator & attempt to break them. 

6:14 AM—I spend the next twenty minutes artfully scattering torn covers & jagged pieces across my floor & panning across them with the camera. 

6:38 AM—I seriously question my decision to become a film major—& feel, on many levels, like a broken record. 

8:52 AM—TRIUMPH, GLORIOUS & SWEET. & with just enough time to snag some breakfast before the screening...

All of this is to say: I made a movie, & it exists, because I made it, & thank God. Without further ado—mostly because my brain currently has the consistency of a deep fried Oreo, but extra mostly because, surprise, I still have 4 short essays to write before sunset—I give you my bizarre lil' explosion of an opus, Fuckhead:

Today's Headphone Fodder:

Because every finals season needs a good playlist—some old, some new, some borrowed, more than a few blue (I may or may not have developed a penchant for instrumental covers of Pixies songs—sorry, not sorry).

Highlights include: said instrumental covers, Garbage's new track, two killer songs by San Francisco bands (Full Moon Partisans & The Abi Yo-yo's)—one of which is a link to a download!—& a tune off M. Ward's latest album that is, without a doubt, the most danceably adorable two minutes you'll hear all day.

4-27-12: Your Head'll Collapse.

[    ^   Listen to it all the way through on YouTube!   ^    ]

Mr. Zebra—Tori Amos.
Somebody That I Used to Know (feat. Kimbra)—Gotye.
Tame—Pixies. 
That Old Black Hole—Dr. Dog. 
Blood for Poppies—Garbage. 
Hey Sexy—Die Antwoord. 
Venus in Furs—The Velvet Underground. 
Gouge Away—The Vitamin String Quartet (Pixies cover). 
**Raise the Glass—Full Moon Partisans.** [ MP3 DOWNLOAD!!!! ] 
Playground Mutiny—The Abi Yo-yo's.
Yo-yo—Nicola Roberts.
Who's That? Brooown!—Das Racist. 
Take Off Your Sunglasses—Ezra Furman & the Harpoons. 
Wisdom—Gran Ronde.
Bad Girls—M.I.A.
I Don't Wanna Walk Around With You—The Ramones.
Tears Dry On Their Own—Amy Winehouse.
Killer Queen—Queen.
Good Person Inside—Jill Sobule.
The Man Who Sold the World (Live at the Beeb, 2000)—David Bowie. 
I Get Ideas—M. Ward.
No Conclusion—Of Montreal. 
Sister, Do You Know My Name?—The White Stripes.
California Dreamin'—Bobby Womack (Mamas & the Papas cover). 
Where Is My Mind?—Maxence Cyrin (Pixies cover).

"The Filmic Equivalent of Vajazzling": A Trying Tale of RomCom Trailers.

As you're probably aware, dear Reader, it's Thursday, & we all know what that means: another lovely issue of The Eye came out today—including, as it does with rather disturbing frequency, another contribution from yours truly.

Unfortunately, as I'm so tied up in the business/organizational end of things, when I write for my favorite publication these days, it's almost always because someone else dropped out & we have some space that needs filling. Today's case was no different, but rather than struggling to fill the 450-word limit, I found myself really getting into the topic—such that I ultimately scribed a 900+ word opus, which then had to be hacked & mercilessly hacked again, like the evil stepsisters' toes in the grimmer Grimm tale, in order to fit its proper place.

So, though I encourage you to check out the version currently online & in print, I've also posted my original below for your reading pleasure. Behold, "Modern Love, Hollywood Style"—or, as I secretly wanted to call it, "The Filmic Equivalent of Vajazzling":

It’s not like we didn’t know what we were getting into. But we were in the mood for a movie, & my mother had just read an article about the new release Friends With Kids—how it was the endeavor of writer/director/star (& Jon Hamm's long-term partner) Jennifer Westfeldt, how the film seemed relatively interesting & Westfeldt relatively savvy & down-to-earth. Plus, it seemed like an appropriate choice for this, our annual mother-daughter trip to Montréal (yes, it’s exactly as adorable as it sounds). Most importantly, we reasoned, this would give us an excuse to look at Jon Hamm’s face for at least the better part of an hour. So, at 2 PM on that fateful Thursday, we made the decision so see a Romantic Comedy at a Canadian multiplex.

Still, only after the crowd (of 11) filed in, the lights dimmed, & the first trailer started to roll did the full gravity of our situation kick in. We were seeing a Romantic Comedy. At a Canadian multiplex. We exchanged a determined cringe, clutched our cup-holder armrests, & braced ourselves for fifteen minutes of trailers advertising some of the most hateful cinematic drivel ever to grace the silver screen.

I don’t mean to sound overdramatic. Okay, maybe I do—but believe me when I say I am, at most, only slightly exaggerating the baffling atrocity of these previews. I mean, surely my adverse reaction was compounded by the sheer volume—one after another after another, like a never-ending freight train of Terrible—but to be perfectly frank, my reaction to "RomCom" in general is not unlike my reaction after attending my first (& only) frat party: People actually think this is awesome?!, intoned with an incredulity hovering somewhere between rage & despair.

It seems that modern Romantic Comedies—as this onslaught of trailers so aptly exemplified—are specifically & infuriatingly marketed to a demographic that I think just simply doesn't exist—or if it does, it's only as an unfortunate result of this kind of marketing. To me, these movies represent the filmic equivalent of vajazzling: yeah, sure, it's something you might entertain—especially after reading Jennifer Love Hewitt's memoir—& you may even enjoy it on occasion, but not because you would ever organically desire this ever, ever, ever. (Unless, of course, you're Jennifer Love Hewitt, in which case I'd be willing to believe you came up with that on your own.) I just find it frustrating that, as an avid moviegoer—&, let's be real, a female moviegoer of marriageable age—I'm constantly being pandered to by a marketing philosophy that does little more than shout "it's pink, there's kissing, get into it!"

But let's get into it, lest you think me some hyper-hip cynic. The first trailer was for a Canadian film, the title of which I really don’t remember, but which we’ll call Boring Man Becomes Slightly Less Boring, because that sums up its utter lack of conceit with room to spare. In short: an American businessman meets a mysterious Canadian lass &, both at a crossroads in their lives, they decide to abscond on a whimsical road-trip through the wilderness. Think wide, scenic shots of wide, scenic landscapes, Guy making some cynical remark, Girl replying with stark genuineness, “But it’s beautiful”—etc. Sound relatively familiar? That’s because what the directors barely even try to conceal is that you’ve seen this movie about 800 times before (anyone familiar with the term “Manic Pixie Dream Girl,” employ it here)—except this time, it's Canadian.

My particular favorite moment: at a diner counter, Guy looks skeptically at his plate as Girl explains, “It’s called poutine.” For those blissfully unaware, “poutine” is a famous Québecois dish, consisting of french fries, cheese curds, & sometimes even foie gras or Canadian deli delicacy “smoked meat,” all slathered in gravy. So, Girl forcing Guy to try some is a typically Manic Pixie action—the equivalent of Zooey Deschannel making Joseph Gordon-Levitt yell “penis” in a park—except instead, she’s asking him to experience a uniquely Canadian heart attack.

Next, we open on Jennifer Garner & Anonymous Attractive Husband receiving unpromising news from a fertility doctor—a predictable premise, as romance has been known to lead to babies, & Jennifer Garner has been known to portray infertile mothers. (Thanks again, Diablo Cody.) Garner & Husband then retreat home & begin drinking (also understandable), at which point he looks into her eyes & says, “Let’s make a baby. Tonight”—a sentiment later complicated by a “Walt Disney presents” titlecard. If you’re thinking (as I was) “This gives a whole new meaning to ‘kiddie porn,’” never fear: apparently, what Hubby means by “make a baby” is “write adjectives on notecards, put them in a box, & bury it out front, in hopes that a mud-covered seven-year-old will show up in our living room tomorrow morning.” Because, of course, that’s what happens.

Yes, following a dark & stormy night, like a gremlin clawing his way from the depths, a little boy named Timothy appears in their home—addressing them casually as “mom & dad," as if by wacky coincidence, they buried their son alive instead of tucking him in. Rather than shoot the creature on sight, they decide to adopt their creepily immaculate conception—& from here, we get a montage of wholesome & heartwarming images, including a number of off-puttingly Jesus-y shots circling around the boy, his eyes closed & arms crucifixion-spread in the middle of a soccer field as inspirational orchestration swells. A final card reveals this masterwork is called The Odd Life of Timothy Green. Understatement of the decade, that.

But wait, there’s more. Indeed, by far the worst was What to Expect When You’re Expecting, as it appears to be 1) a movie based on an instructional pregnancy book, because that’s apparently a thing we’ve allowed to happen; 2) one of those “Let’s round up all of the famous people desperate for a paycheck & parade them past the camera!” ensemble feats, à la Valentine’s Day & its unfortunate cousin New Years Day; & 3) so deeply unfunny-looking as to warrant physical revulsion. Example: the tour-de-force joke—the one worthy of featuring in this, its marketable highlights reel—shows a group of BabyBjörn-clad men pushing strollers in slo-mo, set to hardcore hip-hop. But wait—a man in childcare garb, you say? Surely not, no! That would be like a dog walking on its hind legs! Oh, what a chuckle-worthy notion! Knees slapped all around!—& case squarely in point.

Pale-faced & deeply shaken, my mother & I squeezed hands, unsure if we could bear two hours more of what someone who would ever consider watching those movies ever might find pleasant. However, as it turns out, Friends With Kids is actually kind of excellent. First off, it’s populated with nuanced & realistic characters—friends who banter the same way mine do, getting over-invested in running hypothetical games (“Death by alligator or shark?”) & making just-too-vulgar jokes. Moreover, the Rom woven through this ever-present Com is particularly refreshing—in no way star-cross’d or easy, no character capitulating or suddenly changing heart, allowing each sequence to unfold in unexpected turns. Still, the film's not so busy flouting convention that it forgets to be entertaining—a genuinely pleasant mix of easy laughs & subtle surprises.

Especially as framed by this wasteland of recycled premises & empty one-liners, Westfeldt’s film proved that, plainly put, not all Romantic Comedy is inherently a suckfest. Now it’s up to the rest of the film factories to follow her lead.

Today's Headphone Fodder:

In Every Dream Home a Heartache—Roxy Music.

So, full disclosure: normally, for this section, I don't actually post the single song I've been listening to most that day/week, as 1) it would likely be the same song for posts on end (re: 99% Bowie/Iggy), & 2) it would often be really, profoundly embarrassing (re: Evanesence). Plus, I do genuinely want to recommend music that I think others will dig—that's cutting-edge or otherwise somewhat abnormal, but no so much as to be alienating, etc.

However, today, I'm performing a massive "fuck that" & putting up this song, which I woke up with a sincere yen to listen to & have been repeat-repeat-repeating all day long—one which is deeply bizarre & long & alienating, but also, therefore, deeply excellent. Like so much of Roxy/Ferry/Eno, it's electronic without being subsumed by synthesizers, pleasantly sinister until it breaks, wailing, into guitars. Also, essentially, it's a love song to a blow-up doll, AKA, my plain-wrapper baby—one line boasts, I'll love you 'til death-size—an ever-elaborating series of innuendoes, which culminates delightfully at the surge of all surges: I blew up your body—but you blew my mind. So get into it.

THF: How Paris Hilton's New Single Changed My Life.

You guys, something really important happened.

Like, really, really important.

Paris Hilton came out with a new single called "Drunk Text," & it is AMAZING.

I'm not kidding. I am being in no way sarcastic, ironic, or otherwise insincere. I do, in fact, mean that when I hear these three-plus minutes of Paris Hilton talking—just talking—over that kind of inconsequential, blippy techno that sounds like champagne bubbles popping, I feel nothing but profound & utter amazement. Even awe. It is awesome, in the original sense of the term.

Because what she has created (or—well—it's "Manufactured Superstars feat. Paris Hilton," & we are talking about Paris fucking Hilton here—so, clearly, "what's been created for her & what she has brought to life, &/or its most beautifully blasée semblance")—is pure goddamn crazypants gold.

I'm actually at a loss as to how to give verbal justice to the unadulterated, spastic glee I feel upon hearing the life-summational first lyric—"I went out to the club the other night... To... You know... [ Pregnant pause... ] Dance with my bitches..."—or the line that now dictates the only way I will ever accept a drink, ever—"He hands me another shot of vodka, & I say... [ Pregnant pause... ] Sure."

Especially notable are the lines of batshit Xanga-meets-thesaurus glory—e.g., "In my head, I was writing a fiction of us / Behind my eyes, I was begging for things my lips could never ask / But my mouth kept pouring desperate clauses of random intent"—& that unforgettable lesson in portmanteaus: "You take the word 'sex' & mix it with 'texting' / It's called 'sexting' / When you add 'drunk sexting'? / Words just don't make any sense..."—all tumbled through the deliciously slack emptiness of her voice, that singular perpetual nasal sigh, the original & ultimate "Look at all the fucks I give!"

"...No one is safe in the Twittersphere anymore..."—"...It's a hot mess of misspelled obscenities..."—"...& I'll be damned if I end up in some lame diner after this, last night's lingerie in my purse..."—Every line in this song is a revelation.

Honestly, the closest explanation-slash-metaphor I can come up with is: if one of those 800-person K-Pop bands were to do a cover of a Slipknot song, the video for which was a technicolor re-rendering of Maru the cat clips played backwards. That is how I feel when I listen to "Drunk Text": like I'm on an impressive amount of the world's most beautiful acid. But, like, an acid martini, quaffed while wearing false eyelashes & very high heels & scoffing a lot.

It's fucking transcendent is what it is. I really can't stop playing it—nor do I want to.

You know what? Just watch the video. Experience it for yourself, pretty please—& if for whatever reason you don't glean the absolute & utter soul-bursting joy from it that I do, all I can say is, "Sorry... It was just a Drunk Text."

Meat? Cute! (AKA, I Made a Movie.)

So, I think I was set up on a meet-cute by God.

For those not so versed in the shorthand of everyone's favorite filmic genre—that is, of course, the Rom(antic) Com(edy)—"meet-cute" refers to the oft adorable way in which your charmingly flawed protagonist pair first encounter one other. Common examples include mixed-up food orders, shared recognition of a song—&, inevitably, on-street bumpings-into, pratfalls, or other generally unrealistic levels of clumsiness.

The meet-cute is a particularly dangerous stumbling block for screenwriters, too—particularly screenwriters of particularly short films—particularly young student screenwriters of particularly short films who are particularly strapped for ideas. For example, at the end of last semester, some friends & I spent a box of wine trying to come up with a 12-page story for my final assignment, only to realize that every single remotely interesting or comedic idea we had was ultimately a meet-cute—to the point where we resolved to make either one of two films: 1) Meat? Cute!, in which a young-at-heart dreamer, played by Zooey Deschannel, visits a down-on-his-luck butcher, played by Joeseph Gordon-Levitt, at which point the two have profoundly raunchy sex among the carcasses & the film reveals itself to be a hardcore porn; or 2) A Fucking Autobiography of Frida Fucking Kahlo in 12 Fucking Pages Or Less: A Meet-Cute Between Man & God. (This one came toward the very end of the box.)

Still, it's important to note that meet-cutes are commonly regarded as loathsome not only for their ubiquity, but for their ubiquity despite the fact that they are, by definition, deeply & fantastically unrealistic—even, indeed, when you're actually dropped into one.

To set the stage: last Thursday, snagging dinner before an evening class, I sat down at an unoccupied-enough table in one of the school's least economically designed dining facilities with the intention to dine & dash, when I noticed the gentleman sitting a mere few seats away. He was:

1) ...reading the second issue of The Eye, which I had spent until 2 AM the previous night putting together—for which I wrote a short piece on silent film (&, more importantly, calling James Franco both a masturbator & a buffoon).
2) ...sitting by a bundle of filmmaking equipment, which was clearly from the same place I had visited earlier that afternoon to check out my own supply.
3) ...not-so-quietly singing "In Dreams" by Roy Orbison, as used prominently in Blue Velvet, my favorite movie by David Lynch—about whom I had just discovered a fantastically anecdote-worthy video.
4) ...very, very, very, very pretty.

Sure, okay, the whole singing in public thing is indicative of minor insanity, but that's honestly a plus in my book. The long & short of it is, this man was implicitly providing me with a statistical anomaly of possible conversation-starters. For example:

1) So, what do you think? (Pause for look of bepuzzlement.) The magazine. I'm always curious to hear feedback from our readers.
2) Are you shooting this weekend? (Pause for affirmative response.) Me too—what for?
3) Blue Velvet? (Pause for reference recognigtion.) Tell me you've seen the commercials for Lynch's new coffee line. Damn fine.
4) I like your face. Can I put mine close to it, please?

So, which did I use, you ask? Why none, of course, dear Reader. Why, you ask? Who knows.

I could say the sheer number of options was overwhelming (which it was); I could say I had homework to do before class (which I did); that my salad was almost certainly stuck between most of my teeth (also valid); but the plain truth of it is, I am an incorrigible fraidy cat when it comes to making the first move. Indeed, to compensate, I often find myself going to ridiculous extents to create scenarios in which those whom I admire will see me being Effortlessly Attractive & Eminently Approachable, thereby saving me the trouble of instigating. (In this case, that meant prominently laying out marked-up film readings & notebook doodles while craning my neck just so. It was, as usual, unsuccessful; he hummed off without a trace.)

Cut to the short film I was checking out all that equipment in order to make: First Impressions, the product of 72 hours, no lights, & four beautiful (dedicated, talented, wondrous) people. Are there things about it I want to fix? Certainly. Are there things about it I actually can fix & likely will in a soon-to-be-released Special Edition Director's Cut? Probably. Still, for now, it stands: a meet that never quite cutes—or perhaps, the clumsy merger of my (so-called) life & the hastily compiled fictions it tends to produce. Enjoy.

Today's Headphone Fodder:

Lo Dudo—Los Panchos.

As an officially declared Film Studies major, when not making movies, I'm often asked to watch/analyze them—& recently, I was lucky enough to have one of those movies be the beyond brilliant Almodóvar career-maker, Law of Desire. Those who've seen the film may remember the song's prominent (& telling) placement, but for those who haven't, 1) do, & 2) you can still enjoy this trillingly mournful little ditty—even if, like me, you speak only the most cursory approximation of Spanish. All you need to know are those thrice repeated eponymous words: I doubt it, I doubt it, I doubt it (...that you will ever find a love purer than the one you have in me—or something like that).

Cross-Posting A Go-Go.

As aforementioned, these past weeks have been stuffed to bursting with work on the Eye, the (glorious, effervescent) arts & features magazine for which I am now managing editor. At long, long (long) last, at the asscrack of dawn (5:30-something, my foggy memories tell me) this past Thursday, the stars aligned, the dream was realized—&, indeed, the first issue of the magazine was published.

Look how pretty! Click to read the pdf!

Of course, such intense Eyely pride made me remember that I've been an absolute lump when it comes to cross-posting the many words I've logged in its service. So, for any & all interested in what I do with my Clark Kent self—that is, the shy, bespectacled newspaper persona, who fills the hours between my righteous badassery (AKA, Blogsmanship)—here's what I was up to last semester, while, you know, going entirely AWOL hereabouts:

Cinema Verité.
In which I profile the site of my fabulous fall internship—the Maysles Cinema, a nonprofit documentary cinema in Harlem, founded by Al Maysles of Grey Gardens fame—& give it some well-deserved love. (Everyone should go there! Always!)

“Excuse me, can I interest you in some information on upcoming screenings at the Maysles Cinema?” This phrase tumbles out almost mechanically after hours spent repeating it, my handful of fliers dutifully thrust forward into a stream of oncoming pedestrians. As the Cinema’s new graphic design intern, I initially imagined myself more on the crafting than the distribution side of the promotional process—but, after only a short time behind the scenes, I know I’m exactly where I want to be: on the steps of a local Harlem church, making sure everyone I can possibly reach knows about the cutting-edge sociopolitical discourse going on only blocks away at 127th and Lenox...

Let's Bounce.
In which I interview Big Freedia, queen diva extraordinaire of the Bounce scene—which was amazing, because it's Big fucking Freedia, but which was rough, because we had to talk over the phone, & my deafness did not mix well with her somewhat overpowering drawl.

So, I’ve heard that, even within Bounce itself, you’re in a sort of subgenre called “Sissy Bounce”—which I find especially cool because I feel like, in the music industry, there isn’t often a platform for genderqueer artists, and it seems like Sissy Bounce represents a place for that.
Well, we don’t separate it here in New Orleans. There’s no such thing as “Sissy Bounce.” It’s all Bounce music and we have a few gay artists that work within the Bounce culture, but we don’t separate it. That just got misinterpreted through an interview that was done a while back, and they named it “Sissy Bounce” or whatever, but here in New Orleans we don’t separate it at all. Everybody just calls it Bounce music—and, you know, myself [and] Katey Red, we represent a part of that, and we’re gay artists...

From Stage to Screen.
In which I traveled to a swank-ass midtown screening room to see Roman Polanski's latest cinematic foray, Carnage, adapted from Yasmina Reza's Broadway smash The God of Carnage—& then subsequently compared it at length to Albee's Who's Afraid of Virginia Woolf, thus nudging at the question of what makes these simple-seeming plays cinematic.

“I believe,” oozes Christoph Waltz, in the same sinister drawl that earned him an Oscar for Tarantino’s Inglourious Basterds, “in the God of Carnage—the God whose rule has gone unchallenged since time immemorial.” Dressed as a modern American lawyer in a Paris-shot-for-Brooklyn parlor, he’s lending his villainous appeal to Carnage, the latest cinematic foray of infamous auteur Roman Polanski, which opened this year’s 49th Annual New York Film Festival. The film, based on Yasmina Reza’s Tony Award-winning play The God of Carnage, chronicles a conversation between two bourgeois couples—the Longstreets (Jodie Foster and John C. Reilly) and the Cowans (Waltz and Kate Winslet)—as they confer about a violent dispute between their young sons...

Abnormal Halloween Costumes.
In which I collaborated with the lovely & talented Margaret Boykin to dream up some creative solutions to the year's most intense outfit dilemma.

Sexy Feminist: Think Susan B. Anthony & Simone de Beauvoir…if they were in Mean Girls. These two feminists are already rolling in their graves at the sight of knee-highs and push-ups, so why not bring the empowerment-through-sexuality to a head? Simone loved black turtlenecks—but how about going backless, American Apparel style?...

Untested Development.
In which I ask the question no one wants to ask—that is, "Should there really be an Arrested Development movie? No, but really—think about it..."—&, in the process, drag in David Lynch, Joss Whedon, & Exiled: A Law & Order Movie.

“No, I don’t see it as a series,” acclaimed director Ron Howard says in the final moments of Arrested Development—a surprise cameo that is a typically tongue-in-cheek move for the show he narrated through three seasons. He pauses, fingers tapping. Then: “Maybe a movie?” This hanging question has gone on to haunt diehard fans and entertainment news outlets alike since the show’s 2006 cancellation, through an agonizing five years of will-they-won’t-they pre-production turmoil with enough ups and downs to inspire its own Lifetime miniseries...

Health Over Weight.
In which I rehash America's body image crazy, focusing specifically on the new documentary America the Beautiful 2—whose director, Darryl Roberts, savvily debunks the BMI myth—the Adipositivity Project—whose photographer, Substantia Jones, may just be one of the coolest people in the history of ever—& the controversial children's book Maggie Goes on a Diet—whose author, Paul Kramer, then kindly took the time to yell at me in the comment section.

“So, who do you want to look like?” The question catches me off guard. She smiles sympathetically, folds a stray piece of honey blonde hair behind her ear, and rephrases: “I find it's helpful to have a goal in place—a physical role model.” She grabs a dog-eared People from behind her desk and opens it. “What about Kate Winslet? She’s pretty healthy-looking, don’t you think?” I’ll admit, when I entered this nutritionist's office I was hoping for something a little different—given that none of the previous three had produced lasting results. Despite layers of meticulous meal logs and food pyramids camouflaging my fridge, I remained a significantly overweight (and therefore significantly distraught) 13-year-old—weary of feeling socially inferior to my classmates because I was physically larger. So when the doctor brought out her pictures of Kate, I smiled back and nodded and prayed silently that this plan, please, would stick.

Best of 2011: Best All-Nighter.
In which I recount the "best" of my many hateful study experiences—which can best be summed up by three key terms: "Immanuel Kant," "cockroaches," & "Valentines Day."

As a college student, consummate procrastinator, and incorrigible coffee fiend, I exhibit all possible risk factors for a user and abuser of the All-Nighter. Though my year has thus seen plenty of these harrowing 20-plus hour library entombments, one in particular sticks out: At 10:30-something on a Sunday night in icy February, I enter Butler to begin a five-page essay on the Categorical Imperative of Herr Immanuel Kant, due Monday afternoon...

Then, of course, I also edited a few articles—including one on aging punk rockers (called "Crusty Punks") & another on knitting culture (entitled "Yarns & Recreation").

...&, scene. End shameless self-promotion. (But, seriously, y'all—read the Eye!)


Today's Headphone Fodder:

Right in the Head—M. Ward.

More rumbly, mumbly acoustic boys, perfect for rumbly, mumbly brain-brambled girls, hacking away at keyboards long past the point of sanity.

Purity Bear Wants You to Cuddle Him, Kids. Hard.

Advertising has got to be tricky—& not just for that sonuvagun Don Draper. Consistently tempted by the thralls of this zippy, media-saturated Internet Age, we as consumers seem to have lost our last ounce of patience for straight-up salesmanship, such that ads are now expected to be especially fun & entertaining in & of themselves, attention-grabbing as the programming they're paired with, if not more so.

Of course, as this recent evocation of Auschwitz to sell gym memberships proves, there are many instances in which advertisers lose sight of any & all common sense in pursuit of this ardent viewer appeal—& in so doing, they don't just fail to hit their target demographic, but in fact fail to hit any potential demographic in the history of ever, apparently firing with the laser precision of 800 quail-hunting Dick Cheneys. (Hey there, 2006!—re: That's honestly the only place my brain went when it came time to think of an "inaccurate marksmanship" joke. Can more relevant people suck at shooting things, please?)

It stands to reason, then, that this problem of bafflingly self-sabotaging ads would be compounded tenfold when the product in question is even more fundamentally unappealing than exercise—for example, abstinence. Because, really now: in an industry with the simplest & most alliterative of mottos—that is, "sex sells" (as in, "Organ donation? Okay, but how can we make it sexy?")—creating an anti-sex PSA that is successful by modern advertising standards is likely going to be very, brain-bendingly difficult.

Anyhow, all of this is my attempt to somehow explain away the terror &/or bemusement &/or utter, stark lack of comprehension with which I view the following "Day of Purity" PSA, simply titled, "The Purity Bear."

In the first place, let's start with the opening dialogue:

"I really like you a lot. You're not like the other guys."
"I really like you a lot, too. You look so pretty tonight."

Now, I could put on my feminist smoking jacket (the kind with the elbow pads—I imagine it makes me look both authoritative & approachable, with a wink of vintage charm) & point out that the boy is praised for his substance while the girl is praised for her appearance, & so has it been since that whole rib-apple-serpent incident, etc.—but instead, I'm going to put on my person with a motor cortex jeggings & point out that no self-respecting teenagers would ever say these sentences to one another. At least not back-to-back. At least not when sober. Really, though—is it too much to ask that you splurge a little on your screenwriter?

Still, once the kids are done waxing poetic, the girl, being the instigating strumpet she is (ahem, rib-serpent-apple), mentions that her parents aren't home—&, as the two take long, paralyzingly awkward looks into each other's eyes... suddenly, like a muppet crawling from the depths of Hades, a teddy bear slides his way onscreen. & not just any bear. Oh, no. This is a "purity bear"—who, incidentally, sounds like he has an affinity for chain-smoking, cheap whiskey, & driving slowly around his neighborhood in an unmarked van offering candy to small children. "I'm cuddly," he whispers insidiously into the young lad's ear, & it's hard not to shudder at the thought of the many counseling sessions filled with those to whom he's said those words before.

So, kids, the moral of the story is, if you want to have sex with your cuddly girlfriend (also worth an eyebrow raise), hug a cuddly teddy bear instead. Just don't get too serious—especially if you're interested in actually getting a message across, not haunting my dreams with lurking stuffed animal sex predators.

Today's Headphone Fodder:

Sex & Reruns—Matt Duke.

A relevant title for today's subject matter—& a relevant song for my state of mind (read: insomniac, collegiate, aimless). Bright & boppy strumming with blithely despairing lyrics—sweet indifference, as its crooner croons, with the wry breathiness of those jaded left grinning, bitterly, grinning.

THF: Kim Deal Meets Eraserhead.

So, I know it seems like I've been slacking somewhat on my "write more" resolution, having gone AWOL over a week at this point—but, in fact, I've been writing a sickening, daunting, patently hateful amount... of e-mail. Indeed, this is the one potential downside of my otherwise lovely & exciting new position as managing editor of Columbia's (brilliant, indubitable) arts & features magazine, The Eye: the necessary parameters of the post are such that, as I've taken to describing it, were GMail rendered real, my life would resemble that scene from the first Harry Potter movie, when all the thousands of letters are pouring in through the Dursleys' fireplace—except, instead of jumping & giggling like a cracked-out Carebear, I'm huddled in the fetal position, quietly weeping, until the swamp of envelopes swallows me whole. (Or, you know, just making the face Aunt Petunia's making.)

My point is, I'm still getting used to this new influx of textual responsibility—still figuring how best to juggle many the balls unceasingly catapulted in my general direction—so, for today, it's going to have to be quick, which means some more music.

Still, I'm confident that this offering is pretty excellent—especially for movie nerds & Pixies fans. (& honestly, if you're neither, I suggest seriously examining your life choices.) In short & in sweet, welcome to Kim Deal, backed by her original band, crooning away to "In Heaven," the song sung by the Lady in the Radiator from David Lynch's Eraserhead.

Her version is softer than another I have, where Frank Black takes up lead vocals—found, if I'm not mistaken, on the band's Complete B Sides collection. Where Black grates & surges, Deal remains subdued—only slightly flubbing the lyrics, just enough to be charming. Meanwhile, the persistent thrum of her bassline entwines effortlessly with the quiet pull of the guitar, tap-tap of the cymbals—soft & lovely & only a little terrifying, much like the best of things.

THF: Kitchen Dancing With "Honey Bunny."

Okay, to be fair, I came across this song on Hypem.com's Music Blog Zeitgeist of 2011, so there is every chance that I am literally the last person in the Western hemisphere to have heard it, let alone to spout some online commentary thereupon.

However, what I will say is, while doing dishes in my pajamas earlier this evening, idly listening to Hypem's most-blogged artist countdown, I was struck by this song—"Honey Bunny" by painfully hip(ster) pop-rock outfit Girls—so much so that I ended up dancing in soap-splattering circles in front of my kitchen's large picture windows, grinning like a loon.

There's just something about the pounding snare-cymbal pickup of the multivoice chorus: They don't like my bony body / they don't like my dirty hair...

Because, though I don't have a particularly bony body & would hope that my hair smells, at least not infrequently, like Garnier's interpretation of flowers—nor, indeed, do I tend to go for men in bellyshirts who try to pick up women from inside their convertibles & hold band practice in the woods—I can't help but jive with a song that takes that brand of omnipresent romantic self-consciousness & turns it into a defiantly upbeat sing-along. Aggravating Hipstamatic sepia tone of its video aside, "Honey Bunny" is the jangly ideal with which to twist & shout away the blues—preferably while wielding a dish sponge.

Micro-Rant on Geographical Semantics.

I am absolutely not the first person to point this out—nor, hopefully, will I be the last—but upon paging through my local newspaper this morning, I came across the following headline & was immediately struck by a wave of profound & interrobang-laced indignation:

Now, no one loves a good movie pun more than I do, & while the Out of Africa linkage is more than a little forced in this case, I would be willing to accept it, I suppose—chalk it up to inept headlining & all (Lord knows I once tried to call an article about Knitting Culture "Needle Exchange")—were it not for sentences like this:

Auerbach said she initially had no idea what African people needed. But through her interactions, she found two needs: school tuition and income.

First of all, "needed" followed immediately by "needs"? Let's vary our word choice, please. More disturbing than stylistics, though, is the geographical adjective: though the reporter has already specified that Ms. Auerbach did her subhead-touted chance-giving in Uganda, the sentence still reads "what African people needed."

In fact, in my estimation, what "African people" need is for people to stop blithely referring to them as "African"—to recognize that Africa is a continent, not a country, nor a "nation" (thanks again, Mr. Bush)—that it is, in fact, made up of many of these, each of which is host to its own separate concerns.

While Americans are also apt to use other continent-consuming adjectives in similarly problematic ways (re: "European techno sounds like a very unhappy cat being shoved through a synthesizer"), I still think we can all agree that each individual country therein gets far more autonomous consideration far more often. For example, if Friendly Suburban Lady decided to bring her Dell laptops to a village in Thailand, we wouldn't say she figured out "what Asian people needed."

It's a frustrating semantic trend to be sure—one I think is symptomatic of a far larger conceptual Othering, but that's a problem for other days & greater minds. For now, let's just concentrate on our words—which we can change, now, ASAP.

(Also, because this post is simply begging for it, here's a link to "I Studied Abroad in Africa!," an "I'm laughing in disbelief"-type Tumblr on which this article would be right at home. Also, here's one pseudo-relevant recent post—though, to her credit, this woman did at least say "Ugandan.")

Today's Headphone Fodder:

Shark in the Water—VV Brown.

I've long appreciated VV Brown & her wispy-voiced, rounded-voweled retro-techno-pop style—especially as regards her truly brilliant cover of "This Charming Man." Recently, though, I've found myself particularly drawn to this song—its chorus's nonsensical string of warnings beckoning through the surge of computerized brass.

Back With a Vengeance (Or, At Least, With Some Villainy).

[ The Year, she has Newed—& the resolutions have thus, well, resoluted. While perched atop a barstool in the back corner of Church, there to man Sidewalk Driver's merch table, having recently been mind-blown by their smashing cover of "Major Tom"—AKA, "Völlig Losgelöst," the (far superior) German version—I scribbled out the following list come 11:58 PM:

In case you can't read my impeccable handwriting, that's: wear more sparkly things, get enough sleep, suck less @ guitar, write more, stop being crazy, exercise semi-regularly, stay resolute

Note that, in a lovely twist of the Universe being how it so often is, "resolute" is the only word that got smudged.

Now, on to—wait for it—my first post in 875,000 years. Get psyched. (I know I am.) ]

For those who have yet to experience the joys of a collegiate Finals Season—or, for those who have since repressed all memories thereof, whitewashing them into halcyon oblivion in an attempt to regain control & general sanity—the process is essentially akin to hefting a large boulder up a down escalator, wearing shoes made of quickly-drying superglue & balancing a stack of plates on your head, while Alex Trebek yells Final Jeopardy questions in your face & shoots at you with a bebe gun every time you hesitate—& all of this, mind you, on absolutely zero sleep. It could not be further from "exciting," "fun," or "productive"—a time to severely overcaffeinate, laugh despairingly at odd intervals, dream up some creative voodoo with which to torment those ever-smiling student-slash-models on the cover of you school's treasonously propagandistic brochure of lies—& yes, accordingly, to whip out some Villain Songs.

Indeed, by the end of that week & a half of hatefully constant verbiage production, I found myself listening almost exclusively to villain anthems from cartoon movies. I think the reasoning behind this is twofold. In the first place, of course, Villain Songs are unfailingly the best in the film, as they are 1) patently, delightfully sinister & 2) campy as a camping ground.

Moreover, when unjustly put-upon & facing Greek tragedy levels of distress, it's not enough to sing in blithely unthreatening major chords about happiness & sunshine & predictably vanquishing evil. No, in times like these, you are at war with the universe & the travails it dared to throw your way—a motherfuckin' monster, a dungeon dragon, a bad bitch who will kick ass, take names, then gladly go back for more. Yes, Nicki has filled this niche in Finals-times past—but this particular bout was beyond the pale, requiring exceedingly evident levels of menace.

Because when facing so daunting a fate, you don't want to save the world—couldn't possibly. You want to rend it from its very frame, to upset & overthrow, not just color outside the lines but burn the book & eat the crayons. & the best way to do this, as it turns out, is to sing about it in a self-aggrandizing, plan-explaining 2-3 minutes of sheer animated badassery—or, at the very least, to sing along.

With that, here is a list of my top 10 Villain Songs for your perusal—to aid in times of Sisyphean stress, or merely, as they were intended, to entertain.

1) In the Dark of the Night (Rasputin, Anastasia).

Line of note: "Terror's the least I can do!"

Combine a vengeful reanimated corpse with a jaunty new-age rock chorus & what you get is holiest of holies, the ultimate conceptual ideal: up-tempo, major-keyed evil. It's the same brain-tickled feeling you get when listening to Morrissey's boppy morbidity—except even better, as it's not merely tongue-in-cheek, it's epic. Plus, in work mode, as endless words flow haphazard from my clumsily puppeted fingertips, I can ride that key-change surge & smirk, Come, my minions, rise for your master...


2) Be Prepared (Scar, The Lion King).

Rhyme of Note: "prizes" / "emphasize is"

Ranking this second was, of course, an achingly close call—because, as explored here before, I have a capital-T Thing for Jeremy Irons, particularly as regards his voice, the brooding rasp of which is showcased perfectly in this, the Platonic Villain Anthem. I mean, "In the Dark of the Night" rightly takes the title—I'm no flip-flopper—but God is this song ideal. Everything from the stretched-drum-tight rhyme scheme (see above) to the ominous trill of bassoon after the casually spat, "No, fool, we're gonna kill 'im"—& that little waver he does on the word "lifetime," the ensuing gleeful voice crack on "sen-sa-tional"... Chills, my friends, for which I don't think I'll ever be adequately prepared.


3) Poor Unfortunate Souls (Ursula, The Little Mermaid).

Line of Note: "...& don't underestimate the importance of body language. Ha!"

This will forever be known, at least in the brain of me, as "the song that made me say non-bile-laced things about the Jonas Brothers"—which you might think would sour me on it somewhat, but which in fact proves the utter & unruinable appeal of one of the most patently fabulous lyrical outlets of villainy around. Of course, it almost couldn't not be, given that the character design for Ursula was based largely on my doppleganger/spirit animal, Divine. Still, the song itself is also brilliantly off-putting—jaunty, jazzily plodding, again making expert use of that bassoon—& the expressive range of Pat Carroll's vocals spells nothing if not Diva, in the most delightful way. Also, you've got to appreciate a movie that has the bad guy (re: the one you're supposed to disagree with) spouting super-sexism (re: the It's she who holds her tongue who gets a man verse)—thus continuing Disney's delightful trend of sneaking strikingly blatant life lessons into catchy tunes. (See also: We don't like what we don't understand—in fact, it scares us—& this monster is mysterious at least, c. "The Mob Song" in Beauty & the Beast.)


4) No More Mr. Nice Guy (Rothbart, The Swan Princess).

Rhyme of Note: "zinged 'em" / "kingdom"

From my all-time favorite kids movie, no contest, no questions asked: The Swan Princess. Truly ideal on every level sonically, as well—a jazz-infused set of couplets declaring, in many creative (& very creatively rhymed) ways, the joys of viletude.


5) Oh, Ratigan (Ratigan et. al., The Great Mouse Detective).

Line of Note: "An even grimmer plot has been simmering in my great criminal brain!" tied with "You're more evil than even you!"

So, my guess is, you haven't seen The Great Mouse Detective. I don't blame you: like The Swan Princess, it was one of those off-brand animations from the mid-nineties that got all but lost amid the shuffle of Disney hits. Still, I highly recommend it, if only because it remained a staple in my VCR, long after it's deemed appropriate for children to obsess over cartoons. Though much of this movie's charm can be found in the non-musical moments—the sly Holmes references, the oddly dark & often actually frightening sequences—this is, indeed, a top-notch Villain Song, wrought with alliteration & pink champagne. Moreover, Ratigan proudly continues my beloved trend of wonderfully fanciful (re: queer as every last folk) villains—a primly accented clotheshorse who fixes his coif before beginning his big number, plucks his own harp for the tragic monologue portion, & proudly keeps a bow-bedecked attack kitten.


6) Prince Ali (Reprise) (Jafar, Aladdin).

Line of Note: "Where were we? Ah, yes: abject humiliation!"

&, speaking of queeny villains... Really, though: in this category, Jafar can't not take the cake. I mean, that eyeliner? Diva, please. Moreover, here he pulls the ultimate in catty villainry: parroting back the hero's main theme with an evil twist—& no small amount of snark.


7) Gaston (Le Fou feat. Gaston, Beauty & the Beast).

Line of Note: "I'm especially good at expectorating!" tied with "I use antlers in all of my decorating!"

This is one of the more fabulously absurd Disney songs around—the "no one x like Gaston, no one y like Gaston" paradigm wearing thin after, say, one or two rounds & quickly devolving into a game of "what can we lyricists get away with" (hence, say, the above mentioned "expectorating" quip). Still good for a giggle after all these years.


8) Mine, Mine, Mine (Governor Ratcliffe, Pocahontas).

Line/Rhyme of Note: "With all you've got in ya boys / dig up Virginia boys!"

Okay, so this Villain Song does get briefly interrupted by Mel Gibson adventuring about, but before & after that unwelcome intrusion, there are dubious rhymes & delusions of grandeur aplenty. Also, I can't help but notice that Ratcliffe bears a striking resemblance to Ratigan—the prim demeanor, the portly frame, the obsession with piles of shiny riches—&, for that matter, even to Ursula, to Jafar... There is a paper to be written here—one that I am 100% sure some grad student somewhere has stashed in their sock drawer.


9) You're Only Second Rate (Jafar, The Return of Jafar).

Line of Note: "You look horrendous in your underwear."

Try, if you can, to ignore the infuriating Robin Williams impersonator & focus on the fact that this is essentially a song composed entirely of capital-S Shade—proving, once again, that Jafar is the most fabulous queen in Disney showbiz, which is why she earns two spots in our countdown. Really, though—everything about the punchy brass & syncopated syntax make this song the ultimate "Oh no she di'int" of cartoon evil.


10) We Hate the Sun (The Duke, Rock-a-Doodle).

Line of Note: A flashlight!

Of course, this song has already made an appearance hereabouts, in service of exemplifying my love of organs in music, but it also functions perfectly well as a somewhat off-brand Villain Song—definitely epic, excellently orchestrated, & capped off with a snooty British accent.


Today's Headphone Fodder:

When not taking in animated villainy, I was busy subjecting my ears to a series of other tunes—what I can safely say is, by far & away, the single weirdest "pump-up" playlist in the history of ever, running the irony-free gamut from Johannes Brahms to Demi Lovato & back again. So, without further ado:

12-17-11: Sisyphean.
[ As usual, click above for the expressly convenient YouTube playlist experience of a lifetime. ]

The King of Carrot Flowers Pt. 1—Neutral Milk Hotel.
Exquisite Corpse—Hedwig & the Angry Inch.
Everyday I Love You Less & Less—Kaiser Chiefs.
Leeds United—Amanda Palmer.
Ever Fallen In Love (With Someone You Shouldn't've)?—The Buzzcocks.
Commissioning a Symphony in C—Cake.
Y Control—The Yeah Yeah Yeahs.
Jet Boy, Jet Girl—Elton Motello.
Poem to a Horse—Shakira.
She Moves in Her Own Way—The Kooks.
Tranquilize—The Killers (feat. Lou Reed).
Infinity Guitars—Sleigh Bells.
Him Dancing—Throwing Muses.
Shock Horror—The View.
The Wind Blew All Around Us—The Bevis Frond.
Jique—Brazilian Girls.
Girl Inform Me—The Shins.
Drinking Gasoline—Ben Godwin.
Gigantic—The Pixies.
Violin Concerto in D, III—Johannes Brahms.
Take the Skinheads Bowling—Camper van Beethoven.
Superheroes—Ruth's Hat (Rocky Horror cover).
212—Azealia Banks.
The Problem With Saints—Neil Gaiman.
Unbroken—Demi Lovato.

Okay, as to that last song: 1) not gonna lie, it makes for an excellent pump-up lip sync, & 2) when asked "why," followed by several interrobangs, on the ol' BookFace (Spotify, you traitorous snitch...), I provided this retort, which I believe still holds:

There are two possible explanations:
1) Stuck in the especial purgatory of an already-late 7-page analysis of Wagner & Barber as pertains to the Romantic Era, which my body seems to have developed some sort of physical aversion to finishing, I find her blithely despairing pseudo-sinister techno mundanity on mind-numbing repeat a welcome respite from tempo rubato & wheedling violins.
2) Demi Lovato is a genius.
Pick your poison.