Greetings Americans. My name is Constantine Pavlovich and I arrive today here from Moscow for discourse with you on topic global warming.
My homeland country Russia suffer through dark period. Industries and technologies far behind other countries. Depression among the Russian people very high. If any man want to create new ideas they leave Russia because of weather. Snow and wind and ice in winter season limit production of workers. Even in springtime season Russia stay too cold. Read Full Post>>>
Since time immemorial, the Intellectual Aristocracy has found it difficult, and at times oxymoronic, to relate to the common man. But every March the National Collegiate Athletic Association’s men’s basketball tournament (colloquially referred to as “March Madness”) takes place, an underutilized act and scene in America’s cognitive-disparity-themed closet drama. The first weekend of this season’s tournament offered an ideal opportunity for intellectual aristocrats to engage common sports fans on a level they can understand, and below you will find numerous suggestions should you wish to spectate weekend two — should you wish to replace your tweed jacket with a hooded sweatshirt and patronize a neighborhood drinking establishment to watch collegiate basketball while sipping on an adult beverage. Read Full Post>>>
If you’re ever stuck on a desert island without a reliable means of transportation, hope and pray that you’ve read these survival tips, because they’ll get you the fuck off that island, no problem. Read Full Post>>>
A semi-comprehensive list of people who are not, for a myriad of reasons, Devin Ratray, the brilliant thespian you can credit your guffaws to when watching the character of Buzz McCallister in the cinematic masterpieces “Home Alone” and “Home Alone 2: Lost in New York.” Read Full Post>>>
F. Scott Fitzgerald is a big, fat liar. There are second acts in American lives, and in no medium has such a famous fib ever been more egregious than in the premiere of MTV’s Jersey Shore. The first act is your menial life prior to 10:00pm on December 3, 2009; the second act is your incredible, profound, rewarding life after it.
For years now, our culture has become increasingly familiar with made-for-reality-television drama and the manner in which producers have chosen to deliver it. Typical reality shows dedicate the first fifteen to thirty seconds upon return from a commercial break to a recap of the events that transpired prior to the commercial break; the same shows also dedicate the fifteen to thirty seconds prior to commercial break to a teaser of what will transpire after the commercial break ends. And thus, any viewer paying attention (even when using the most liberal definition of the word “attention”) will see the episode’s climatic moment — the temper tantrum, the punch, the girl who just lost Flavor Flav’s heart spitting on one of the contestants still vying for his love — multiple times before and after it actually occurs in situ.
Upon first viewing of Jersey Shore, such an exercise seems impossible. First, which of the tremendous, ‘did that really just happen?’ moments constitutes the episode’s climax? Pauly D lands a haymaker on the nose of a club-goer, five or six women remove clothing in the hot tub, JWOWW nearly exposes her breasts, proclaims her affinity for pierced penises, and in a drunken stupor, with Pauly D’s white tank top, leaves the club to eat prepackaged ham. And even if the episode did have a definable climax, a fifteen to thirty second recap or teaser could never accurately depict the fantastic sequences that frame Snooki’s “friend” vomiting on the roof deck. The reality of the situation: every single second of Jersey Shore is miraculously superior to the second that preceded it. Read Full Post>>>
Black magic, black cats, black eyes, soot, black bears and Panthers, the garb of witches and widows and nuns, that little black book with names, phone numbers, and addresses written in black ink, a bottle of Johnny Walker and, when not consumed in moderation, a man too drunk to walk or speak or stand, the stingy Nebraska defense, a biker’s leather jacket, the color worn to mourn the departed.
Holes in space from which not a single atom can escape, the scandalous Sox of 1912, days of the week — Tuesday at the stock exchange before the Great Depression, Friday after Thanksgiving at the outlet malls, trendy apparel — sleek skirts, mock turtle necks, cocktail dresses, pumps and boots and stilettos, free of debt on a bookkeeper’s page, stallions, mascara, asphalt, newsprint, caviar, the formal attire required for weddings and fundraisers and galas, one side of a two sided argument, the market for contraband, two diamonds denoting an advanced ski slope, the bough that wet petals sit upon, the sedans of federal agents. Read Full Post>>>
You look nice today. Something about your clothes allows you to exude poise and symmetry, the pattern of your scarf, perhaps. Maybe your skirt or blouse or boots, the way they speak to one another, but I can’t say for sure. Yes, I think you look nice today, very nice, and the reason it sounds awkward as I say it is because I’m not accustomed to venerating articles of clothing. When someone is wearing a really badass jacket, I might say “That jacket is really badass,” but your jacket, no offense, is quite maroon and ordinary. I don’t know, it’s just something kind to say to another person when they look nice, a compliment because I’m bored and have nothing of substance to contribute. I’m bored here. I’m bored here and now pay closer attention to garments and their colors and patterns and material, their sleeves and collars and pockets, their lenghts and cuts and buttons, and what other garment and color and pattern might compliment them.
This is not an isolated incident. Read Full Post>>>