Quote via a very crazy man
Yesterday was my birthday. I appreciate all the sweet wishes. I'm 28 now. Yay! Okay, I just watched the Kanye rant from Ellen and I have a few thoughts in no particular order. My dude is so weird and crazy, you almost have to admire it. Almost. While I enjoy some of Ye's music, the whole global savior complex thing is a little hard to swallow. Also, I just got a red light ticket and I'm considering asking Mark Zuckerberg to pay for it. But the thing I found myself noticing most during Kanye's bewildering tirade about helping the world is his body language. It's extremely uncomfortable, like there-are-ants-crawling-in-my-blood uncomfortable, and that's something I identify with. I'm wildly uncomfortable all the time and I'm not rich, famous, or successful. Kanye has sold millions of albums. I still have copies of my college mixtape in the closet of my current apartment. And no one ever invites me on their talk shows. What the fuck, Fallon? BTW, everyone is going to use "sorry for the realness" and "BALLS, BALLS, BALLS" as their taglines, but I'm feeling the above quote much more. Thinking only gets you into trouble -RB
I'm currently recovering from a long weekend of live music, nursing a wicked sonic hangover courtesy of FYF Fest. It all kicked off on Friday with an FYF Sideshow headlined by NAILS. Then it was off to FYF, where I saw everything, fam. And by 'everything', I mean a bunch of things, most of them quite good. I saw Run The Jewels, who delivered pure, uncut enjoyment every second of their performance (and surprise appearances by Zack de la Rocha, Travis Barker, and Gangsta Boo. I saw hipster kings Andrew Jackson Jihad and sang along with Joyce Manor. I saw ass cleavage and sunburns. I saw Will Swan and Jon Mess from Dance Gavin Dance in the audience at Title Fight. I saw Kanye do an excellent Kanye imitation and was entertained as fuck. Rihanna was also there. I saw a ton of weed-smoking. I saw and was jostled by moshing. But most importantly, I saw Death Grips.
It's my third anniversary, which sucks for my wife, because she's married to the most miserable man in the world. I submitted another screenplay to The Black List and got my first of two evaluations yesterday. Although the tone was largely positive, the score was decidedly mediocre and was more than enough to send me into my current psychological tailspin.
A NY Post theater critic, Elisabeth Vincentelli, has a corner of the internet in a tizzy over her editorial "For the love of God, stop dressing like crap", in which she takes aim at our society's collective lack of sartorial decorum and pines for the days of dress codes. Now, having attended a public magnet high school with a jacket-and-tie dress code for boys, I can say with some certainty that dress codes do not and cannot stop bad dressers from dressing badly. They do, however, at least establish a standard somewhere north of jeggings. But I'm not going to wade into that fray; instead, I'd like to discuss how much the comments (and opposing editorials) miss the point entirely.
By the way, this Camoshita joint is what I'd wear to the theater, were I the kind of person who drops a rack on show tickets and another rack on a double breasted jacket to rock at said show:
My Facebook News Feed is atwitter (get it?) with engagements and weddings -- congrats, everybody! -- and that means formalwear. Now, unless you have frequent red carpet obligations, owning a tux is probably an unnecessary extravagance; not to mention that there are so many tux variations, you can't possibly buy a single silver bullet tuxedo to cover all formal events. As such, if you have to wear a tux, you're probably going to rent and that's okay. But there is one element that you should never rent: shoes. And that, my friends, is why you need to know about Jack Erwin.
Hooray, gay! Today, the Supreme Court ruled that same-sex marriage is a right guaranteed by the Constitution. Good times, America. I won't wax poetic, as I'm sure plenty of #influencers are dropping generation-defining quotes about this landmark case on your Twitter feed right now. I will point out that Scalia's dissent is a bunch of butthurt bullshit, so exquisitely lacking in self-awareness that it must have required balls of mammoth proportions. As such, I must recommend that he pick up these Rick Owens drop-crotch trousers, in order to accommodate his elephantine testicles:
In the words of the acclaimed poet, Drake, "I'm about to say a true thing": Everyone should learn to make an Old-Fashioned and keep the requisite ingredients close at hand. Old-Fashioneds have seen a resurgence as of late and why not? The warmth of the whiskey, the depth of the bitters: these are the simple pleasures of the Old-Fashioned. As its name indicates, it is a classic cocktail -- THE classic cocktail, some would argue -- and it carries with it associations of a classier, more refined bygone era. If you want some of those associations to rub off on you, make sure this drink is in your repertoire.
I have an addiction: I love any television show in which an expert (often British) turns up at a struggling business to yell at the owners until they are emotionally exhausted and mentally malleable. I gravitate toward the Kitchen Nightmares and Bar Rescue side of the spectrum, probably because I have a soft spot for loud condescension.
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