Thursday, February 21, 2008

i don't get you and i don't know why you're so appealing

Earlier this week, I ventured to one of my favorite places in the world, the airport, to pick up my grandma. Because of some sick complusion, I arrived at the airport with my dad about 2 hours ahead of when Granny's plane was scheduled to land. Of course, we indulged in airport foodstuff (T.G.I. Fridays...WILD!!) and then studied every item in every silly airport store. The ultimate consumers, I know. I bought the latest issue of Spin because of the cover, which I found repulsive to the point that I was charmed.

Thief, mess, junkie, charmer, artist? You've got my $4! I know that there has to be icky British teeth behind that nonchalant smug and a pale, pale complexion beyond the black and white photography, but my intrigue is powerful. After reading the article about Pete's house that he rents unfurnished that he furnishes with dirty clothes, blankets (but no mattresses), kittens, and kitten poop, his lies about getting sober that even the journalist caught him in, his manic tendencies, and how to actually pronounce his last name (Dock-erty), I had to know more. Oh, and his music, imagine that, popular culture! I don't know why I'm drawn to Mr. Doherty...probably the same reasons I have that crush on Jack White. He's dirty and weird and writes dirty, weird rock. I googled the fellow during newspaper and eventually moved to video search, at which point, I found this gem: .
Copy and paste is being weird, sorry. Here's a list of what I want to point out:

  • Pete's outfit for the acceptance speech.
  • Pete's face and body languge while reading the poem that says "I'm really blazed, that's why I'm this enthusiastic."
  • The unenthusiastic behavior of...that other guy and how obvious it is that reading this stupid poem was not his idea.
  • Pete going in for one on the lips.
  • The sound Pete makes at the beginning of the song.
  • The sound Pete makes at 3:57.
  • How Pete is obviously inebriated but manages to put on a shirt and pull off an impressive guitar solo.
  • That Pete repeats the 3:57 sound at 4:30.
  • How adorable/innocent the bassist is!

But I mean, he's still lovable, right? Come on, look!

Wednesday, February 13, 2008

my morning commute

After driving about half an hour to school for the last six years, I've learned a thing or two about the interstate. There are very specific subsets into which most drivers fit. I'll start off with the most obvious:

The BMW/Lexus Assbag

The speed limit is 70. If you're going between 70 and 80, you've not a problem. However, the BMW/Lexus Assbag ignores the rules of nonfatal driving. This driver puts special work into making sure that everyone knows that his car costs more than a semester's worth of Ivy League education by pulling a solid 90mph and agreeing to only slow down once they have come within three inches of the bumper ahead of them. This threatening proximity is rivaled only by the ability of the BMW/Lexus Assbag to swerve all over the lane in which they are trying to advance. This is a sort of reminder to the car three inches from the BMW/Lexus Assbag and that Assbag is still traveling at hyper speed and will use the add-on in the BMW/Lexus that turns this luxury vehicle into a luxury monster truck. Regardless of the sex of any particular BMW/Lexus Assbag, they are sure to increase their apparent insanity through the continuous use of a Bluetooth headset. If one holds the horsepower to momentarily align with the BMW/Lexus Assbag, they will at first see the BMW/Lexus Assbag having what looks to be a very important conversation with his/her self. After the BMW/Lexus Assbag passes this driver on his or her other side, the driver will then realize that the BMW/Lexus Assbag has complimented their irrational driving with something more distracting than their diamond-plated navigation system: hands free communication! If you come in contact with the BMW/Lexus Assbag, accept financial inferiority and get out of the way. At least your pants are a little more snug.

The Grand Prix Challanger

The Grand Prix is a type of race controlled by the European-based racecar league, Formula 1, with contending sponsors including really European things lie Ferrari, Mercedes, Porche, Vodafone, and Redbull. While there is a Grand Prix race in Indianpolis, these races mainly take place in places such as Monte Carlo, Budapest, and Valenica. Not only does the Pontaic Grand Prix look nothing like a Grand Prix competitor, the drivers of the Pontaic Grand Prix do not present the image of someone hoping to catch the race via satellite from Bahrain rather than Daytona. These drivers channel their inner Ricky Bobbys by making sure that they arrive before everyone else to anywhere because we all know that if you're not first, you're last. The Grand Prix Challanger is the blue collar BMW/Lexus Assbag, driving in a painfully aggressive manner that just so happens to be at or after your off ramp. The Grand Prix Challanger has a harder time maintaining speed than the BMW/Lexus Assbag, however. This could either be the result of a lowered level of intimidation (you're not afraid that it's your boss) or because the driver can't find the song on their Brooks and Dunn tape that gets them the most fired up. Either way, the logic of the Grand Prix Challanger is skewed. Mistubishi Galants don't come with full length mirrors. Dodge Caravans do not typically travel is large groups across the desert. The Grand Prix Challanger somehow missed the mark on not taking the model name of your car seriously.

That's all for the moment. I've got more drivers to attack, but need to do some brainstorming and ignite my inner cynist.