Thursday, November 26, 2009

Requiem For A Beam

If you watch a few minutes into this opus, you'll witness probably one of the sweetest jobs to ever grace the land. The guy that had the cahones to lay down some of the most savage video effects ever cobbled together with decaying BBC technology.

Watch from 5:00 if your attention span is decaying rapidly.

Sunday, November 15, 2009

Imma Slave 4 U, R U a Slave 4 Me?

Personally, I feel that Slave would be a better name for a German company composed entirely of white rastas. That way they could truly get in touch with the oppression of their people. But, as it stands, it’s a name representing a collection of dudes I’ve been mostly unaware of occupying the third string at Black Box.

I’m gonna go out on a limb here and assume Jamie Thomas had little to do with the production of their new vid Radio Television. I don’t know who made the thing, but right off the bat you’re hit with a wall of stock footage that pulls you away from the clip clip bang bang Zero style that spilled over into Mystery and Fallen video productions. Slave brings their own unique brand of brand identity to the table, but I don’t know who they’re trying to appeal to specifically. California scumlords? Next generation all terrain hammer babies? Old dudes who like a little tranny with their stair jumping? Fuck, I dunno.

Complete lack of titles here. Do I know who any of these people are? Maybe, but probably not. Pat Burke breaks off the safety conscious middle aged bicycle enthusiast with proper gusto. Although it might not be sound advice to play dead when you encounter a bear, when the bear is wearing a helmet and you just kickflipped over him, playing dead might be the best option you have going for you. Burke might squeal like an excitable retard when he lands a trick, but his looseball zeal and proper frontside heels are hard not to enjoy.

A bearded goblin with freckles. What will they think of next? If Frecks is around long enough, I anticipate an eventual personal backlash against his own nickname. Kevin Long, Brian Hansen, I don’t know what Frecks’ real name is, but if I was him I’d demand people address me as Mr. Frecks.

One thing that becomes obvious real quick with this vid is that instead of the ultra fast edits typical of the traditional Black Box output, Radio Television gives you a lot more runup and a lot more rollaway. This makes it much easier for my slow gears to process. I’m only half ADD addled at this point, so a little bit of context before the images travel from my eyes to my noodle is much appreciated. Probably why this video is twice as long as say, Misled Youth, but I’m fine with that.

Matt Mumford footage is almost nostalgic at this point as I haven’t seen anything from him in ages. He’s still gnarly, his style is still pretty awful, and he still has the tendency to look like a mannequin standing on a skateboard when he sticks his arms out.

Self styled gearhead Jon Allie blows doors with a banger of a tune and a back to back flip to board rail combo just so you know he still can. “Let me tell you what melba toast is packing right here. I’ve got four-eleven positrack out back. Seven-fifty double pumper, edelbrock intake, bored over thirty. Eleven to one pop up pistons. Turbo jet, 390 horsepower. We’re talkin some fuckin muscle.”

Jon Goemann of Birdhouse fame (is there even such a thing as Birdhouse fame anymore?) closes out the video with some largeness and that’s that.

So, what do you get out of the whole thing? Despite the faux-VHS quality, Radio Television probably won’t adorn your shelf of classic vids, but with a decent bag of not so obvious tunes and a surprisingly unobstrusive cache of greatest hits newsreel clips, it’s a pretty decent watch. Would watch again. One and a half thumbs up yer bum.

Friday, November 13, 2009

Get Their Grease, While You can

A tasty nug just happened to ramble my way:

The greatest achievement in the history of organized sport.

Sunday, November 8, 2009

Expedition to the Center of Your Mind

4 Wheel Interlude, bumbaclaat.

Thinking about Expedition. Who do voodoo. This clip is somewhat of a revelation to me:

Thinking about what their team is like at this point is somewhat mind boggling. Whoever's been makin the decisions over there has been pretty on point as of late. On one team you've got: Enrique, Richard Angelides, Welsh and his trusty sidekick Joey Pepper (are these dudes attached at the hip or what?), and a thoroughly stellar am squad in Kenny Hoyle and Spencer.

If you look back at what came out of the ashes of Tree Fort (I could be wrong about that one), there's been some heavy shit passing through the Expedition biscuit ever since they've been around. Biebel, Janoski, Alf (sort of).

Recent rumours of Ryan Gallant power moves abound as well. I've never been too crazy about hardflip 180's (Chet Thomas's ghost still haunts the skateboard industry), but snatching people off the Plan B roster shows that they're not a second string Kayo roster filler.

Really, the whole deal has been looking up since they dumped this deadweight into the toilet (or into a warehouse job, who knows):

Friday, November 6, 2009

Bee Bop A Lu Bop

Turning away from the horrors of the postseason climax of destruction, let's plug our ears with some pleasant tunage and drown out the screams of our subconscious.

Wednesday, November 4, 2009

Lite Brite Lite Brite Turn on the Magical Shining Light

Series of the World
Game 6

Hideki Matsui, a case study:

Apparently he made a cameo in this here movie, for reals. Nine consecutive year Japanese Central League all-star. Career .517 post-steezin sluggin percentage. Known to walk to the plate with this tasty nugget blasting (watch till the end if you want to have your mind blown by an interstellar drum solo):

Well, Matsui rifles a two run dinger to bring my bowels to a freeze early this evening.

Then Rollins' sac fly brings in Ruiz's doubleday to bring it within one in the third.

Teixeira made a very audible "haaaaaahhh!" as Pedro popped him in the leg to load the bases.

Grotty New Yorkers swallowing victory wines seems palpable for the swine on hand at Ol' New Yankee Stadium. Matsui brings in two more to make it 4-1, all his runs. His scaly green ass looms large.

Posada really can't catch for shit, can he? As much of a turd as A.J. Burnett is, it's understandable why he doesn't like to work with the chinless wonder.

Pedro out after four. Not really thriving on the raucous atmosphere like you think he'd might. His slight adversarial hate-thriving Bonds-esque streak is in hiding under the cover of night.

Teixeira reels one in to boost it to 5-1.

Jesus Christ, Matsui gets another two run hit, a double this time. He is single handedly turning this thing into a slobberknocker.

But, Howard awakes from his lengthy slumber with a a two run paint scraper. Dare I dream and place my hopes upon the fragile mantle of a late game gear shift into offensive overdrive? Could I be that foolish? There's a very slim window between Pettite starting to fall off and Rivera coming in to lock shit tight.

Rivera steps in during the eighth with one in the outhouse. Ibanez, who is probably a satanist, gets a doubleday but it amounts to zilch.

Victorino's prolonged valiance as the 27th out brings the fartknockers onto the field with turgid gusto and the vicious reality of a truly shitty season is complete.

There's always next year, bumbaclaat.

Tuesday, November 3, 2009

Hyperdermal Cigarette

The World is Serious
Game Fievel Goes West

Did you think the tin man would rust unless you changed his oil? Mr. November sez: "Chase knows that what's good for Chase is good for Chase... I mean Philadelphia. Godspeed my Ferengi warlords."

Some may debate the accuracy of the above quote, but let me assure you, a little birdie told me they heard it plain as day when they were squatting in the handicap stall at Citizen's Bank Park.

Let's just get down to brass tacks and say that A.J. "Choking Hazard" Burnett was quite the marvel this evening, he does not disappoint his audience (alienated Torontonians). The realtime crumble in just under three innings speaks volumes about the power to envision a world without borders, a world beyond the thunderdome, a world where all you see becomes unto thee. I'm talkin bout goin downtown, baby. Cripple the child in their own crib. Eradicate the necessity for the Brad Lidge turd blossom and your reality becomes a sevenfold enigma encased with golden showers and a jubilant parade.

Sunday, November 1, 2009

Broomhilda and the Jumblingtons Greatest Hits

World Series of Poker
Game 4

Juice Ape plunked for the third time. Methinks some measure of violence could possibly follow. Are you gonna take that, Juice Ape? Be a man and stand up for Kate Hudson's honor. Yankees have already managed to squeeze out a deuce of runs in the first.

If I could divert your attention away from the game for one moment, I'd like to talk about this commercial:

Sexism is still sadly rampant in Western society. As much progress as has been made since the good old days of public bra burning and outrageously long armpit hair, the status of the female in North America is still not one of equal footing with the male. You'd think that as far as Hillary Clinton has made it, there should be some kind of equal opportunity for women in this country. The fact that they can't show a woman with a black eye in the above commercial is a damning indicator of how old fashioned the values of our culture are. Perhaps one day, we can dream together a world where women and men will fight each other on a pay per view basis.

Back to the baseball game. CreamCorn Sabathia beefcake burger thug at the plate. I love watching pitchers hit, I really do. If they actually get a hit, it's ten times better. If they don't, it looks so inept it's just as entertaining. I also love seeing position players have to pitch, so maybe I should just start following the Venezuelan softball squad for the Special Olympics.

Fuck Joe Buck. Fuck Buck. "The new Pearl Jam album is terrific." Get that shit outta here, I don't need to hear that during a ball game. Nor do I appreciate the NFL updates during the World Series, you turd.

Hoo boy, Ryan Howard ties it at two by bowling over the chinless wonder. Fully didn't touch the plate and it looks like he knows it too. Plenty of grievances to air at your local bronx watering hole.

Two more Yankee runs courtesy of Jeter and Damon ribeye singles.

Utley once again brings the fire and brimstone with a solo carpet bombing in the bottom of the seventh. CreamCorn is pulled out and tossed in the fridge. 4-3 Yankers. Pedro Feliz follows up Utley's biscuit in the eighth to tie it the same way.

Damon finagles two bases on a steal with the massive shift on. Teixeira gets the kerplunk treatment. Juice Ape up for hero status with a ribeye double. Brad Lidge is a stressed out leprechaun. Chinless Posada drives in a pair of assholes and it's 7-4.

Three up three down in the bottom of the ninth and thus concludes vigorously disappointing outcome. A substantial pit has been dug for the Phillies. Little Timmy has fallen down a well and it's gonna take more than Lassie to pull him out.

The Dawning of the Age of Aquariums

I'm a new resident of the modern world. I got a cell phone about a month ago. I don't really have a problem with the technology, just the way that turds use it. You know what I'm talking about. Fartknockers yakin on a public transit type of thing.

Anyways, since I got this new number, I've got a couple calls from people looking for the guy who had the number before me. This morning, or this afternoon rather, I woke up to a bunch of missed calls and text messages. Here's what was on my phone verbatim:

#1: "Yo yo wa poppin"

#2: "Yo holla at me nigga"

#3: "Yo jemal holla at me wa wron wit u b?"

All these texts were within about 15 minutes. Then the phone rings and I answered it. To the best of my recollection, the conversation went like this:

Me: Hello?

Dude: Yo

Me: Hello?

Dude: Yo

Me: (silence)

Dude: Yo

Me: What can I do for you?

Dude: Yo jemal dere?

Me: You got the wrong number.

Dude: Where jemal at?

Me: I don't know jemal.

Dude: Aight

Me: Okay.

You'd think this kid would realize that Jemal isn't at this number anymore, but the text messages keep pouring in:

Jemal's Buddy: "Yo i dun gots da wrong num... Where jemal at bra?

JB: "If i gots 2 reach down there imma be pissed

JB: "Yo r u gonna reply back an let me kno wat good

No more texts for a while after that, so I decided to text him back:

Me: "I've had this number for about a month. I dunno any jemal, is he a hot stud?

Literally a minute later, he texted me back:

JB: "Yeah he iaght still... Wats about u wat do u looks like an wat iz yo nationality r u b"

JB: "How old r u?

Me: "87/sexual/latino"

JB: "Your 87"

Me: "My hip ain't what it used to be, but don't think I ain't still got a mean charleston."

I guess he doesn't believe me, so he asks me again:

JB: "How old r u?"

Me: "I was born in 1922. My grandkids think I'm kewl!"

I'll keep you guys posted on the hottest story since balloon boy if any more scintillating transactions transpire.

Honcho Notorious

World Series Game 3

Despite Jayson "Nickelback" Werth having a dilly of a 'Back Attack, Cole Hamels' handsome visage crumbled like the oldest cheese around.

Juice Ape getting plunked twice almost made up for his 2 run camera popper, but not quite. My world series dry patch fantasy wilted terribly, how awful.

CreamCorn Sabathia is up again tonight against Joe Blanton's big swinging dick. They aren't gonna use Cliff Lee on short rest, and old man Moyer is nowhere to be seen. Get his walker out and let the silver fox throw down, dammit.