High Crimes and Welsh Crooners

I suppose it is normal for everyone to have a few songs that are considered so cheesy, so impossibly commercially crafted, that it is a bit embarrassing to admit to liking them. I've always hated music snobs, but I can confess to sniffing at people who like American Idol artists before plugging my iPod in to hear the latest Vampire Weekend track or something by We Are Scientists. Guarding against cries of hypocrisy, I always say that I'm not against "commercial" music like most hipster assholes, but rather that I am against "bad" music. This tends to end arguments with my opponents who usually have very narrow trousers and haircuts with a lot of angles to them.

I also don't consider myself a snob because there are a few very uncool bands that I listen to and like. For example, I still frequently listen to the song "Ignition (Remix)" by potentially soon to be convicted R. Kelly. I like Genesis--both Gabriel and Collins. I like a good amount of Elton John and Fleetwood Mac and the Alan Parsons Project. I even like "Bungle in the Jungle" off the 1974 Jethro Tull Album "War Child." If there is something less cool than that, I'd like to hear it. However, there is one cheeseball song I love that I will admit I am not even faintly concerned about people knowing I love. It's a song that everyone has heard, and I know for a fact that over 90% of them love it. Tom Jones's Sex Bomb might be the catchiest tune ever committed to a record. I'm always amazed that the song, for all its suggestive lyrical content, is played at children's parties (hand to God) without the slightest hint of irony. Something about that Welsh Tomcat just lets people's guard down and he's off belting out this magical number. Pump this tune in your iPod next time you're walking the streets or even washing the dishes. I guarantee you'll be singing it by the 1:00 mark--and if you are on the street, make sure that cop knows you're listening to Jonesy and not propositioning someone in Tompkins Square Park.

The Magnificence of Transience

I vaguely remember about 2 months ago that I had issued a bold decree to post more to this blog as I had just recently been unchained from my old laptop and was in possession of a new sexy one. As with most things I say, that ended up being a lie. But this is America, and we are about nothing if not redemption. So here's what's been going on.

I suppose it would be too precious if I didn't mention that the singularly important event of the past few months is that I graduated from NYU. You could call it a bitter sweet moment to leave college, but I think that's underselling it--it's just plain damn bitter. If there is a just and right God in Heaven, I believe that he created the 4 year undergraduate experience in order to give us mortals the best approximation of what his home is like. I do not think an 18 year old can hope for a better prospect than to go to college (previously established as Heaven on Earth) in Greenwich Village (Heaven in Heaven). I completely, whole-heartedly and unashamedly loved college. I loved college in general and NYU in particular. I even love that because of college I constantly use the rhetorical structure "I like X in general and Y in particular." I did not have a single class that I regretted, because even in those courses that I totally bombed I made good friends who I would meet later in a different class that I would also bomb. My course selection was greatly aided by the fact that because of AP classes and such I placed out of science and math requirements and was thus spared their hellishness. I did not mind taking classes at 9:30 in the morning (telling NYU students that you have a 9:30 class is a sure way to get sympathy from them. Telling people you have "an 8 AM" will almost surely get someone to buy you a drink) because walking down University Place or Broadway at those hours are the best way to see the Walk of Shame being conducted on campus. I could have done without the exams, but those moments of panic were notable as much for their brevity as they were for their intensity. I cannot say enough great things about college, NYU, the intellectual activity, the late night carousing that extended into early morning carousing and, at its best, to mid-afternoon carousing.

As trite as it is, all good things truly must come to an end, and while I am incredibly heart broken that I will never get to live the college life in the same way again, I know that what made it so magical, so almost transcendent was its impermanence. Knowing that we would never be young, carefree and so thoroughly inoculated from consequences is what gave us our splendid defiance. This knowledge does something to comfort me, but it cannot be said too strongly that I write this with a heavy heart: I am no longer an NYU student. I am that oddest of characters now--the alumnus. Here's to hoping that while I've lost the vaccine, I retain the defiance.

Didn't John Wayne Drink Lattes?

This is probably my least favorite commercial on television. There are many reasons why I am embarrassed when Americans stand slack jawed at the prospect of having to pronounce words like "Half Caf Cap." This tone of vague anti-foreign sentiment is always troubling. I mean, how can I expect to order coffee if I have to learn two new words? What's worse, we Americans invented coffee. Did you know that 97% of the world's coffee is grown and consumed in the United States? Look it up. Given that fact, shouldn't we dictate how the words are said? I mean, this trend of Americans needing to know things in order to exist in the world is bad. I mean, if the woman behind the counter tells me that what I thought was a large is a 'deici', I will refuse to patronize such a place. I am not the kind of person who can commit a word to my short term memory and then repeat it back to someone. Moreover, I should not have to when I am ordering that most American of drinks, a latte. Look at the guy at the end of the commercial sipping his latte deep and proud--that's an American drinking our national drink.

Maker's Mark. Up.

On Thursday, I believe I became the last semi-hip urbanite in America to see Juno. The reasons to see Juno include the following:

1. Ellen Page is the most incredibly hyped young actress in the country right now, and she deserves every word of the the praise.
2. My obsession with Arrested Development is well documented, as anyone who knew me freshman year of NYU can attest. To see Jason Bateman being recognized for the comic genius he is past due. Combine this with the inclusion of the King of Awkward Comedy Michael Cera (disregard the fact that Bateman and Cera appear in precisely zero scenes together), and you can close your eyes to imagine David Cross in denim cut-offs.
3. Allison Janney is in the movie--CJ Cregg playing a canine fetishist.
4. Jason Reitman directed Thank You For Smoking, a single film that shattered the idea that Americans can't do irony.

Almost every part of the movie was fantastic. I saw this movie by myself, as I do with most movies. Something about seeing movies with people can be distracting for me, as I feel a need to comment on the action with my companion. There are certain kinds of movies (Superbad, Borat, Wedding Crashers, etc.) that necessitate a group viewing because the visceral experience of holding your sides and screaming at two nude men wrestling in a Chicago Mortgage Brokers conference with an audience is the best part of the viewing. Juno is not that kind of laughing. It is a dry, understated wit that leads to chuckles and broad grins. Diablo Cody's screenplay is touching, not because of the beauty of childbirth or anything so pat, but because of how it subtly portrays the growth of Juno during her pregnancy. Aside from the classic lines ("I am fo shizz up the spout), there is a heartfelt line that Juno's Dad is able to deliver without sounding like a Hallmark card, "All you can do is find someone who loves you for exactly who you are." I think that is a pretty good description of what people should look for in relationships--much easier that changing yourself to fit the capricious whims of a partner.

I read a weird article in The Guardian that talked about how movies like Waitress, Knocked Up, and Juno portray abortion as unthinkable or selfish. The thesis of the article--that these movies are not self-consciously anti-abortion, but reflect a conservatism in America and the generation of women who don't understand the struggle to legalize abortion--is not so radical, but I was a bit bothered at the suggestion that comedies have a social responsibility to promote political agendas. Knocked Up and Juno are not Schindler's List, and do not exist to advance or counteract socio-political trends. Furthermore, from a dramatic standpoint it would dull the story of a slacker guy and a beautiful woman getting pregnant and the attendant comedy of dealing with each other if an abortion was included as a deus ex machina. In the case of Juno, the more relevant scene was how Juno's parents deal with the news of her pregnancy. They don't heap scorn on her and brand her with a scarlet P, but they rarely miss an opportunity to joke about her carelessness. In the pregnancy clinic, Janney (the eccentric but protective step-mom) stomps an ultrasound technician for being a judgmental idiot and I heard a few claps of approval--shocking at a theater in Greenwich Village.

If you have not seen Juno, I cannot advocate it strongly enough. See it with someone you might want to have a child with, and then let a yuppie woman adopt it. Sounds like a good Saturday night to me.

Our Long National Nightmare

Looks like the WGA strike is finally over, and I could not be happier. Colbert Report, Daily Show and Conan cannot brawl forever, although I loved it while it happened. Hopefully, sitcoms and dramas will come back by late March/early April. Let's hope that the quality resumes ASAP.

A Brief Announcement

This post has a small, but nevertheless critical, function. It confirms that I am indeed alive and on this Earth. And that I have a new computer which is glorious and slim and powerful (I haven't a clue where she gets in from). It is a new Dell Inspiron 1525, and I couldn't be happier with it.

Now that I am no longer shackled with a burdensome hag of a laptop, I should hope that I post more frequently, but you never know with these things. Here's hoping.

Rock musicians are supposed to be nuts

If you've not yet heard the new Amy Winehouse/Mark Ronson single Valerie, you should click on that link and dig it. It is a cover of the Zuton's version from 2006, but who says cover versions are inherently inferior? Certainly not me. These two have created an infectious pop beat that is hard to resist. I consider it a duty of mine to bring some good music out there to the people, and while Winehouse and Ronson are by no means recluses, this song could easily escape the ears of the non-discerning statesider. This is not to fault her at all, but Winehouse is primarily covered here as a boozy wastrel, which is a damn shame because she is an incredible vocalist who should not be reduced to such easy caricatures. So what if she does too many drugs and drinks too much? That is what rock musicians are supposed to do. Give me that junkie with pipes over the pious and crashingly bland Hillary Duff any day.

My computer is giving me a hard time right now, but I could not live with myself if I did not try to get that song out to the world. And yes, for the purposes of that example, the world is defined as those who read my blog. All 11 of you.