New video blog on Fanhouse: HERE
Hollah atcho boi.
Like having your best friend berate you.
Thursday, September 27, 2007
Tuesday, September 25, 2007
Letters from home
Despite my irrepressible anger toward our country's educational system, I firmly believe that public school works. Or can work, rather. As contradictory as that seems, I feel that if our national priorities were different (as well as our financial priorities), our teachers would have a little more incentive to excel. Of course, they're competing against the incessant and far sexier barrage of media from television and the internet. It's like attempting to read Chaucer to someone while in the same room with a Belgian prostitute on fire. As much as one may love Chaucer, he's going to have trouble keeping his eyes off of the burning whore.
Still, for every amazing teacher out there (I can count the number I've had on one hand), there are ten insufferably shitty ones. My family now lives in Arizona and I'd heard from several sources that the teachers out there aren't paid very well and, as a result, the education can be spotty at best. Last night, my little brother reported that he submitted an essay on the "relocation" of Japanese citizens during World War II to his teacher which sported the ubiquitous image of Uncle Sam on its cover page. The teacher studied the wartime icon for a moment, looked at my brother and asked "why do you have Abraham Lincoln on the cover?"
Maybe it was an easy mistake to make. Maybe I'm terrified for my brother's future.
My brother did go on to say that he told a classmate that he had just moved to Arizona from Pennsylvania. The classmate said "Oh, I know that place. It's where vampires come from." Good teachers produce good students.
And believe me, I'm not down on educators. I wish I had the patience for it. I just remember being frustrated with most of my teachers when I was in school. For instance, I argued with my fifth grade teacher after class over whether or not "orb" is a word. Of course it is, but she made me strike it from my short story because she had never heard of it. In retrospect, neither of us had the presence of mind to consult a dictionary, but surely that was her job, not mine. And I cannot BELIEVE the number of times my shortened name, Gabe, was misspelled "Gab" on various reports and essays all throughout school by various and sundry teachers. It's simple phonetic spelling. To make the vowel long, add an "e" at the end. We learn that in first grade, don't we? Is that so much to ask? All I wanted to do was SHOV a KNIF through their dumb FACS.
I think the lesson for my brother or any student is that not all teachers are infallible. It may not be tactful to challenge their every word, but it's certainly within the bounds of reason to doubt them.
Orb is a word, Mrs. Johnson.
Still, for every amazing teacher out there (I can count the number I've had on one hand), there are ten insufferably shitty ones. My family now lives in Arizona and I'd heard from several sources that the teachers out there aren't paid very well and, as a result, the education can be spotty at best. Last night, my little brother reported that he submitted an essay on the "relocation" of Japanese citizens during World War II to his teacher which sported the ubiquitous image of Uncle Sam on its cover page. The teacher studied the wartime icon for a moment, looked at my brother and asked "why do you have Abraham Lincoln on the cover?"
Maybe it was an easy mistake to make. Maybe I'm terrified for my brother's future.
My brother did go on to say that he told a classmate that he had just moved to Arizona from Pennsylvania. The classmate said "Oh, I know that place. It's where vampires come from." Good teachers produce good students.
And believe me, I'm not down on educators. I wish I had the patience for it. I just remember being frustrated with most of my teachers when I was in school. For instance, I argued with my fifth grade teacher after class over whether or not "orb" is a word. Of course it is, but she made me strike it from my short story because she had never heard of it. In retrospect, neither of us had the presence of mind to consult a dictionary, but surely that was her job, not mine. And I cannot BELIEVE the number of times my shortened name, Gabe, was misspelled "Gab" on various reports and essays all throughout school by various and sundry teachers. It's simple phonetic spelling. To make the vowel long, add an "e" at the end. We learn that in first grade, don't we? Is that so much to ask? All I wanted to do was SHOV a KNIF through their dumb FACS.
I think the lesson for my brother or any student is that not all teachers are infallible. It may not be tactful to challenge their every word, but it's certainly within the bounds of reason to doubt them.
Orb is a word, Mrs. Johnson.
Friday, September 21, 2007
Tuesday, September 18, 2007
Friday, September 14, 2007
This is the last straw
This is ENOUGH with this guy.
BWE Presents: Dane Cook's "Forward"
Posted YesterdayBestweekever.tv couldn't help but listen to the newest Dane Cook single, "Forward". We loved it so much we made a video for it.
Wednesday, September 12, 2007
Tuesday, September 11, 2007
After that, I got nothing
Somehow Matt and I got to talking about months and how they were named. I think it's because Matt mentioned that "November" means "ninth month," which is understandably odd considering that we know it as the eleventh. So, we looked up the months and the derivation of their names (with the help of Wikipedia):
January - named after Janus, the god of the doorway (makes sense, right?)
February - named after the Latin term februum meaning purification
March - Roman god of war Mars
April - no one's certain, though the lead theory is it comes from the Latin word aperire, meaning "to open"
May - most believe it's named after the Greek goddess Maia (fertility)
June - Roman goddess Juno
July - Julius Caesar
August - Augustus Caesar
September - 7th month
October - 8th month
November - 9th month
December - 10th month
Now, regardless of the fact that two months were thrown in somewhere and screwed up the meaning of the last four months, I think it's pretty funny that the whole list seems like a work in progress, an uncompleted bit of legislature. There's something wonderful about the Roman senate sitting around and saying:
"...and this month shall be named after Gaius Julius Caesar, this month shall bear the name of his nephew, Gaius Julius Caesar Octavianus, or the beloved Augustus. The next months...uh...shall...be named...uh...seven eight nine ten? Is that...does anyone object to that? That's all I got..."
January - named after Janus, the god of the doorway (makes sense, right?)
February - named after the Latin term februum meaning purification
March - Roman god of war Mars
April - no one's certain, though the lead theory is it comes from the Latin word aperire, meaning "to open"
May - most believe it's named after the Greek goddess Maia (fertility)
June - Roman goddess Juno
July - Julius Caesar
August - Augustus Caesar
September - 7th month
October - 8th month
November - 9th month
December - 10th month
Now, regardless of the fact that two months were thrown in somewhere and screwed up the meaning of the last four months, I think it's pretty funny that the whole list seems like a work in progress, an uncompleted bit of legislature. There's something wonderful about the Roman senate sitting around and saying:
"...and this month shall be named after Gaius Julius Caesar, this month shall bear the name of his nephew, Gaius Julius Caesar Octavianus, or the beloved Augustus. The next months...uh...shall...be named...uh...seven eight nine ten? Is that...does anyone object to that? That's all I got..."
Monday, September 10, 2007
Checkmate, BITCH
A last minute audition had our hero in Chelsea trying out for some ridiculous product doing ridiculous things. Actually, it wasn't that bad. We were merely asked to play chess in front of the camera for a couple of minutes. We were called in twos, and I was paired with a fellow clad in a tweed jacket and Buddy Holly style eyeglasses. Let's call him Smug McBigpants.
The casting director spun the camera toward me and asked "when did you start playing chess?"
I replied, "well, I was in Chess Club in grade school and after that, it was quickly discovered that I am, strategically, a moron. I'm a tactical nightmare."
She went on "why did you start playing chess?"
Again, I was honest.
"I suppose I felt it was what intelligent people do. It was with this feigned intelligence I supported my entire academic career."
And we all laughed a little. Now, Smug McBigpants gets his turn to go into his chess history and proceeds to swipe my self-deprecation bit.
"I, too, pursued chess under the same illusions of grandeur..."
Ugh. First of all, it's delusions of grandeur, you fucking moron. If you're going to be trite, at least get the fucking cliche down. But, Smug McModest turned into Smug McBigpants when he proceeded to tell the casting director that he, in fact, had won some chess tournament in college or some shit and that he was particularly fond of the "Latvian Gambit."
I, of course, made a joke about that, asking if that was anything like the "Krakau Gambit." He replied "no, the Latvian Gambit is a real thing."
Yeah, and my joke was a real joke, you pompous, simpering dildo. I hope the next time he tries to pull off his real Latvian Gambit, someone really stabs him in his real chest with a real spear. Jerk.
So, we get to playing our quick game of chess. And Smug McBigpants is making grunting noises like he's either considering the intricate machinations of chess strategy, or he's about to take a massive dump. Either way, I took his queen in about ten seconds. Because, in all sincerity, fuck that guy.
The casting director spun the camera toward me and asked "when did you start playing chess?"
I replied, "well, I was in Chess Club in grade school and after that, it was quickly discovered that I am, strategically, a moron. I'm a tactical nightmare."
She went on "why did you start playing chess?"
Again, I was honest.
"I suppose I felt it was what intelligent people do. It was with this feigned intelligence I supported my entire academic career."
And we all laughed a little. Now, Smug McBigpants gets his turn to go into his chess history and proceeds to swipe my self-deprecation bit.
"I, too, pursued chess under the same illusions of grandeur..."
Ugh. First of all, it's delusions of grandeur, you fucking moron. If you're going to be trite, at least get the fucking cliche down. But, Smug McModest turned into Smug McBigpants when he proceeded to tell the casting director that he, in fact, had won some chess tournament in college or some shit and that he was particularly fond of the "Latvian Gambit."
I, of course, made a joke about that, asking if that was anything like the "Krakau Gambit." He replied "no, the Latvian Gambit is a real thing."
Yeah, and my joke was a real joke, you pompous, simpering dildo. I hope the next time he tries to pull off his real Latvian Gambit, someone really stabs him in his real chest with a real spear. Jerk.
So, we get to playing our quick game of chess. And Smug McBigpants is making grunting noises like he's either considering the intricate machinations of chess strategy, or he's about to take a massive dump. Either way, I took his queen in about ten seconds. Because, in all sincerity, fuck that guy.
Well, THAT didn't work
I haven't watched the MTV VMAs in about twelve years. I watched them last night, oh BOY did I watch them. What in the fuck happened? Is there anybody in charge over at MTV anymore? To call it a train wreck might be underplaying how truly horrifying every aspect of the show was. That's not to say there weren't some good performances. I'm talking about the overall production design and flow, which appeared to be constructed by a severely retarded preteen with and old Tandy laptop. I understand that the youth of today like things fast and furious, but when your program looks like the computerized visualization of a serial killer's innermost thoughts, perhaps you're going a little too far.
And everything I'm reading today about the whole sorry affair is focusing on Britney Spears' performance. She was the opening act and she looked completely disinterested in being there. While that certainly set a peculiar mood, the rest of the show was equally as disjointed and crazy. No one looked like they gave a shit about anything, and every time the camera cut to someone with a microphone, they looked bewildered and drugged, as if they'd just been dosed with a few syringes of morphine before being asked to defuse a time bomb.
I've been trying to find the name of the artsy douchebag who "directed" this disaster, but, shockingly, I haven't been able to pinpoint it on the internet. I have a feeling this is the kind of project you don't attach your name to. Not your real name, anyway.
And everything I'm reading today about the whole sorry affair is focusing on Britney Spears' performance. She was the opening act and she looked completely disinterested in being there. While that certainly set a peculiar mood, the rest of the show was equally as disjointed and crazy. No one looked like they gave a shit about anything, and every time the camera cut to someone with a microphone, they looked bewildered and drugged, as if they'd just been dosed with a few syringes of morphine before being asked to defuse a time bomb.
I've been trying to find the name of the artsy douchebag who "directed" this disaster, but, shockingly, I haven't been able to pinpoint it on the internet. I have a feeling this is the kind of project you don't attach your name to. Not your real name, anyway.
Wednesday, September 05, 2007
Wednesday's interesting fact:
From Tony Horwitz's fascinating book, Confederates in the Attic (in reference to the Civil War prison camp at Andersonville):
And the vaudeville horns sounded. Wah wah wahhhhhhhhh!!!
But the biggest killers by far were diarrhea and dysentery. This was due not only to the camp's lack of sanitation, but also to rations of rotted meat and coarse grain filled with shredded corncob, which irritated men's already weak intestines. There was a cruel irony to this. Pointing to several belching smokestacks in the distance, (Andersonville park ranger) Sanchez said the surrounding landscape was now mined for kaolin, a chalky mineral used to make Kaopectate. "You had thousands of men dying of the runs right on top of one of the world's richest lodes of anti-diarrhea medicine," he said.
And the vaudeville horns sounded. Wah wah wahhhhhhhhh!!!
Tuesday, September 04, 2007
We could be diving for pearls
A little melancholia to go with your post-Labor Day festivities. I had a great weekend. Hope you did too:
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