Like a corrupt German DNA strand, this is going to be filled with masterful ideas with no complementary viewpoints. This is the equivalent of the impassioned ramblings of a retarded yet charismatic Larry Bird. So let’s just say this is the official word of Larry Bird.
Popular culture has never been so entrenched with camp since the sexy counselor crazy of summer 1985 . There is a fantastic homogenization of ideas and tastes in the modern landscape of the war-torn human psyche. And I don’t mean war-torn like everyone is so emotionally embattled with the consequences of overseas action because I know as long as Jamba Juice still stands and you can read official statements from Lindsay Lohan’s mom people are gonna Coolatta their brains into a deep, forgetful sleep about any kind of discomfort, whether it is Hezbollah or Lance Bass. I’m talking about the constant conflict between what the media has instilled in us as what is to be expected out of our own ideals of situations and life itself (which is itself regurgitated facsimiles of once-potent attempts at emotional connection handed down from less jaded generations, to say there has been a loss in translation would be an understatement), and what we can actually project about life given our own experiences. I can honestly say “Life: The Life” has been nothing like what anyone has told me it would be like, and it certainly isn’t like that one romanticized notion of the human experience that’s going to make me buy squeezable yogurt. I would probably have to ingest multiple narcotics and have a Native American guide my vision to attain the soul-nourishing elements in play when I see a commercial for Go!Gurt. But I’m willing to pay the price to go there.
I see people look at celebrities the way they would look at a classmate or close family member. This willful disassociation is incredible; that these random people 3,000 miles away will somehow fill that sense of family that has been eroded by a childhood of media upbringing. But in reality, you might as well become pen pals with a slab of granite sitting at the bottom of the Grand Canyon because it’s going to be at least as fulfilling as following celebrities. I personally would find it more fulfilling because I imagine the befuddled attempts of the mailman who has that route to deliver it. That’s way more entertaining to think of a postal worker spelunking in his work clothes when he should have been home with his family three hours earlier, than to think of some brat intern churning out a form response, “Thanx 4 the support! Malcolm Jamal-Warner FOR LIFE!” And the state of the current celebrity scene is soo boring, it’s the same 5 trash heaps humping the same people and giving the same apologies. Where are the Sean Penns of today who not only punch out the paparazzi but also Madonna? The only equivalent is Colin Farrell likes black girls. That shit might have ruffled my feathers in the 1920s, but I wouldn’t know because I wasn’t even a twinkle in Jesus’ eye. But this crappola casserola sells, week after week after week. I’m no muckraker on the idea of celebrity, but like everything else it has been completely alienated from its process of manufacture. It’s like my homeboy Bansky sez: fame is just a by-product of something great, “you don’t eat a great meal just to take a shit”. At least it used to be.
In a rare moment of sobriety and composure, Michael Ian Black commented that he was no different than Jeff Foxworthy, in that all he was doing was making his friends laugh, and that other people wanted to listen made him successful. And if you’ve ever been someplace where Michael Ian Black is hanging out, to say other people want to listen is a gross, disgusting, gag-me-with-stick-covered-with-boogers-and-dead-animals understatement. These people will do anything just to create a indelible impression within Michael Ian Black’s mind. And I do mean anything, as I have heard David Wain has huge balls. You don’t learn that by shyly cocking your head asking, “Are you the man from the TV?” Well, maybe you do. I’m not going to try. The man got to where he is by making his friends laugh, not by his boyish good looks or jewish ancestory (ok, it’s a trifecta). BUT, the main reason is he developed a talent. And he developed his talent by living HIS life, not following (or accepting) the ideas set forth for him by some creative at Young & Rubicom or a Dolph Lundgren movie he saw over his friend’s house when he was 13. People aren’t funny because they’re content with the way things are. Even slapstick is the subtle wishful composition of reality of someone getting hit in the nuts. Dream on, dreamer.
I guess part of what I’m trying to say is there is plenty of drug abuse and general ill-willed behaviour going on within your group of real friends for you to gossip about and pay top dollar for pictures of. Also, learn a trade.