Sunday, November 29, 2009

'Cause I Wanna Take You Downtown (Show You My Flava)

Friday marked Mandy Goodhandy's 35th (...ish) Birthday, and because I simply love Mandy I booked myself a bus ticket, convinced Ryan Russell to let me crash on his couch in exchange for General Tao Chicken and made my way down to Toronto to break my 27-day streak of sobriety.

Yeah, I'm not sure how I made it that far either.

Upon showing up to Ryan's place with the fixin's for General Tao and a copy of Zombie Strippers, which they regarded with the same amount of joy that I would show towards a dildo that could cure cancer and make quesadillas, I donned my gayest apparel and ran off to Mandy's 30-(mumble) birthday.

I decided to start off with a couple Red Bull & Vodkas, which happen to be the perfect social drink: The combined upper-downer effect guarantees that you will get massively shit-faced pretty quickly while the Red Bull ensures that you don't end up crashing early. Sure, it'll pretty much rearrange your internal organs, but it's a small price to pay for not passing out in the bathroom.

Not only was Mandy pleasantly surprised that I managed to haul ass all the way to Toronto, but I was even asked to host the All-Guys Sex Party the following night (which is exactly what it sounds like). Well, I wasn't so much asked as I was dry-humped at the bar by Tim Thomas while Todd gave me a rundown of how it worked.

My brain momentarily ceased function in order to rewind what he had just asked me to do. Me hosting a sex-party is the equivalent of asking Erik Rhodes to host a kid's show: Wrong person, wrong job. And of course, I listen to Wilco which means that I'm an awful fucking dancer. But I figured it would be fun, so we then finalized the details while I linked the Daisy Chain between Tim and Tripod Trevor. Not only was I being given a pretty primo hosting gig for the night, but I didn't even get too drunk! I totally high-fived myself.

Between nights at Goodhandy's, I pretty much hung around with Ryan and Jake, with whom I not only drank my first Slurpee (which are not available in Quebec, because apparently 7-11 isn't too keen on being called "Sept-Onze") and then watched Mystery Science Theater for the first time ever. How a self-described nerd could go this long without ever seeing MST3K is completely beyond me.

The sex-party itself was a thing of beauty. I happened in during Mr. Toronto Leather weekend, which meant that the party had a leather theme. The only problem is that my own personal leather collection is minimal-bordering-non-existant, so Todd gave me a leash for the night. Say what you will, but I've always been a big fan of leashes and collars. Not only are they tons of fun, but if you accidentally leave them out while family is over you can always say you just needed to walk your neighbour's dog or something, which you just can't do with a Collapsible Sex Swing.

Tim, being the insatiable Dom that he is, wasted no time in bending me over a ledge by the door and administering some severe spankings. This was immediately followed by a yank on the chain, which is my Pavlovian cue for "It's Blowjob time". Somewhere in the midst of the fellatio-makin', Tim took his hands and yanked my mouth open like one of those reverse-bear traps from Saw. And that's when I heard it.

*Pop*

Of course I recognized the sound. It was the same sound I heard when I was in between the Sam-Johnny spit-roast with the latter's cock jammed halfway down my throat: I had yanked my jaw out. AGAIN. I tried opening my jaw to confirm it, and lo and behold, it only opened half-way. Crap.

Thankfully, Tim decided the next step was to go for full-on penetration, and proceeded to go to town my ass. About five minutes into the battering ram fuck I was receiving, Pierre and Julien walked in, wherein Pierre walked up and asked "Are you guys really fucking?"

I kinda figured the fact that Tim was actively burying his bone in my backyard probably should have been a dead giveaway, but I'm assuming it was more incredulous than anything. Not to say that I didn't rattle off a couple snappy responses in my head ("Technically, we're saddlebacking. We have to save ourselves for marriage!"), but at this point Tim was pretty much beating my ass like it was a speedbag and screaming shit that would probably be illegal in most countries so I was understandably a little distracted.

After finishing up, he spent a nice long while administering more gluteal abuse and by the time we were nearing the one hour mark the novelty had, to put it lightly, worn off a tad. By the time I had gone upstairs to see the damage, my ass had turned a lovely shade of purple, so that it looked like I was smuggling a pair of giant grapes in the back of my pants. At this point I realized that between the popped jaw and the discoloured ass, I either needed to mark my limits or get some very specific insurance.

At the end of the night Todd sent me off with some free drinks and a free shot at Tim for the hour of tuchus torture he put me through. Needless to say, I slept on my stomach that night.

Of course, the seven hour bus ride this morning back from Toronto did absolutely fucking NOTHING to soothe things over, and upon finally looking at my ass for the first time since last night, realized that my butt was covered in enough bruises to make Cruella Deville soak her panties.

All in all? So worth it. Hell, I'm a little proud of myself for taking that much abuse without cracking. I have mad BDSM skills, yo.

Thursday, November 26, 2009

The TV Quotes Quiz

Alright, so something I haven't done in a while here: I'm heading off to Toronto for the weekend, so while I'm gone I figured I would offer you a TV Quote Quiz. The rules are simple:
  • I'll give you a list of twenty quotes from various TV shows.
  • Your job is to figure out which show the quote came from (and as an added bonus, which episode it's from) and enter it in the comments section.
  • NO CHEATING. That means no Google, no Wikipedia, no nothing but your own memory/conveniently organized DVD collection.
  • Chances are that some of you (I'm looking at you, Sarina) will pretty much guess all of them. If you don't want to ruin it for yourself...I dunno, cover the lefthand side of the comment section or something.
Without further ado...
  1. Oh, I made a lot of friends... did a lot of time. I was a boozer, a user and a loser. I stole the TV. - Did some more time. - Strangers With Candy (jM)
  2. We're all fate's bitch. You might as well go ahead and bend over for destiny now. - Wonderfalls (Ammos)
  3. Curse you, Perry the Platypus!
  4. You love cock, you love it down your throat, you love it up your ass, you love riding it, and after you cum, you love to fall asleep when it's still inside of you.
  5. I just wanted you to face me so she could get behind you. - Firefly (jM)
  6. Don't mess with The Pie Hoes. - Pushing Daisies (Meaux)
  7. I'll do what I can to help y'all. But, the game's out there, and it's play or get played. That simple.
  8. People call me a feminist whenever I express sentiments that differentiate me from a doormat or a prostitute.
  9. And whats with all the carrots? What do they need such good eyesight for anyway? - Buffy (jM)
  10. You homosexuals will have all the exact same rights as married couples, but, instead of referring to you as "married", you can be... butt buddies.
  11. My plan to promote Dog River is working. An American tourist came here accidentally. - Corner Gas (Meaux)
  12. I like you. You have the boldness of a much younger woman. - 30 Rock (Meaux)
  13. I once went out with this girl with a baby arm, insane in the sack, plus when she grabbed my dick with her little hand it looked gigantic. - Weeds (Ammos)
  14. Are you forgetting that I was a professional twice over - an analyst and a therapist. The world's first analrapist. - Arrested Development (Ammos)
  15. I'm gonna say this as nice as I can. But you look like a sad clown hooker. - Glee (jM)
  16. Why don't I strap on my job helmet and squeeze down into a job cannon and fire off into Jobland where jobs grow on little jobbies.
  17. I guess the atmosphere that I've tried to create here is that I'm a friend first and a boss second, and probably an entertainer third. - The Office (Meaux)
  18. And I, for one, welcome our new insect overlords. - The Simpsons (Meaux)
  19. I want you to do something for me Pete. I want you to get a cardboard box, and put all your stuff in it. - Mad Men (jM)
  20. I'd say I'm sorry to disappoint you, but I'm not. I excel at not giving a shit. Experience has taught me that interest begets expectation, and expectation beget disappointment, so the key to avoiding disappointment is to avoid interest. A equals B equals C Equals A, or whatever. I also don't have a lot of interest in being a good person or a bad person. From what I can tell, either way, you're screwed. Bad people are punished by society's laws, and good people are punished by Murphy's Law. So you see my dilemma. - Dead Like Me (Ammos)
Have fun!

Wednesday, November 25, 2009

Who's Nailin' Palin?


Apparently, you are. Yes, with the help of Sarah's Big O, you too can shove the figurehead of America's Love of Unwarranted Self-Righteous Indignation© up your ass. In related news, there is no God.

(H/T to Unzipped)

Tuesday, November 24, 2009

Cannonball Read Entry #6: Bloodsucking Fiends - Christopher Moore


Saying that Bloodsucking Fiends is the best vampire novel of the past twenty years is a bit like saying that a cupcake is more delicious than a piece of poo; Sure, by it's perfectly great by its own merit, but considering that the competition consists of pieces of shit...Well, that's just a gimme isn't it?

The story starts with Jody Stroud, the comely red-headed protagonist, being pulled off the street (literally), bitten a vampire, then waking up the following night under a dumpster unscathed. Well, unscathed as long as you don't count that she now has super strengh, super senses, $70,000 stuffed down her shirt, a hankering for blood and a charbroiled arm. But really, who hasn't been there? From there, Jody copes with her new vampiric abilities, clashes with the Big Bad who turned her, and finds a boyfriend/minion in the form of C. Thomas Flood, a nerdy struggling author.

Right out of the gate, Moore earns brownie points for staying relatively true to the vampire mythos while simultaneously taking the piss out of it. The vampires in Fiends don't spend all their time talking about their feelings, drinking synthetic blood or (God help me) sparkling in the sunlight. Jody drinks blood, fucks Tommy stupid, turns to mist, nearly burns herself to a crisp and scales a building without every crying out "SOOKIE!"

Although blessedly, Moore still writes her as a sympathetic character. She realizes that while her status as nouveau-vamp gives her great power, she has no one to share it with. And while she drinks blood, she only goes after those that are dying and ready for death, constantly reigning in the id-like vampire side of herself.

As much as I love Christopher Moore's writing style, you can't help but notice that Moore himself loves it too. In fact, perhaps a little too much. At times, his prose takes a turn for the borderline masturbatory, as he lapses into non-sequitor jokes that don't fit in quite as well as they should, and scenarios that feel a bit like wish-fulfillment.

And while Tommy is a perfectly likeable character, you can't help but wonder if every room he walks into has a serious gas leak. He's charming and funny and all, but over the course of the story he manages to pull of some mind-numbingly bone-headed moves. At one point during the story, I wondered when the hell they would drop the "Dorky but lovable guy gets insanely hot chick" routine and maybe mix it up with an "Awkward stand-in for the female authour gets the hot guy" vampire book. But then I realized that they already did, and it was called Twilight, and it was fucking awful.

It might not be the most sparkling (ha) recommendation ever, but you really should read Bloodsucking Fiends by the virtue that it's not Twilight, and that it's actually a pretty enjoyable book. Next time you see some poor, unfortunate tweener reading Twilight, by all means, feel free to yank the book out of their tiny, tiny hands, bitchslap them a couple of times and replace it with Fiends. They'll thank you later.

Monday, November 23, 2009

Gratuitous Ass-Shots (NSFW)

Yeah, if by any chance you're in an office environment or you have hang-ups about seeing someone's tuchus (specifically, mine), now would be an excellent time to click the little red X at the top of your screen, rather get an eyeful of my butt and get fired.Anyway, without further ado...Butts. Like, a lot of 'em.






Sunday, November 22, 2009

You Betcha!


Confession time: I was actually happy when John McCain chose Sarah Palin as his running mate. Yes, happy. What can I say? I liked her for the same reason anybody liked Sarah Palin: She had a charming little accent, she was a hockey mom (much like my own, so respect on that one) and if you squinted a little bit, she sort of looked like Tina Fey. It was when you started actually listening to what she said that you realized those were pretty much the only likable things about her.

For you see, Sarah Palin is the Diet Coke of the political world; an artificially sweet knock-off made mostly of air which, when finally finished, left behind a pretty foul after-taste. There really just isn't anything there. The quirky sayings are only quirky sayings, the adorable glasses are just adorable glasses, and the 432 page book is just words and paper.

Saturday, November 21, 2009

Rock Out With Your Cock Out

The Five Hottest Frontmen In Music Today:

Brandon Flowers (The Killers)
Caleb Followill (Kings Of Leon)Sam Roberts (The Sam Roberts Band)Trent Reznor (Nine Inch Nails)Josh Homme (Queens Of The Stone Age)
And just to even things out, The Five Hottest Frontwomen In Music:

Amanda Palmer (The Dresden Dolls)
Karen O (Yeah Yeah Yeahs)
Jenny Lewis (Rilo Kiley)
Brody Dalle (Spinnerette)
Emily Haines (Metric)

Thursday, November 19, 2009

Must Love Dogs

Holy crap, if this doesn't break your heart a little, you're a fucking corpse. Honestly, this is just beautiful.

Wednesday, November 18, 2009

I Like To Sleep With Him, Pushin' In The Pin

My complete and total inability to care for small animals claimed another victim today: This morning, I found Cthulhu floating belly-up in his fish bowl. I would have assumed he died of natural causes if it weren't for the empty pill bottle at the bottom of the tank and what appeared to be a last will and testament.

Standing over his bowl and looking down at his little aquatic corpse, I decided that now was the perfect time to pierce my nipples. Good luck following that train of thought. And so I set off to pay someone to permanently mutilate my chesticles. I decided to go to the guys who did my previous tattoos, as they were the only place in Montreal that let you drink yourself stupid during the procedures.
I walked into the tattoo parlour, only to have my leg humped by a dachshund while the inked receptionist watched on. "I'm sorry, I think your dog is fucking my leg," I said, trying to shake off the little guy before his lipstick ruined one of the two pairs of pants I owned.

"Sorry about that. That's just Dex, he does that sometimes," she replied, motioning to the dog that now seemed to be in the final stages of copulating with my leg. I proceeded to kick him gently in the balls, or at the very least where his balls would have been.

"Anyway, now that that's out of the way, would you mind piercing my ta-tas?"

"You mean your nipples?" she asked.

"Yeah, but I hate that word. So can you do it?"

"Sure thing," she said. "That'll be $114."

I was a bit skeptic as to how two tiny barbells, a clamp, two needles and five minutes of labour would cost anything over $100, but more than anything I was just happy that my mosquito bites were big enough to be pierced.

Having sufficiently greased some palms, I was lying on a table with my tits in a clamp, a needle at the ready and a mouthful of hoodie. I find that the initial pains of penetration are a little less awful when you have something to bite down on. "You ready?" She asked.

There's a time and a place for asking someone if they're ready for something. Personally, I prefer to pull it out at the wedding altar. If you do it right, someone will get punched in the face. But asking someone this when you're holding a needle to one of the most sensitive areas on the body. "Do it, motherfucker!" I said, which came out something like "Mmmm-Mmmm, MmmmrrrrMmmmrrrr".

And she did do it, and it did hurt like hell. And then it suddenly didn't. I looked down and wouldn't you know it, I had a 3 inch needle through my nip. And aside from a little blood, it really didn't hurt that bad. Not only did the actual piercing look pretty good but it also made my nips stand out like Jennifer Aniston's circa Friends.

With my body newly mutilated and my chest now bleeding slightly, I went to work and then home, to finally, blissfully send Cthulhu off to the big fish bowl in the sky. And then the toilet tank refused to fill up. Yeah, today confused me too.

Happy Paheeba Day!

Is it that time of year already? Why yes, yes it is! The day where the womenfolk take over Pajiba to honour our Warrior Queen Manda, Paheeba Day! Anyway, as a Paheeba day tribute, I'm honouring this glorious day with my best asset...Namely, my ass. Happy Paheeba Day, y'all! (NSFW-ish)

Monday, November 16, 2009

Cannonball Read Entry #5: The Devil Wears Prada - Lauren Weisberger


Reading The Devil Wears Prada has become something of a yearly ritual for me. Like tree-trimming, eggnog and the post-Christmas-dinner Feist Family drunken Irish brawl, Prada has become closely linked to the holiday season, a sort of kick-off to Christianity's knock-off of the Winter Solstice. Needless to say, I've read through the book so many fucking times I could write a Master's Thesis on the BDSM undertones in the relationship between main character Andrea Sachs and her employer/Machiavellian overlord Miranda Priestly, but that's a post for another time.

Despite the previous gushing paragraph, the thin-to-the-point-of-nonexistence plot follows the standard "Corruption and Salvation of the Protagonist" mold: Lauren Weisberger Andrea Sachs (our small-town heroine) dreams of becoming a writer. Andrea takes a position at Runway working under Fashionista-From-Hell Anna Wintour Miranda Priestly. Protagonist originally sucks until she begins to conform to her surroundings at the expense of alienating family and/or friends. Protagonist realizes what's important in life (Aforementioned family and/or friends) and and rescinds her ways. My apologies for the generic spoilers there, but if you honestly couldn't see that one coming from a mile away, feel free to click the little red X in the corner of your browser; this site is not for you.

The plot of Prada is really it's weakest point. While it manages to follow the standard paint-by-numbers cliche of tell-all novels in order to avoid turning-off potential readers, you can't help but feel as if it didn't so much take a backseat as it was left on the side of the road. At one point in the story, Andrea recounts about how Miranda's signature style of scarves were discontinued a year before she arrived, only to contradict herself a couple sentences later by saying that she bought the remaining stock two years before the events of the story. I wouldn't mind it so much if it weren't for the fact that the contradictory statement takes place TWO SENTENCES after the first. I'm not sure if this Weisberger's lack of attention to details or a supremely lazy editor but it just highlights the fact that she could have spent just a tiny bit more effort on the plot as a whole.

Thankfully, Prada's saving grace is Lauren Weisberger's impeccable characterization skills. Maybe it was the fact that most of the characters were based on real people, but it's amazing to see a book where even secondary characters are this fully-realized. The crowning glory of it all is obviously Miranda Priestly, the thinly-veiled stand in for A-List Sociopath Anna Wintour. While Streep's version in the adaptation was a more relatable figure, Weisberger's original is an absolute force of nature. She's merciless, cruel, vindictive and volatile at the drop of a hat, but you can't help but want to please her. She's a woman without a single redeeming quality or even so much as a trace of humanity underneath the flawlessly polished veneer, yet you can't help but want to please her for the sole reason that she cannot be pleased. The more vile and contemptuous she becomes, the more you want Andrea to succeed, partly to rub it in her face and partly because...Well, you want to give her exactly what she wants. She's a whip-cracking dominatrix who, lacking social intricacies or meaningful interaction, will break you not because she wants to, but because she has to: if she doesn't, you'll leave her.

Granted, it's easy to fall for the villain; they're usually the most-complex and human characters. However, Andrea is really what holds it together. Fiction hinges on the concept of suspension of disbelief, and when you live in a world where choosing between a Marc Jacobs Peacoat or a wrap from Givenchy is a life-or-death decision, you're going to need it. That's where Andrea comes in. I don't know how she does it, but Weisberger wrote her protagonist in such a way that, while you don't necessarily agree with everything she does, you can understand her decision. You can understand the panic when she hears the phone ringing, the sense of urgency in finding the number for Karl Lagerfield, and the frustration from being unable to instill the importance of these in everyone around her. She's a remarkably sympathetic character overshadowed only by one of the most wickedly malicious antagonists ever put to print.

At the risk of sounding long-winded, here's the shortened version: The plot is about as cliche and two-dimensional as you can get without breaking out the crayons, but the depth and complexities of the characters more than makes up for the fact. If you can get past the much-hyped real life implications of the story, it's a surprisingly deep book for something that most would describe as a guilty pleasure.

Saturday, November 14, 2009

Jeremy Feist Is Not An Appropriate Role Model For Kids

Alright, so insanely awkward moment of the day comes from Facebook today. Basically, I'm a gigantic Facebook whore and I will pretty much friend anyone who sends me a request. Unfortunately, one of those turned out to be a fifteen year old (Whoops. I should probably check before I hit the accept button, huh?) who then sent me a message about my work on Videoboys. My stream of consciousness:
  1. No.
  2. NO.
  3. Ewwwwwwwwwwwww.
  4. NOOOOOOOO.
Yeah, whatever, call me judgmental but that is just...wrong on so many levels. It's great that kids are coming out this early nowadays and all, and I honestly doubt it's even possible to get to the age of 13 without going through an old issue of Playboy (or, if you're so inclined, Unzipped) but come on, really? I draw the line at chatting with pornstars.

Maybe it's the fact that I have younger brothers, but let kids be kids for christ sake. Sure, at that age sex is an issue, but at least have sex with someone you care about. And of course, USE A FUCKING CONDOM. At fifteen, you should be out sneaking into R-Rated movies or passing out after two bottles of Mike's Hard Lemonade or dry-humping someone's leg, not trying to strike up a conversation with a z-list pornstar! You'll have years to ruin the rest of your life with serious relationships and sex when you're older, but for God's sake, you're a fetus! That's illegal! And wrong! And kinda creepy and awkward for everyone involved! Go and do your little hormonal teen thing with other teens. There's a reason I have a splash page: Unlike Trix, I'm not for kids!

Also, I absolutely fucking despise kids. Hate them. Hate every single one of them. Except for mini-Jibans, 'cause those kids are several kinds of badass. Other than that? Hate them. Hate them...Soooooo much, it-it-it...fla-flames...flames, on the side of my face...

Friday, November 13, 2009

#HireJeremyFeist

Ladies and Gentlemen, lend me your ears...Or, you know, eyes, considering that this is primarily a visual medium. Whatever, you get the idea. Just lend me part of your body for like, five minutes and then it's all yours.

Anyhoo, it's time for me to get all serious and shit about getting big-name studio work down in the states. I mean the good ones too: Titan, Falcon, Channel 1, Raging Stallion...The top shelf stuff, really. You know I've been busting my ass on the social-networking front to get my name out there, what with the blogging, Twittering and Facebook(ing?) but now it's your turn! Sort of. Anyway, I sent applications to all the top studios out there, and now here's where you come in: You gotta convince them that my ass is literally hiring. How you may ask? Simple.

What You Should Do:
  • Spam them with #HireJeremyFeist on Twitter
  • Post on their wall on Facebook
  • Do whatever it is people do on Myspace, assuming that's actually still around
  • If possible, start a letter drive
  • Send them a nice muffin basket with a card that says something good about me
  • Eat an entire batch of Pillsbury Sugar Cookies in one sitting. This won't actually help me, although they are delicious and you'll probably like them too.
What You Shouldn't Do:
  • Send them letterbombs
  • Go to their house in the middle of the night and key my name in their car
  • Threaten to cook and devour your cat if they don't hire me like that crazy bitch who likes Miley Cyrus
  • Cut off the head of their significant other, put it in a box and get them to drive out to the middle of the desert, where they will ask "WHAT'S IN THE BOX?" before you show them, thus exposing their sin of wrath...Oh, wait, no that one was actually the ending to Se7en. Still, don't do that. That's bad.
What's in it for you? Well, if this entire crazy bit of shenanigans works, I will get this tattooed on me.
Mind you, I'm still debating between this on my other ankle, or getting the Whiskey-Baby-Ninja-Star on my forearm...Either way, do it and I'll mark myself permanently in your honour. Get crackin', y'all.

Thursday, November 12, 2009

Cannonball Read Entry #4 - Are You There Vodka? It's Me, Chelsea - Chelsea Handler


I'm honestly a little surprised Chelsea Handler doesn't have a greater Pajiba following. She's sharp as a tack, loves the booze and has a pretty fantastic set of boobies. Throw in a devotion to Godtopussy and a desire to fuck Nathan Fillion dickless and the girl's a bonafide Pajibette, and Are You There Vodka? pretty much just proves it.

If you're just getting acquainted with Handler's style...Well, she kinda falls somewhere between Sarah Silverman and Tina Fey. While she plays her self-absorption for laughs, but if you can read between the lines about it there's something of an undercurrent of self-deprecation running through her work. And alcohol. It's a pretty potent combination.

As for the book itself, Are You There Vodka? could accurately be described as a memoir, though it sort of reads like Chicken Soup For The Alcoholic Slut's Soul. Naturally, I ate that shit up. The stories she throws in, essentially bits and pieces from various moments in her life, are grounded pretty firmly in reality, but thankfully, Handler manages to embellish the stories just enough to both spice them up and keep a consistent character running throughout without ever sacrificing believability. She's like the friend you had in high school that would go out at night and come home shirtless, drunk, and with the authorities in tow.

Unfortunately, while she's a goddamn force of nature if given an open mic and a mickey of vodka, Handler's writing style is still her Achilles heel. While she knows how to set up an effective punchline, I found that too often she would end up repeating the same punchline over and over, albeit in a different context. You don't notice it at first, but after the third time she uses a Giraffe to complete a simile, you start to wonder if perhaps she's stretching herself out a little thin. It really does sort of confuse me, because she really does have more material than this, which leads me to believe the fuck-up can be chalked up to Handler's forgetfulness and a lazy editor.

If anything, Are You There Vodka? is one of those books you need to take with you on vacation. You can probably finish it off in the space of a day or two, and it's a nice little read to have on the beach or whatnot. And really, the cover prominently displays both booze and cleavage. That's not too shabbs now, is it?

Tuesday, November 10, 2009

Cannonball Read #3: Shootin' The Sh*t With Kevin Smith - Kevin Smith


I'm always a little nervous when someone tries to take something that was successful in one medium and try to recreate that success in another. It's like figuring that if people enjoy eating hamburgers, than it would make total sense that they would enjoy staring at pictures of hamburgers for hours on end. I can sort of see the rather tenuous relationship between the two, but ultimately it's not going to work because you're taking the reason people like it out of the equation. This problem is what keeps Shootin' The Sh*t With Kevin Smith from being a great book, instead of just a good book.

Allow me to make up for that by saying that I absolutely fucking love Kevin Smith. I've watched his entire body of work with awe (and possibly a bit of a chubby), and the man is an absolutely gifted filmmaker with a knack for dialogue-driven comedy. Shootin' The Sh*t, while not an actual memoir in the strictest sense, is basically a collection of the best moments from his SModcast, a podcast he does with friend and business partner Scott Mosier.

The good news: It's hysterically funny. If you've never heard the SModcast before, you're missing out. Unlike most radio shows, where the two hosts put up a false front of cheerful banter to mask both their murderous hatred for their on-air co-star and the fact that they can no longer feel joy in their heart, Smith and Mosier actually like each other. The SModcast works because it's just two completely genuine guys who are insanely funny hanging out together and talking about whatever's on their mind.

This is where the cross-media problem comes into play: Aurally, the SModcast is like a conversation you'd have with your best friend, only much funnier. But when you put it into print, it loses the spontaneity. Everything seems too deliberately planned out, the relaxed vibe being replaced with overtly-rigid walls of impenetrable text.

It's a bit sad, really, because calling The SModcast hilarious really doesn't do it justice. It's just so much more than that. Many of the stories and discussions between Smith and Mosier on the show end up feeling like they're overstaying their welcome, which makes me think that what made them great just got lost in translation. There's no way to capture impulsiveness in text, which makes everything feel like one long debate, albeit ones that involve fucking in front of Helen Keller and murderous Make-A-Wish Kids.

So as you can see, I'm a little torn here: Do I sellout, sweep Shootin The Sh*t's faults under the rug and call it a flawless masterpiece to appease my inner fanboy, or do I kowtow to my inherently bitchy nature, call the book out for being uneven, and risk never being cast in the gay-centric sequel to Zack and Miri? I'll take the middle road on this one. Shootin The Sh*t With Kevin Smith is one of the few books that actually made me laugh out loud in public, and I managed to find it for less than $20, so for all its fault, it's still worth buying and reading and loving(although you could of course just log on to iTunes and get the whole thing for free, your decision really.) I'll give it a slightly-hesitant thumbs-up, but let this be a lesson about trying to mix two media that obviously don't go together. Now Kevin, about Zack and Miri 2...

Sunday, November 8, 2009

My Letter To Santa

Dear Santa,

I think we can both agree that I've been a relatively good boy this year. Well, barring my career in porn. Then lying to my family about it. Or the that time I used witchcraft to give someone syphilis, and then subsequently laughing hysterically about it when it actually worked (Well fuck me, how was I supposed to know it would work?) Or binge-drinking at Ian's Halloween party, throwing up, passing out in his bathroom and then trying to use his dog as a pillow.

Other than that, I've been a fucking saint, and anyone who says otherwise is a lying liar who tells lies. What I'm trying to say is, you fucking owe me, fatty.

Sainthood by Tegan And Sara

Come on Santa, you know how much I love lesbian twins who sing indie pop-rock songs.



Inglourious Basterds on DVD

If only because I fantasize about doing dirty, horribly, unspeakable things to the Bear Jew. Honestly, I would so shit to him that would make a rabbi eat pork. L'Chayim.






Mad Men on DVD

Once again, based entirely on my desire to fuck Jon Hamm stupid. And Bryan Batt. Don't judge me you asshole, there's no way in hell I'm the only one who would ride Sal like a mechanical Bull.



White Wine (And Lots Of It)

I don't care what kind you get me, I'm not too choosy, so long as it'll pretty much numb me emotionally, I'll be a-okay.




Left 4 Dead 2

Because nothing says "Happy Holidays" like shooting a bloated, puking zombie until he explodes.




Count Cockula Fleshlight

I'm still convinced this is the dumbest thing in the world, but (A) I'm morbidly curious about what this would feel like, and (B) Nothing would piss Stephanie Meyers off more than this. Also, I have no boyfriend and my right hand is wearing a little thin.


A Standing Electric Mixer

...When did I get old?




Studio Work

Titan, Falcon, Channel 1...If you could somehow blackmail me into Raging Stallion that would be pretty tits too. Get my skinny little ass to the states. You owe me, Sandy.


John Dies At The End by David Wong

Gee, I wonder how it ends?






So there it is. That's my Christmas wishlist. Just a warning here, but my Syphilis curses work alarmingly well, sooooooo...just puttin' that out there. Don't puss out on me, tubby.

xxx, Jeremy Feist

Saturday, November 7, 2009

Pillsbury Sugar Cookies Will Be My Downfall

Blah. Blah I say. I was doing so well with the whole "Post something every day" thing too. Ah well, fuck it. Sacrifices must be made for The Cannonball Run. Right now I'm chugging along on Shootin' The Sh*t With Kevin Smith. Maybe I haven't gotten far enough into the book yet or something but so far? Ehhhhh. It's missing something. That might just be my first impression thus far, but in all fairness, I think something gets lost in translation from a podcast to a book. Of course I'll finish it because Kevin Smith is hysterical, but it's missing something...

In other news, one of the CVs I handed in at the beginning of the month has gotten a go: I just went in for an interview at a HUGE music store here in Montreal. It was one of those group interview things, and I think that overall I did a pretty kickass job, although you may want to knock on wood about that one. I was the only person there that actually got the interviewees to laugh, and I was one of the more bilingual of those there, but still, that may just be wishful thinking here.

Oh, and finally, I'm stuck in a love-hate relationship with Pillsbury sugar cookies.
I had a moment of weakness today and ended up running out and buying a couple boxes of these sickeningly sweet little cuntnuggets. Oh sure, they look all cute and harmless, but stick a batch of these in the oven and it's over. That tubby little fuck up there with the shit-eating grin has officially made you his bitch. You will goddamn inhale these things, and I mean that literally; Whole cookies will enter your lungs. The eyes on those adorable little snowmen will fill with judgment and disgust as you knock out a dozen of them in one sitting. Fuck you Pillsbury, you will be the goddamn death of me.

Ah well, that's it for tonight. It seems that fucking cat that's been wandering around this floor has returned and now my sinuses are pretty much hermetically sealed. Fuck me sideways.

Thursday, November 5, 2009

Cannonball Read #2: It's Not News, It's Fark - Drew Curtis


It wouldn't be too far off to say that Fark pretty much paved the way for blogs like Pajiba or Deus Ex Malcontent. Especially when you consider that the back of It's Not News, It's Fark (website founder Drew Curtis' first book) contains a blurb courtesy of Chez Pazienza. How's that for coincidence?

Odd chance aside, Fark (The Book) is an absolute goddamn gem, a book that doesn't jab at Mass Media so much as it tears off its extremities and holds it face-down in a puddle of its own blood until the bubbles stop. Having waded through untold piles of fake news, Curtis' book is one of the most gloriously schadenfreude-inducing books to ever see print. It's an absolute hatchet job, and I wouldn't have it any other way.

Sadly, while Fark (The Website)'s headlines are snappy and biting, they lose some of their wit in Curtis' attempt to adapt them into the book. Drew Curtis' writing itself is both insightful and sardonic; he's obviously been around long enough to know Mass Media's tricks better than just about anyone. Unfortunately, on paper, most of these come off as sentence fragments, which means that quite a few of his jokes sound more like quick asides than full-on punchlines.

If the complaint seems a tad petty, it's probably because, well, it was really the only thing wrong I could find in a book that was otherwise an absolute joy to read. Considering the Media's recent fascination with Michael Jackson's death and Swine Flu, it's pretty easy to impose some of Curtis' formulas upon today's "News". But ultimately, Drew Curtis' message is actually pretty hopeful: Everything is actually pretty okay. Common household objects won't kill you, Obama will not subject your granny to his socialist Death Panels, and Swine Flu will not wipe out the human race. EVERYBODY DON'T PANIC.

Wednesday, November 4, 2009

Jeremy Isn't Hear Right Now, Can I Take A Message?

Oh Lord, ever wanted to crawl into bed with the covers over you and just sleep through an entire day? Yipes almighty. Anyway, a couple quick mini-rants instead of one big rant for tonight:

1) Maine - Are you fucking kidding me? Really? Did Prop 8 not teach you anything? Goddammit Maine, the only reason people even give two shits about you is because you guys have Lobster and now you're voting to take away rights from the minority? Ah go suck a fuck. Furthermore, for all those who use the Bible as a way to justify their hatred, you do realize that in the new testament, when a man walks up to Jesus and asks him to heal his gay lover, Jesus calls him the most faithful man in Israel, and that Paul's Letters, from which this whole bullshit anti-gay thing comes from, is prefaced by Paul saying that as long as you're a good person, these laws don't apply to you? Or where you too busy being a "Good Christian" to figure that out?

2) Cybersocket Voting - Let me start off by saying that if you got a nod, Yay you! Give yourself a pat on the back and everything for all the hardwork (hee!) you put into it. But please don't make me vote for you. In case you haven't noticed by now, I'm a passive-aggressive-neurotic mess who's afraid of commitment; I'm crap at making choices. If I can't vote for all of you, then I can't vote for any of you. Sorry guys.

3) Cannonball Read - I got my first review up yesterday (Huzzah!) and I'm already midway through my second book, It's Not News It's Fark. The funny thing is, I just realized that Chez Pazienza (Yes, that Chez Pazienza. How many do you know?) actually has a blurb on the back. Small world, huh?

Anyhoo, that's all for now. To play you out, here's Amanda Fucking Palmer covering Feist.

You're welcome.

Tuesday, November 3, 2009

Cannonball Read #1: Bonk - Mary Roach


(A Quick Refresher for those not in the know: The Cannonball Read is essentially a year-long reading marathon in which contestants have to read 52 Books and review each one. If the contestant completes the challenge a charitable donation is made in their name. Thus concludes Cannonball Abridged)

About a year ago, I brought a copy of Mary Roach's seminal (har har) work, Bonk, along with me on a camping trip with my family. I ended up lending it to my mother to read for the trip, who after reading it cover to cover, concluded that while it was an intelligent book, she referred to it as "Softcore Porn". Considering my current career, I'm not sure whether this statement counts as irony, coincidence or foreshadowing.

This story isn't meant to cast my mother in a negative light (She usually has better taste than that, I swear), but to show exactly why we need Roach's Bonk to exist in the first place: Because no matter how much scientific research and effort is put into the study of sex, people are still going to view it as obscene. It's not their fault, it's just the way society functions. Fucked up, I know.

Bonk is one of those rare books in the science section that isn't merely an impenetrable wall of text, and you can thank Roach for that; Unlike some of the more humorless authors with whom she shares a section in the library, she's able to both respect the scientific importance of what she's studying while still being able to take the fucking piss out of it.

Roach's wit is the spoonful of sugar that makes the medicine go down. The footnotes in Bonk are worth the price of admission alone, and her charming asides ensure that she remains close enough to the subject to admire it but not far enough to turn the book into a parody. The amount of work she put into the book is astounding (her bibliography stretches an impressive 12 pages of small-print) and will ultimately teach you more about human sexuality than any number of Rule 34-based sites.

Not that that Bonk is without it's flaws. Occasionally, Mary Roach tends to give just a little too much information, and...well, ever watch a horror movie where someone gets stabbed through the eye and you instinctively grab on to make sure everything is still intact? Well, there were moments where I literally grabbed my crotch out of fear, rather than for the usual reasons.

And while Roach puts up a valiant effort, you can't help but feel like she loses a bit of her momentum towards the end. It gets to the point where you feel like she might lose that certain something in the formality of it all. While she never drops the ball, you can see her knees shaking a bit under the context.

Ultimately, complaining about these minor imperfections is like being given a Porsche and then whining because...I don't know, it's not the exact colour you would have liked or something. It's still a goddamn Porsche, and it's still a thing of absolute beauty and if you're going to get hung-up on such a petty little grievance like that then maybe you don't deserve to drive it in the first place, now do you?

Monday, November 2, 2009

Used To Be One Of The Rotten Ones And I Liked You For That


It's been a quiet month here. Before you ask, yes, this is another Clyde post. That's the thing about losing the first person you ever really open yourself up to: You can say you're over it, and you can walk around with a smile on your face, but fact of the matter is, there is no getting over it. You can't smash your heart into a million jagged little pieces and walk away unscathed.

And everyone telling me to just move on really doesn't help matters. It's a nice sentiment, but how do you move on when you don't even know where the hell you are? When you wake up one day and find out that no, you do not get a boyfriend. Instead, you get to watch them walk out the door one day and never come back. You get to lose your job because being there reminds you of him until it gets to the point where working there becomes emotionally draining. Sweet trade-off, huh?

The best part about all of this is that I didn't get a goodbye. There's no closure to this, no way of knowing where he is or making peace with this. Just one day waking up and realizing that a part of you is gone. There really is no better way to put it. Just gone. Like that. There's really no logical or sensible reason for it, and to be honest, I'm not sure if that makes any of this better or worse.

It's kinda fitting that all this is taking place around Halloween, because if you think about it, what really scares people won't go bump in the night or rise in a full moon. It's the thought of being alone that will really frighten someone. You want to scare someone? Break their heart.

Sunday, November 1, 2009

Wherein I Ride Atop My High Horse

Glurg. Consider this my big, stupid holier than thou rant about barebacking in porn, fueled by a heady mix of job frustration, a seemingly perpetual hangover, and a toilet that refuses to refill properly because the stupid little plug in the tank refuses to reenter the drainage hole. Or something. I'm a crap plumber. Once again, Glurg.

Anyway, here be my dilemma: The other day someone pretty much asked me out of the blue if I had ever gotten creamed. Since you're probably wondering, yes, this means exactly what you think it means. On top of being just a teensy bit inappropriate, the simple fact is I don't believe in barebacking in porn. No thanks, not for me, I'll just be on my way thank you ever so much.

Mind you, I'm not perfect. I have barebacked with a guy once, and to be perfectly honest with you? Can't say I see the appeal. Granted we took precautions to make sure that while it wasn't as safe as I would have liked it to be, it still didn't end up as badly as it could have. I'm still to this day clean as a whistle, and barring that indiscretion, I've been a good little bottom ever since.

Anyway, point is me? Doin' it without a condom? That's not happening. Despite their protestations, bareback porn does romanticize unsafe sex. Let's face it: Porn romanticizes whatever form of sex your hankering for, and no, this isn't an exception. And honestly, it really is unfair to the models who are doing it. It's basically like saying "My need to jackoff is greater than your need to be safe". Kind of a dickish maneuver there, homeskillet.

The sad thing is, I could totally clean up in that shit. Honestly, from what I heard they're less than choosy, and the pay isn't too shabbs either. It's more a matter of me just not wanting to put myself through it. Apparently, I still have standards or something. Who knew?

It also doesn't help that my gay uncle pretty much told me that if I ever did do bareback, he would have me killed. Then he would bring me back to life and then Mama Feist would kill me. I'm not joking. The woman will beat me like a rented mule if I ever do it. She will hunt me down, pin me to the ground like a redheaded stepchild. Don't fuck with Mama Feist.

Point is, we're just not at the point where barebacking is a realistic and safe practice. It's not some big matter of gay or straight or man or woman because let's fucking face it, anyone can catch pretty much anything. And it's not a matter of furthering the stigma of HIV, because a lot of people are still pretty ignorant about that (listening to the ways some people think you get HIV borders on soul-crushing), but that's a topic for another hangover blog. It's just about me not wanting to do bareback, even if it means basically settling for less money in exchange for good health.

Anyway, rant over. Would someone mind helping me down off my high horse?

And just for shits and giggles, here's The Arcade Fire covering the Yeah Yeah Yeahs' "Maps", because I fucking love you.