A Small Taste Of The Walk For Darfur

" What began as a grassroots movement in MacEwan has grown into a city-wide project. We walk from Calgary to Edmonton on April 22nd. We walk to raise awareness about the atrocities occurring in Darfur and in hopes of cultivating some political action. April 29th we will be joining hundreds of demonstrations around the world calling on international intervention to halt the genocide in Darfur. On April 29th, our walkers will have returned home from a grueling trek and we will greet them in Churchill square. African and local bands, speakers and citizens of Edmonton will gather to protest the neglect shown to the citizens of the Darfur by the International community. This group will provide constant updates on what is occurring with the walk and the region of Darfur itself."

And so goes the description for the Walk For Darfur initiative that I have been blessed to be a part of for the last four months. I volunteered to be the sponsorship coordinator for this effort, and as happy as I am to be a part of it, I am extremely disappointed in the efforts I've produced. Especially after what I've seen and taken part in today.

This afternoon, some of the remaining office members who aren't fully partaking in the eight-day walk from Calgary to Edmonton, drove down to meet up with the walkers in Red Deer. Personally, I anticipated harrowing tales from the road from battle-weary troops struggling to stay focused and removed from their nomadic M.A.S.H. unit. I received that and so much more. I participated in the walk myself, getting a small taste of what the walkers have endured even moreso in the last few days, and what they'll try to overcome in the days ahead. As I walked and talked, and I looked upon the faces, and the worn bodies, it hit me. I might have my face on the website, but have I really helped this team out? Have I done anything for them? I saw their tears. I saw their limps, sores, and gritted teeth bearing the brunt of yet another step. I walked with them for 13 or so kilometres, but I feel like a fraud. I'm sore and tired, but I'm in state that is nowhere near comparable to theirs. I can't believe how disappointed I am in myself.

But I'm so proud of the walkers and the volunteers. I couldn't be more proud to see them accomplishing the goal that they set out to do months ago, when this idea seemed almost impossible. These students, this team, has done so much in preparation, and are doing so much for a cause that they feel so strongly for, it makes me feel privileged to just know them. My utmost respect and admiration to everyone involved in the initiative. I've heard many students talk big about doing something, but many fail to deliver. This team delivered. And I salute them.

Godspeed, stay safe and healthy. We'll see you on Sunday for the big walk to Churchill Square.

Black Monday

As of 4:00 PM MTN, 32 innocent students dead. 1 massive fucking coward also dead. Hell gains one more.

A Funk Retrospective: Curtis Mayfield

Welcome to the funk.

And the soul, and the rhythm and an awesome kung-fu blues sound that has been iconic, influential and legendary.

I don't think I've come across a more versatile artist like Curtis Mayfield. He taught himself the intricate nature of his art, from guitar play, to style and lyricism, to showmanship. And he is the truth. The Truth.

I first came across Curtis via a friend of mine back in 1998. He had made up a mix tape of various artists that I really hadn't heard much of, or didn't know at all. Being a plucky young 17 year-old, what I didn't know filled a fairly large volume. Like 'War And Peace', Extended Edition. Some of the musical treats included Herbie Hancock, Frank Zappa, and Curtis Mayfield. My friend had done me a massive favour by placing Curtis on the tape. To make good matters even better, he put on "Move On Up", from Curtis' eponymous-titled 1970 debut album. That nine-minute opus was my initiation into the true soul sound, the real funk.

That mix tape opened my ears and mind up to a new world, a world that extended past the musical staples of Albertan caucasian suburbia, notably Metallica, AC/DC, and other loud thrashes normally associated with adolescent young men. It was the transition into a new frame of mind, the molting of my juvenile musical coat.

Curtis passed away in 1999, but he'll be remembered forever as a musical visionary, a fervent advocate of social justice and a voice for social consciousness and African-American culture and values. He could effortlessly play the pimp, but seamlessly transition to the voice of reason and rationality. He will be revered for his "black psychedelia", his unique brand of music and vision.

Here's a few of my favourite tracks from Curtis Mayfield. Enjoy!

"Superfly", from the motion picture soundtrack for Superfly (1972)

"Pusherman", also from the motion picture soundtrack for Superfly (1972)

"We Got To Have Peace", from the album Roots (1971)

The Top Eleven Reasons Why I Like Living Alone

Recently, I cast off the shackles of the oppressive family, and moved into my own apartment. After reading that one sentence, I know that you're thinking two things: 1) He moved out now? At 26? What a tool! and 2) 26! Ha! What a man-baby.

I can completely understand those two trains of thought, considering yes, I am 26 (but closer to 27 now), and yes, I have a full-time job. But all of you haters can just shut the fuck up for two seconds and let me explain. First off, I haven't always lived with my family. From 2000-early 2004 I lived either by myself or with roommates. Second, I did move back in with the family because it was easy, and I was still "in school". When I left school, I didn't jump right back out there, because I either didn't feel it was the right time, or I wanted to wait until it was financially feasible. I took a lot of unwarranted shit over that time from people, friends or otherwise, and I didn't care. I don't make decisions based on what people think, I make decisions for me. ME. Get it? Good.

Now that we've come to an understanding, let's get to the meat. The top eleven reasons why living on my own gets big-ups, and living say, in a cardboard box, is shitty. There's eleven points, because this list goes to eleven. It's just that fucking RAD.

11) I buy my own groceries, any time I want. Pizza Pops? Sure. Tater Gems? You bet? Sodalicious? Do they even sell those anymore? Because if they do, you darn well know they're going in the cart.

10) Cleaning is performed based on necessity, not on a regular schedule. Oh, you can see some dust? Well, I can't. Until I can, Mr. Clean stays in his house. Don't worry about him, under the sink is a party, believe me.

9) One plate, one bowl, one set of utensils. Sure, I bought more, but it just seems that I always use just one. Hell, I could actually just eat out of the pot or pan. I just saved myself that plate. No fuss, no muss.

8) If something is missing from the fridge, I know I took it. Where did all the beer and leftover pizza go? Why is there a shoe and a note left in its place? What happened to me last night?

7) The door never has to be closed during any bathroom activities. This is good for showers, because then I don't have to do that stupid towel wave in front of the mirror to clear the fog off. Plus, I love that cold breeze after I get out, it's refreshing!

6) I don't have to hear any family or roommate issues/arguments. I don't have to hear that your dad can't show you affection, or that Grandma is having bowel troubles. In my apartment, try to keep your topics of conversation to pop-culture between 1985-1996.

5) Friends can visit whenever they want. Just bring me some kind of treat.

4) Frolicking, capering, cavorting, sitting and staring. I could never do these things at home.

3) All Tyler's movies, all the time. Oh, you don't like "Kung-Fu Hustle"? Too damn bad. We're watching that, then "Logan's Run", and then just for the hell of it, "Clash Of The Titans".

2) Pants off when I arrive, pants on when I leave. There's no reason to really wear any clothes at all when I'm at home. Who I am supposed to impress? Myself? I've seen what I'm made of and I'm pretty indifferent.

1) The Girls. I can close my bedroom door all the way, and there's never any "checking up" from the folks. It's everything I've ever wanted.

The Politics Of Cybertron

Some of you know of my involvment in the Students' Union executive elections at the U of A during my wacky career there. I have filled the role of campaign manager, volunteer and advisor for a few campaigns, including my own. I have a winning record, but unfortunately, never won myself.

Regular campaigns are fairly pedestrian, and some joke candidates over the years have been interesting, but mostly ill-conceived and poorly executed.

Except for this campaign.

I have to give my first nomination for "Hero Of The Year" award to Sarah Yusuf, who ran the Soundwave for VP External campaign during the SU elections earlier this month. Soundwave. The coolest fucking transformer of them all. SU elections. Face-melting, is what this is. And now there's video of the Myer candidates forum.

Kudos to you Sarah, you have created something legendary, normally reserved for Greek gods and mythical creatures in kids' books, like Peter Pan or Waldo. Bravo, young lass.

The New Yorker Can Actually Be Funny

I know, it seems a far-fetched idea, but hear me out.

Mostly known for their be-monocled cover patron, and comics funny only to those who have subscriptions, and they only laugh because they believe they're paying for it, the New Yorker has been a bastion in the magazine world for being the pre-eminent forum for serious journalism and fiction since 1925. At least that's what Wikipedia says.

A quick check of their site today has produced a most-hilarious little gem. Found in the "Shouts And Mumurs" section, is a piece on the goings on in children and college minds alike. I think you'll agree that the result is quite amusing, and I say that whilst holding my cigar and cocking my head ever so slightly backwards to the right. Quite.

The link:
http://www.newyorker.com/humor/2007/03/26/070326sh_shouts_rich

After you read it, I believe that you'll all agree that we thought like Simon every Halloween, because the money was just there. It's just sitting there!

Hot Dog! Another Personality Test!

As if you all weren't mired in a pit of low self-esteem already, here's another personality test that you'll take, and then tell all your friends how awesomely close it describes you, or really, the person you'd kill to be.

That being said, here's my results! Squee! It's as if they saw right through my computer monitor and into my soul. And my soul is doing some awesome breakdancing moves to Herbie Hancock's "Doin' It". Funkaaaaay.

http://friends.imagini.net/vdna.php?responseUID=73219-97ea&srv=iwebhd6

To waste some time on your own, just follow the link, and try it out for yourself! You'll be breakdancing in no time.

"This Is Blasphemy! This Is Madness!"

Actually, no, it's neither. It's 300, and I was fortunate enough to see it last night.

Is it too early to have it as my favourite film of the year? Fuck that, it's hit that peak with a bullet, or a flying spear, which seems more appropriate.

What can I say about the film? Mortal words cannot describe my admiration for it, and my head pretty much did this after it was done.

It opens with wide release this Friday. Just go see it. If you see it on IMAX, prepare to get your nuts smashed. You've been pleasantly warned.

Long Island Donkey Punch

Heart. Soul. Gone. Maybe just until July 1, I don't know.
In any event, this is fucked.

Be Back In A Week - Maybe

Going to Vegas for a week starting tomorrow. I'll try to come back still single, but no promises. I'll bring pictures, too. What happens in Vegas, should be shown to everyone, no matter the level of embarrassment.

Later.

Johnny Doesn't Let Death Get In The Way

I watch a lot of TV, and it always seems that when you watch quite a bit of the tube, you'll always come across some program, commercial or sports highlight again and again. Some are good, some are vomitous. Johnny Cash is always in the good bin.

Johnny Cash is about as cool as any other dead person out there. Maybe infinitely cooler. Other dead "cool" celebrities and personalities are just sittin' around, doing nothing, either in their graves, or wherever their ashes were dumped. JC puts out the hits, and with the videos released of his songs, he's established a legacy that's already bigger than three moons, and probably also affects the tides. And maybe it blocks out the sun every now and then, and the only way to see his legacy is with a pinhole box viewer.

The latest single from his posthumously 2006-release American Recordings V: A Hundred Highways, entitled "God's Gonna Cut You Down", is about as good as it gets. It is yet again another triumph for Johnny, continuing his octogenarian roll that began with his cover of NIN's "Hurt" (which, by the way, may be one of the only music videos I've cried while watching).

I keep seeing this video on CMT while channel surfing, and only while surfing, because those who know me, know that I would never purposefully watch, or even linger, on a country music channel. However, it seems that I'm always catching the video for "God's", either in part or in whole. And each time I see it, I'm in conflict. I love Cash, and every bit of his music (now, I fully see the hypocrisy in loving Cash, but hating country music - I believe that some country is good, and 90% is God-awful), but this video vexes me. Directed by Tony Kaye (American History X), it features celebrities du jour, individuals of the moment. The question is: why are some of the lamest, attention-whoring, self-important celebs included? Kanye West, Kid Rock (is he still alive?), Kate Moss and Bono? These celebs seem to mock the opening about Johnny wearing black to identify with the poor and the dowtrodden. All of the celebs featured are not poor, nor downtrodden. I'm confused.

The video is a stark contrast to the video for "Hurt", directed by Mark Romanek. Now this guy can direct a music video. He's done Beck's "Devil's Haircut", Lenny Kravitz's "Are You Gonna Go My Way", and NIN's "Closer", just to name a few. Tony Kaye did "Dani California" for the Chili Peppers. Ugh, I hate that song. I wished that Romanek did the directing for "God's", but then I read that he was on the braintrust for the video, along with producer Rick Rubin, Kaye and Justin Timberlake. Why Timberlake is involved is beyond me, but Romanek should probably have taken the helm on this one. A shame, for sure.

I'll let you make your own conclusions. Here's the video for "God's", as well as "Hurt" for good measure. As for the latter, I promise that I won't cry, but I'll probably get emotional.

"God's Gonna Cut You Down"

"Hurt"

When Marketing Departments Go All Stupid

Honestly, I feel bad for the Edmonton Oilers.

It's not just because lately, I feel that my undying love for them has seriously waned in the last little while (read: since they started subscribing to the suck), but because they've been subjected to some bad "themed" photo shoots in past years, notably during the heydays.

Inside the Rexall Place box office, there hangs a couple of old team photos from the glory years, which aren't too bad overall (all team members are making attempts at smiling/faking pleasure at being there), but they're just boring in concept. It seems that the Oilers' marketing department, or a part of it known as the "team photo brain trust", which was most likely full of meatbags, decided that the awesomest way to photo the team would be to put them out of their element. In another locale, a very non-hockey environment. Subsequently, our hearts are supposed to be set all-aflutter.

In one, you have the slogan, "My Team, My Town" (so original), and the Oilers are set in some random grassy plateau, with the cityscape somewhat recognizable in the background. Fairly pedestrian, fairly family picnic. The other has the team on a farm (which may fit this year's team, what with the shit-shoveling and all), which again, springs forth no new feelings of respect or admiration. It's just a farm, and a crappy looking one at that.

However, the photo team did put their feeble minds together and came up with this:

For fuck's sake. Poor Paul Coffey. He looks like a bitch. Does anyone look like they want to be there at all? I would guess that someone in the Oilers organization went to Disneyland and had a meteoric epiphany.

Apologies for the quality, but this is a photo of the actual poster, which I believe to be of the 1986-1987 team. Thanks to Marc for the delivery. Who the fuck is Danny Gare?

It Came From The Pantry

Breakfast. I'm not really sure what it means to "break fast", but I know it has everything to do with starting your day right.

After you wake up and shout angry threats of revenge against whatever higher power made you wake up, you proceed to engage in your morning ritual. Then you feel that tinge in your stomach, that special tweak. You're hungry and you've got to do something about it, damn it.

Everyone's daily routine is different, but ask most, and I'm sure that there are elements of the following: showering/cleaning, putting clothing on, creating non-embarrassing hairstyle or the delicate placing of ball cap, then the consumption of breakfast. Unless you're some kind of anorexic, breakfast really is important, and shouldn't be missed. You always have time for a solid meal, just like the ones you see on TV or on elementary school filmstrips. Is it so hard to eat a banana, or a fruit bar? Of course not. The easiest meal by far, of course, is cereal. I believe that there are a good many of us that should probably thank Will Keith Kellogg for creating such a tasty, convenient dish. You add milk, of the cow or soy variety, grasp a spoon (or fork for those who desire a challenge), and shovel that goodness down your gullet. And everyone is happy.

Unless that cereal is pure toxic gruel, wherein one taste of it sends the consumer into fits of rage and threats of revenge, not against some power, but against the guilty: Kellogg's, Post, General Mills, Quaker.

This morning I found myself to be void of bread, or it's more fun, outgoing cousin, the Eggo waffle. I was therefore relegated to buying something at work, or hunkering down with a good ol' bowl of cereal. The answer came naturally, as years of childhood pleasure came back with willful abandon. Especially when I see that my pantry has "Froot Loops". Ah, the 'loops. Stupidly spelled, but ever-iridescent with its bright colours and promise that only 7 essential nutrients are hidden within (I respect a lower nutrient level - shows honesty). I eagerly grasped the box, and received quiet approval from its poster bird, the uber-scented Toucan Sam. I also peered at the side panels and wondered if the "Twistables" or "Winders" would be a good lunchtime addition. I just knew that this breakfast would be 7 essentials of awesome, or at least something to just get by on. As I ascended the spoon, crammed past its natural limits with the "Cheerios on acid", into my mouth, I was overcome with a taste flood of a purely vile nature.

Hey, this stuff is fucking disgusting.

Maybe it's my age showing its wear and tear, or the cereal being past its best-before date, but this was shit. Old shit, like if work on a construction site stopped, and everyone left, but the port-o-potty was still there, uncleaned and untouched. For months. I'm trying to think what was the great draw when I was a kid, because this cereal is worse than Hitler Flakes (I may have made those up, but if they were real, you know they'd be bad. And evil). I can truly appreciate the fact that kids will eat pretty much anything if it's wrapped in colours so offensive it gives people aneurysms. If it also has a commercial during the kid's cartoons, you can guarantee that kid's going to have dreams about the cereal, where if he/she eats enough of it, he gets to fly (or something stupid like that - you know how kids dream).

I just don't know how this poison is still being produced. It should have to be removed from the house by a HAZMAT team and quarantined as an imminent danger to human survival. Along with Cap'n Crunch, Reese's Puffs, Grape Nuts and Marshmallow Alpha-Bits, they should be put in a ship and shot at the sun, if only to save the planet from their collective plague.

Are there any vomit-inducing cereals out there you hate, dear reader? Maybe you'd like to come to the defence of the rainbow diarrea I've mentioned? Regular Cheerios should probably be on that list because of it's purposeful lack of taste and subsequent insult to the population, but it's healthy, so I guess that evens it out.

"But Why Will You Say That I'm Mad?"

As I was perusing the Acadamy Award nominations, I couldn't help but see the year 2001-created "best animated feature" category and feel nothing but empty sadness. The films nominated may be sufficient in the areas of storytelling or artwork, but honestly, the only people who'll find those films "sufficient" are 10 year-olds. And members of the Academy, who unfortunately, due to some of their nominations and picked winners over the years, I will place at the same intelligence, knowledge and maturity level as said grade schoolers.

It is unfortunate that to find the very best in the past year regarding animation, one has to look at the "animated short" category. Here, you'll find the most original and creative works ever to be drawn into cellular form. Honestly, I can say that the only truly original film to be nominated for "best animated feature" recently, would have to be "The Triplets Of Belleville" in 2003. That wonderful film unfortunately lost to "Finding Nemo", which demonstrates the Academy's lack of vision and love for Ellen Degeneres. This year's nominees, save for "Monster House", are basically naseautingly brightly-coloured, celebrity-voiced, computer-imaged, multi-bazillion dollar bags of of sick baby diarrhea.

Quite sad.

Fortunately, to save you from the inane banalities of so-called "acclaimed" animation, I have an excellent little piece from 1953, based on the "Tell-Tale Heart" by Edgar Allen Poe. Originally published in 1843, it still elicits goosebumps and fear from me today. Turn off the lights, turn up the sound, and enjoy storytelling at it's absolute best.

She's Gonna Be Alright

My girl is finally getting the help she needs.

After more than two months, my truck is in the shop, getting the "extreme makeover" that she most desperately needs. I could still drive it and all after the "incident" (see post November 14), but I owe it to her to keep her looking sleek, sexy and ready for anything. I kind of roughed her up a bit back in November, and frankly, I got tired of getting those looks from people. You know, that look of reserved disgust, saved for wife-beaters and people who throw garbage in recycle containers. I might be able to withstand the common sneer from some meathead, or the turned-up nose from the old bluehair at the grocery store, but she should have never had to endure the pain I caused.

I'm sorry again, Ranger. You're a good girl. Yeah, you are.

All will be forgiven soon, but I have a message to those of you who might not respect our winter season up here in Sledmonton: Don't think that because you've lived here for a couple of years, or maybe your whole life, that you can pull a fast one on the Winter. Oh sure, you'll drive slow here and there, or you may sandbag up your car's ass, but eventually, you'll see some apparently dry road, or it might be +5 out there. And then you go and put your stupid suit on. You know that suit. Usually, it's a full-bodied pantsuit with accompanying jacket. And it's bright green. Also, it's covered in stupid.

Just take it easy out there. Be alert, take precautions, don't drive when you don't need to, and for fuck's sakes, put down the fucking phone. Keep the stupid suit in the closet, and bring it out when you need it the most. Like at stag parties, family reunions, and your kid's 7th birthday party.

Just don't be like these folks, and learn a lesson in futility.

Gimme Some Beats, Baby

As you know, I'm always on the lookout for the nostalgic, the awesome, and most often, the awesomely nostalgic. I'm quite happy to have stumbled upon this mastery of the mash-up, this excellence of the edit.

The background: Monkey Farm Frankenstein are an American industrial hip hop band signed to British label Some Bizzare, home of some of the best synth pop, experimental and industrial music the world has ever heard. The MFF's chemical breakbeats and VHS-trash sound bites are crumpled shreds of sincerity afloat a vast sea of media punishment.

So what does that mean? It means that The Evil Dead trilogy, one of my most favourite film trifectas, gets the sample treatment, and only with Evil Dead audio and video. Nothing else, nothing more. Result: More awesome than you can shake ten awesome sticks at.

2006: More New Business Cards

Alrighty. Now that the holiday hangover is officially over, and I'm all ready to enjoy a new year, I thought it best to review the year gone by. Also, because it will be fun, sobering, and perhaps depressing, each month will be getting a review, mostly based on whether or not I bought a new t-shirt. Yep, it should be depressing. What a fun time we'll have! Let's dive head first!

JANUARY: The highlight has to be my trip to Mexico, in the Mayan Riviera. Free drinks, gorgeous half-naked ladies, and fantastic weather. I came home riding a high, which was short-lived. Lowlight: My girlfriend of a personal-best 4.5 months asks to get out of her contract with me and requests a trade four days after I get back from Mexico, and two days after I give her gifts. Funny how I would feel worse about a certain defenceman dumping the Oilers in June than her dumping me.

Rating: C - Mexico and being dumped even each other out, leaving a mediocre month.

FEBRUARY/MARCH: Did these months even exist? I honestly can't think of anyhing that made these months memorable. February was only 28 days, so I guess there's that.

Rating: D - Low rating for me not believing that these months existed.

APRIL: I come to the realization that I cannot work at Ticketmaster any more, and that feels great, like being on fire, and someone throws a crapload of baking soda on you, because they know that it's an oil-based fire, and water would only make it worse. Also, I buy every Oilers playoff home game, making some people question my sanity. Oh, the hindsight! I also purchase a vehicle for the first time, boosting my top speed from needy to autonomous. Killer.

Rating: B+ - For shaking off a huge employment weight and starting a hockey memory for the ages.

MAY: I started a new job which was a return to a post-secondary institution, which has a 70% female population. That's groin-grabbingly awesome, and so was the staff retreat to Banff. But more awesome were the Oilers. Greatest month of the year candidate, due to the Oilers instilling in me feelings I haven't felt in many years with this team. Unyielding pride.

Rating: A+ - New job and playoff series' wins. I have a metaphorical erection when thinking about May.

JUNE: I can only really remember the 19th, mostly because I have never cried so hard, and with so much passion and emotion. The day they lost Game 7. Some of my friends know that I don't show much emotion, pretty much ever. I'm sort of emotionally barren, but that seems harsh to say. However, when that empty net goal went in, I lost it. Every sad moment from the last decade plus that I never cried or showed emotion at came roaring back into one torrential tidal wave of tears. Thank goodness I had some support that day, or I may have taken a place on the High Level bridge.

Rating: A until June 19th. F for every day after. Obviously.

JULY: Went on a pubcrawl in Calgary during the Stampede, which in turn sparked this vessel of creativity and pop-culture worshipping known as this blog, which I think is pretty neat. Late in the month, the cabin party at Mitch's created some of the most memorable moments while drinking. The outhouse fire, movie quoting, the naked hottubbing. This weeked had it all, and it wins the award for the best summer moment.

Rating: A- - A great month, bookended by two fantastically fun weekends of drinking debauchery.

AUGUST: Birthday number 26. I made the turn past the quarter-century, and I spent it as best I could. Mostly drinking with friends. Not too shabby. Besides that, I only remember being hot and sweaty. All the time.

Rating: B- - Nothing crazy, however the 1989 Playboy from Greg may be the best gift I've received since turning old enough to see naked breasts.

SEPTEMBER: There's just something about the start of school and being there to appreciate it. MacEwan is basically a fashion show. It's Laguna Beach: Edmonton. Do I protest? Fuck, no. I'm crazy, not stupid. The highlights of September are the Spiked Punch Tour Pubcrawl, and my chauffering of both Pilot Speed and the Trews for the school concert. I can now drive a 15-person van with aplomb. I can also now use 'aplomb' in a sentence. Also, congratulations to my friends Jay and Josie for finally getting around to getting married. The amount of time they dated was starting to compete with my time at the University.

Rating: B+ - A high rating for the amount of beautiful women in a concentrated area known as my workplace. My eyes have never seen so much eye candy, and now I think they have diabetes.

OCTOBER: I made my own blood for Halloween. That's pretty much it.

Rating: C+ - For the homemade blood, the month salvaged itself from mediocrity.

NOVEMBER: I'm just glad that my airbag doesn't release when I slam into the centre wall on Groat Road. I see from my driver's side visor that airbags can kill. I probably don't want that. I was feeling pretty cocky before that accident, and now I drive like my grandmother.

Rating: D- - "Boo-hiss" for the truck accident, and a louder "boo-hiss" for the insurance company dragging their feet.

DECEMBER: A fine month to end the year, as working for a college again leads to some awesome holiday time. The Christmas holidays are again a lesson in familial gluttony, but I'm happy to have gone to Lethbridge, if only to berate my cousin about the unfortunate possible consequences of a one-night stand. New Year's Eve yielded some cool memories, some scary douchebag memories. So nothing new there.

Rating: B+ - Not too cold, not too shitty. Just the way I like it.

So there you have it. Some highlights of the year that was, 2006. And now that I look back, I realize that I had an extremely boring year, save for the Edmonton Oilers. Sorry that you had to read all this. I'll try to do better in 2007.

I'm Stocking Up For Next Christmas!

This past Christmas has come and gone, but I couldn't pass up the opportunity to showcase my favourite entrepeneur, bringing about his fantastical deals never before seen outside of the Garden State.

And if the video doesn't work - Winter Wonderland

Also: 50th Post! Wheee!

The Divine New Year's Eve Comedy

And so it has come and gone. The last day of the past year, and the first of the present.

As I begin to embark on yet another year of new t-shirts, and other banalities, I find it intriguing to look upon the past year, and see certain areas of growth, change, enlightenment, and all other kinds of humanist bullshit. But that's for the next post. I so rarely produce journal-type posts, but I feel that for certain occasions, like New Year's Eve, it warrants a small amount of reminiscence, if not for my own remembrance later down the road. Therefore, since no-one has asked for it, here's my homework writing assignment: What I Did For New Year's Eve. Spine tingling!

Since my inception into the legal drinking club, I've spent five New Year's Eve's out of eight at a house party. In fact, the last five years in a row were at those house parties (for the actual New Year's Eve - any "New Year's Eve After New Year's Eve party that I created for the U of A doesn't count). For this year, the ninth, I was happily given the task of finding some activity that exceeded beyond the comforts and boredom of mine or a friend's abode. My dear friend Morghan, who had endowed me with the search of a great party, trusted me so much that she would veto each suggestion I came up with. That's trust. Eventually, it was decided that since some members of the female gender would be wearing heels, the party at Dante's Bistro would serve well. Also, it had a "Casino Royale" theme, and James Bond is fucking cool. Dinner would have to be had elsewhere, as Dante's had dinner tickets for only the cost of a kidney. No dice. Dinner, I suggested should be close, and should fit the theme of the evening. The answer was almost instant to me, i.e., a couple days before New Year's. Julio's Barrio. So simple. So delicious. A evening was born.

Now I'll have to stop here and give absolute credit and respect to Morghan for getting the tickets to Dante's, and doing a gargantuan amount of the leg work, and to Mary B for the dinner reso's. That being said, I do have to give credit where credit's due, so I give myself thanks for the ideas, as it wasn't easy to find an itinerary that everyone could get excited over. Backslaps and high praise for everyone!

Since the party was Bond-themed, I took it upon myself to obtain a tuxedo, which I haven't worn in it's traditional look since...1987. My Aunt Sandra's wedding. I was a page, or something. I looked awesome then, and I looked damn awesome two days ago. Look at that picture to the left. Spellbindingly awesome. And thanks to Daniel Craig and his incomparable performance, I can finally be the blond Bond I've always wanted. There's just something about putting on the penguin suit that makes you feel almost invincible. The constant checking in the mirror, the incessant pulling and straightening of various suit pieces, it all comes together into one amazing package. Granted, it has to be tailored, and certain pieces have to be used, and some need to be omitted. Take the suspenders, for example. I've never worn suspenders, mostly because my pants have never needed that "extra help" to stay up. The ten minutes it took me to put them on was frustrating enough, but when you don't wear suspenders, they cause you to imagine things. Like your pants are too short. Imagining something like that does not help someone so paranoid as myself.

After a couple drinks at our fellow partier Angelina's house, we traveled west to Julio's, where six of us initiated the 7pm reservation with style: Jugs of sangria. Oh, and jugs of margaritas. And lots of edible edibles. Now, I don't begin to believe that I'm the bastion of good manners and such, but I guess Angelina does. A mere 2.5 seconds after arriving at our table, our waiter is subjected to "HOW OLD ARE YOU?!" from Angelina. Taken aback, but not missing a beat, he replies, "not old enough to serve you", which I thought was either the product of a quick wit, or a conditioned response to a oft-repeated question. Really though, the dude looked like he was 14. He also looked like me when I was 14. Oh, and his name was Tyler. Just fucking priceless. Since he was a Tyler, I will give him the benefit of a clever wit. It's a namesake standard. We continue to eat, save for me. I ordered a dish, but didn't really eat it. Waiter Tyler declared last call for food, and pressured me into it. Well played, sir. This happened at 8pm, which also happened to be the last call for alcohol, since Julio's closed at 9pm. Our merry band of six decide that the other three of our group will come soon, so we decide to order 4 more pitchers divided equally into sangria and margaritas, bringing the total order by us to 8. In the end, my utmost reverence and respect to the Original Six for demolishing 90% of those pitchers. Well done, everyone!

"Lasciate ogne speranza, voi ch'intrate" ("Abandon all hope, ye who enter here")
- Possible sign outside Dante's Bistro.

Alright, so Dante's probably isn't Hell. It's just that the evening ended so disgustingly, that one might wonder. Starting off, though, things were excellent. The bar was decorated wonderfully, the Sky Bar was exceptionally cool, and I recommend anyone to head up there if open, whenever they find themselves in the area. My thanks and a big high-five to my great buddy Dean (aka Poppa McGursky) for being my Virgil of the main bar. Thanks brother.

Let me run down some of the highlights:

- Upon seeing many people in suits, or just shirts and ties, and one fucking stupid looking asshole dressed as Austin Powers, I thought that I had the edge in a tux. The only other dudes dressed in tuxes were old guys, and I thought that during the contest for "Best Bond Look-a-like", I would be a contender. I never saw a sniff of the contest, thus cementing my belief that only douchebags win contests at bars. Except for Morghan winning Oiler tickets last year. That was awesome.

- The main bar was spinning regular top-40 tunes, but the restaurant next door had a live reggae band, and they were neat...for the one song I heard of them. Then some DJ played older tunes (for the older people mainly organized there), including a nine-song Beach Boys remix. The highlight was the conga line that Olivia started. That was hella fun, and we showed those oldies how to really have a good time. Take that, old people.

- Midnight and subsequent embraces. I'm running a nice streak, with each year having it's own special meaning and backstory.

- You can always sense when a fight is coming. The air seems to crackle with some intensity, the mood among the patrons tenses a little, and then it happens. It always starts with two idiots, with one intelligent person trying to stop it. I watched this time as two morons started jawing, then with the help of another, the moment passed. Then, like a massive meatball-asshole-douchebag avalanche, the fight gains momentum and hits an enormous level. My friends and I are getting our coats, when all hell breaks loose. The Seventh Circle of hell, Outer Ring, more exact. Swarms of security guards, who previously looked like anyone else (good move Dante's) rush to the area where my friends and I were loitering not three minutes earlier. Then we see the glasses being thrown. I saw some chairs take flight. The fighting mass grows to what I can see as about 10-15 people, with some 10 more around the edges. It's a disgusting sight, and quite frankly, frightening as well. We gather our jackets quickly, and decide to exit out a rear entrance. Despite one female servers plea that we go out the front, she lets us through when we point out that the front entrance is a "little busy right now". We are fortunate to have a sober driver with us (thanks Nicole!), so six of us pack into a small car, and flee the scene. The bar has become a cop convention by this point, with cruisers numbering in the 6-7 range. This is our travel through Purgatory.

Finally, Paradiso. Some of us are dropped off at Angelina's (those who didn't go home sick), and we regale with tales of the evening past. Dante's may never seem my shadow again, but I'll admit that it did provide me with one of the most interesing NYE's in a long time.

So until next year, when another night will move the sun in heav'n and all the stars.

Merry Christmas, Everyone!

Luke 2:8-14 (King James Version)

And there were in the same country shepherds abiding in the field, keeping watch over their flock by night.
And, lo, the angel of the Lord came upon them, and the glory of the Lord shone round about them: and they were sore afraid.
And the angel said unto them, Fear not: for, behold, I bring you good tidings of great joy, which shall be to all people.
For unto you is born this day in the city of David a Saviour, which is Christ the Lord.
And this shall be a sign unto you; Ye shall find the babe wrapped in swaddling clothes, lying in a manger.
And suddenly there was with the angel a multitude of the heavenly host praising God, and saying,
Glory to God in the highest, and on earth peace, good will toward men.

Tomorrow, I hope all of you have a Merry Christmas. And happy end of Hanukkah, as well (I hope you saved me some latkes).

My Brain Has Transformed And Rolled Out

It's here!

IT'S HERE!

The newest Transformers trailer has been released, and all I can say is that Christmas has come early, and it was in HD!

Follow the link, and you will enter a wonderful world, and then that world transformed into complete and utter awesomeness.

http://movies.yahoo.com/feature/transformers_hd.html

I linked to the high-definition trailers for obvious reasons. Waiting for this movie is for chumps. I want to see all my favourite Transformers, and hopefully the movie will have some awesome Autobot dance sequences. And a Weird Al song to go along with a kick-ass soundtrack filled with Stan Bush songs.

This is what a 26 year-old man dreams of. Transformers live action. Oh, and girls. Live action girls.

Like I Said, You're Very Fast Argyle

Argyle: Mind if we hear some tunes? (rap music) Hey, that'll work.

John McClane: No Christmas music?

Argyle: This is Christmas music.

- Die Hard, 1988

I am completely sick of every commercial and secular Christmas song out there, so I thought I'd dig up this classic, circa 1987. The next time you hear Telus' shitty monkey commercial and its background noise, or if you ever have to go to an elementary kid's Christmas concert (shudder), just think of Joseph "Run" Simmons, Darryl "DMC" McDaniels and Jay "Jam Master Jay" Mizell. Everything's going to be alright, and funky.

Word.

The Camrose Crawl '06: Evidence Gallery

The Camrose Crawl has come and gone for another year, and I think that all the crawlers involved learned some new things about themselves, gained some new insights. Grew, as people.

Yeah, that's pretty much bullshit.

But everyone did have an excellent time, and I have collected a few pictures of the event, for all to enjoy, reminice, or perhaps fill up those alcohol-induced blank spots.

http://www.flickr.com/photos/46334739@N00/

I would do a complete write up, but that would only be interesting to those who were there. That being said, I will give the Cole's Notes version of the evening:

1) Meet the group in Camrose at Alice Hotel

2) Ingest first of what could have been hundreds of beers. And one Smirnoff Ice mixed with raspberry Sour Puss.

3) Wake up fully clothed in hotel room.

And that's pretty much it. Oh, there was a plate of cactus-cut potatoes in there, and they were good. Hat's off and a big "hurray!" to Greg G for putting it all together again this year, and I certainly hope that next year's 7th Annual Crawl is just as epic and sprawling and blurry as this year's.

I Look Stupid, But I Guess I Could Look Stupider

Ugh.

Just stop, everyone.

Stop right now.

Stop with the moronic clothing that is supposed to allow adults to harken back to those care-free days of their youth. They're adults. Not children. There's something to be said for maturity, and these pajamas shout out a big "fuck you" to maturity.

Pajama City - Adult Footed Pajamas

No sane adult should wear "footed" pajamas. They're pretty much for the mentally handicapped, or those baby-fetish types. Also, they're for fucking children. Like, 4 year-olds. What's the draw, then? Well, these have a "drop seat back". Now, that's an extremely bad idea. Why? Because some numbnut is going to run around with that thing down, exposing the world to a nasty, fat, hairy ass. That's just possibly the one sight every living person could do without. Somebody is going to take the claim that "you never have to take them off" literally, and sadly, I believe that a great number of those people will be buying the "XW", or "Extra-Wide".

Sigh. Nobody wants to grow up, and now they have the perfect unitard to do that in.

Pointless Nostalgia - Part 4.0

Whoo hoo! Another trip to my favourite town - Rememberytown!

This time around, we're going to be sniffing up some fantastical treats, or rather just one treat. The big treat. Wrigley's Big Red gum. I dare you, I double-triple dare you to find a bigger, longer lasting red cinnamon gum. I'll give you a little while, because it's such a dumb dare.

Growing up in South Detroit, or more accurately, St. Albert, Alberta, Big Red was an awesome gum to purchase. Among the pantheon of chewing gum on the market at the time, Big Red was that grown-up gum that I as a kid just had to fake the fact that I hadn't brushed that day. As an impressionable young junior high student, the convenient across-the-street location of a Shell Store by my school provided me with my cinnamon fraud, and that gum was the perfect cover after a Big Bite hot dog, or a slice of pizza. Big Red didn't have had the athletic feel of "Big League Chew", or the pure, disgusting novelty of "Thrills" (side note: how is it that kid's feared having their mouths washed out with soap after swearing, but would eat this gum like it was edible gold?), but it did have a kick-ass commercial, strategically dipped in a sweet awesome sauce of terrible acting and an insanity-producing jingle:

For some reason, Big Red was portrayed as a somewhat aphrodisiac for the masses. First off, it's bigger than the leading cinnamon gum, so obviously it compliments a man's endowments. Obviously. Second, it would seem to give the chewer more confidence, more personality, and definitely more sex appeal. I certainly can attest to being more attracted to a lady once she's had a stick of gum. There's just something about the robotic jaw motion that's hypnotically erotic. There's been numerous products on the market that claim, directly or indirectly, to attract members of either sex, but this is gum. It costs about a buck or less. Believe me, the kind of gum you chew is the least of your worries.

What I really enjoy is the idea that this gum is so potent, so consuming, that no-one dares leave the side of someone who's chewing it. If your partner just popped a Big Red in their mouth, don't make any fucking plans. You've just been scheduled for a four or five-hour makeout slobber fest. That's pretty encouraging, I must say, and I may have fell for it back in my youth. Of course, I was stupider then, but we all were. Why else did we save all those "Double Bubble" comics in order to get the free beach ball or frisbee? So we could play with something after making out.

Pop culture fans, pay attention to the band member in the commercial. You may recognize him as Peter Billingsly, who played Ralphie Parker in A Christmas Story (1983), my all-time favourite Christmas movie.

Whiteboard Eye Candy

Whiteboards don't have to just display pie charts, bar graphs, or brainstorming session results! They can be used for artistic adventures, creative crusades and wonders of whimsy, as seen in the above animation. It's incredibly awesome, but maybe a little too awesome. I've actually become a little disappointed with my own lack of ingenuity after seeing this. Once, I made a raft out of popsicle sticks, but looking back on it, that pretty much sucked.

Props to Kristoferstrom for this one.

Set Your Faces To 'Stunned' - "Smokin' Aces" Trailer

Every so often, a studio will bestow upon the global community a trailer for an upcoming film so great and intense, that it runs the risk of overshadowing the film itself. I certainly hope that this film doesn't meet that fate.

Smokin' Aces revolves around a dying mob boss taking out a $1 million contract on the life of his former protégé, a Vegas magician turned gangster who has agreed to testify against the mob. The FBI attempts to protect their key witness as an array of hit men and women descend on Lake Tahoe in a race to take the magician out.

Directed by Joe Carnahan, who arguably is responsible for the career resurrection of Ray Liotta, this film reminds me of films by Guy Ritchie, when he wasn't being denigrated on a daily basis by his aging, yoga-sniffing, African baby buying wife. I certainly hope that this film can add to, or even progress the "cromedy" (crime-comedy) genre, much in the way films like True Romance , Pulp Fiction,The Limey or even Kiss Kiss Bang Bang improved on it.

Just mark January 26, 2007 on your calendars, and maybe four of your friend's. This is going to be a barn-burner. Guns.

Watch the movie trailer below, or watch it on this site, or in high-definition from this site (recommended is the 39 MB.)

Read My Other Post

I apologize for any long periods between posts on this site. Writing for two sites is hard, and yet somehow, I knew that. However, since I don't believe in copying myself, I will simply direct you to the other blog site for my latest rant. It's super easy - just put your mouse over this link and push the button! Yeah, do it!

http://www.thirtylives.com/wordpress/?p=77

Have a great one, everybody!

Fisher-Price Surrenders

Some toy companies are starting to understand.

Not every child is going to grow up to be doctors, lawyers, or business leaders. Not every child wants to practice his or her spelling proficiency, math abilities or reading and comprehension. Some kids just want to grow up and be just like their mommies and if they're lucky to know who he is, their daddies as well.

The truth is that there are some children in this world (I will guess mostly American children, but we Canadians aren't all bastions of proper child-rearing ourselves) that are going to fall short of the "ideal" future. Some kids will become victims of their environment, and will give in to temptations of drugs, cheap prostitutes, circus performing and of course, tattoos. Or, some kids will learn from their parent(s), and want to mimic those they look up to for guidance, knowledge and bottle-opening tricks. I am quite pleased to see that the good folks at Spin Master Toys have come up with a vessel for fostering the deviant direction that some kids will ultimately take. They've really tapped into what kids want, and they've created a kick-ass toy to get those kids prepared for adulthood, which will involve watching daytime infomercials and having multiple conditional prison sentences.

For the low price of only $14.99 (which would be 300 of dad or mom's beer cans), I present to you the GR8 TaT2 Maker (aka I-Tattoo). Now Junior or the little miss can be just like their heroes on the street corner by opening up their very own pretend play tattoo parlour! Just like the website selling the toy, etoys.com, states, this toy certainly is "childhood dreams delivered". What child hasn't dreamt of creating their own replica tattoos? With this device, every kid can get that gang sign inked on, or that skull-and-crossbones that will intimidate everyone in juvy. Oh, I wish I could see the looks on their faces when they create their very own barbed-wire arm band, or that tribal symbol that means nothing. Nothing will make Dad more proud like displaying his favourite Looney Tunes character along with a wife-beater tank-top just like his. And what better way to be just like Mom, than to take off your underwear and ink on an awesome Disney character. There's a Mother's Day moment to remember.

Nope, there's just nothing like a toy that really captures the innocence of youth. You know, Christmas is coming up! Why not get the GR8 TaT2 maker for that burgeoning young shoplifter in the family. Package that up with the "Lil' Thugz Likr" homemade malt liquor set, and the "Tykes Tobacco" how-to guide for rolling cigarettes, and you've got a holiday season for the ages.

I Have Now Doubled My Output Production, Suckas

Since I love writing and posting about anything and everything that I deem awesome and even awesomer in my world, there is another blog to which you can train your reading-balls to. It's going to rock your world, and probably any other worlds that are within spitting distance.

Thirtylives.com

What's the significance behind the name? You'll have to read to find out! Now, that doesn't give you an excuse to not find out, because you just have to click and read. Lazy bastard. Basically, it's a new blog with plenty of contributors, many of whom you'll be happy to meet, and even happier to stalk outside of their workplaces. Have fun! Reading is fun!

The Score: Winter - 1, Tyler - 0

Alas, Winter.

You have started a battle to which I will fight for as long as I breathe your fierce, piercing air. You know not of the passion to which I will maintain a battle, whether of wits or of fists. Know this, Winter: I will not quit until I have laid upon you great pain and anguish and damage amounting to roughly somewhere between $3,000 and $4,000.

There I was, driving northbound on Groat Road, enjoying some excellent Wolf Parade (loud and clapped-along with, naturally), and attempting to shake off a most excellent hangover from the night previous. You must believe that I was completely aware of the terrible driving conditions that I had embarked upon. Winter had made its move early in the night, and still had its hand on the piece come morning. However, my trust, albeit in hindsight, rather misguided, was placed squarely on the four stalwart sandbags placed carefully over my rear axle. Indeed, it would seem that my own hubris was accumulating faster than the blanket of white covering the City of Champions.

Groat Road is not to be traveled nor taken lightly, as I can attest from years of traversing it's serpentine body. It exploits with no discrimination. It can consume the hotshot douchebag riding the crotch-rocket, to the family of four in the Astro van, battling each other and threats of "turning this car right around". Perhaps I did not exhibit the kind of respect Groat deserves, but I certainly didn't give Winter its due. Mea culpa.

Everyone says that they have a small moment of panic when they first get the feeling of control lost. Granted, I may have felt a little bit of it, but when you drive a rear-wheeled truck, losing control in fresh snow sort of comes with the territory. I didn't compensate enough, I compensated too much. Either way, it's a moot point now. Winter decided that it was my turn to have my ride sidelined, and for a price. As I slammed into the centre meridian wall, I immediately uttered the one indisputable retort: "Aw, C'MON!". Perhaps not as terse as an obscenity, but had there been a Michael in the car with me, I would have been quite pleased to have referenced Arrested Development in such a circumstance. After getting to the emergency turnout, I thanked somebody, something, for allowing me to collide with only myself, and not anyone else traveling. Also, much thanks to the gentleman who inquired about my status. Applause for you, kind sir.

When the dust has settled, my insurance company will be hit for over 3Gs, and my pride will have taken a bit of a nock. But Winter, the truck can be fixed, my confidence will return, and I will embark on a campaign of retaliation towards you. I feel the sudden need to alleviate my bladder, and your precious, white snow seems an adequate canvas. Crude, but it's a start.

Pointless Nostalgia - Part Three

The 80's Movie Montage: Lost art, or relic of the neon age?

There are some things that just aren't done anymore. Throwing away Styrofoam containers. Having anything in Styrofoam at all. Giving away regular-sized candy at Halloween. Making an awesome movie montage, complete with kick-ass synth-pop music with smokin' hot lyrics. I certainly miss all of these, but the one that I yearn for the most, the one that I dream about, and secretly ask for when I get the big piece of the wishbone, is the return of the movie montage. Specifically, the 80's movie montage. The 80's montage is a glorious use of celluloid, pure magical genius of light, sound and spandex. In short, it's an infinite amount of brilliance thrown into a awesome-making machine and set on "ice crush". Forever!

For those of you not hip to what a montage is, a montage sequence is a film technique wherein the film needs to show a large-scale process or a lengthy period. Instead of showing this process in it's entirety, brief portions, along with titles and images, can be joined by dissolves (transitions between two shots) and music to compress the lengthy series of actions into a few moments.

The key to the 80's montage is the music. Filmmakers of today are extremely lazy. An editor today will simply find some crap-tacular song in their iPOD that's completely ignorable, or they will attack the Top-40 list of the moment, and hijack whatever's "hot" that very second. The result? An unmemorable sequence in the film that nobody cares about, unless it involves nudity. Now, the 80's montage, it had fucking creativity. Editors and directors of that era would actually find a song that coincided with the actions/themes/characters of the movie. If they couldn't find one, they would commission songwriters and shitty artists to record one. That's dedication to the genre.

Here's some awesome examples of the 80's montage, all of which are pure cinematic gold. Treasure them with all your heart!

Monster Squad - 1987 (Editor: James Mitchell)

Just killer! Listen carefully to the lyrics. "Rock until you drop. Dance until your heart stops". That really hits the nail on the head, doesn't it? Disregard that the song is about clubbing, and these kids are 6-13 years old. It's irrelevant. In this sequence, these kids must equip their stalwart group with everything they need to defeat the monsters. And monsters don't like business cards. Seriously, I read that.

Here's another, more subtle montage:

The Wizard - 1989 (Editor: Tom Finan)

"I live by the groove. If I can't hear it baby, how can I move?". Wow. Those lyrics speak right to the urgency of the situation. Jimmy Woods has to get ready for the Nintendo Championships, so naturally the song reflects his need to "get in the groove". I'm still in awe of this song, and of the killer game action!

Now the montage doesn't have to be well into the film, or inserted only as an easy way to complete some tasks for the main characters. Sometimes it can be at the very beginning! Peep this:

Rad - 1986 (Editor: Carl Kress)

"Getting ready to break the ice! Feels like time is standing still". I love it! BMX racing and stunts are all about breaking the ice, and I can honestly say that only you can break the ice inside of me. That's right, only you. The quick stunts are just the thing to get the audience in a tizzy, and the Cochrane/Calgary backdrops really strike a chord.

Lastly, the mother of all 80's montages. This montage is everything. It's a saint. It's Mother Teresa. It's Elvis. It's God.

Rocky IV - 1985 (Editor - James R. Symons)

"Hearts on fire, strong desire, raises deep within". This is the greatest film moment in the history of film. Stallone. Lundgren. Training. Talia Shire nodding her approval. Synth power. Hearts on fire everywhere. This sequence leaves me breathles and wanting more wood chopping. Simply perfection.

Keep an eye out for movie montages! Create a drinking game around them! It's fun, even alone!

Face-Melting Music Video - Wednesday Edition

RÖYKSOPP - Remind Me

Granted, this song is from the "Melody A.M." album from 2002, but it's a prime example of how music videos should be, that is, relevant and have the power to be utterly awesome. With the death of the radio star in 1981 (the first year of music videos in the true form), a path had been paved for dipshits in bands everywhere and the opportunity had arisen for these individuals to gather up their dad's video camera and freak out in glorious moving picture and sound.

This video is a testament to those dipshits.