My high school reunion is this weekend, and I was going through some old crap and found these incredible notes. I butted heads in a pretty big way with my art teacher my Senior year. This stemmed from the fact that I was a normal, immature high school kid going through typical issues (heightened by a sudden obsession with Nine Inch Nails and dark and macabre art instead of my typical goofy-humored stuff), and my teacher went batshit insane right before she retired (something that was relayed to me by some other teachers years and years later over a giant bottle of wine, which felt like the coolest victory ever.) I still get a kick out of these.
This woman is the reason I got out of art and into writing. I owe her a “thank you,” actually, and I hope she’s doing fine now. Had I pursued art—which is what I wanted to do since I was five years old—I would have undoubtedly been proven not good enough once I hit college. I might have improved some, but I don’t think I would have had what it takes to make a career out of something like that. That happens in a small town: you’re encouraged and not given any truly constructive criticism for 12 years and then, when you leave, you learn the hard way.
This makes me sound a lot more badass than I actually was. This lady also accused me of bringing a gun—a fucking GUN—on an Art Club trip to Chicago, and even lied saying that I refused to let her search my bag. The principal, bless his heart, laughed this off and believed me. That’s a pretty serious claim.
To be fair, the rules aren’t for me. She’s got that right. This also reminds me that I’ve gone soft over the years. My antics in art class got my name stricken from the record as Art Club class president. That’s right: if someone goes back through my high school’s records in 1999, doing an investigative report on the legacy of Art Club presidents, they’ll find a hole where my name used to be, and begin a harrowing, John Grisham-style adventure to find the root of the cover-up.
Shown: Sexiest man alive, future loose cannon. And that PROFILE! Dammmmnn!!! GET some!
Patrick Swayze represented a turning point in my life: a point when I stopped loving things ironically, or cynically, and started really enjoying them for what they were, warts and all.
I want you to see something. Something I might not have noticed before. It’s always been obvious in this scene that Patrick Swayze is the world’s most badass man. In this film, he plays “a Cooler.” As in, “He’s cooler than you, motherfucker.” He’s SO cool, he tells a bouncer that he doesn’t have the right temperament for the trade. The TRADE? The TRADE of bouncing? And yet I believe it when he says it.
And notice this: between the time he says “there’s always barber college” and when the greasy bouncer walks away—during their icy, tense stare-down—Patrick Swayze does not blink. I never noticed this. That’s commitment to a scene in a movie that might not have deserved it. At :57 you see him blink, and take a breath, right after the threat is over.
I love Road House the way a mother unconditionally loves her mullet-sporting, philosophy spewing, bouncer of a son. If you’ve seen it, you know why. Road House is my baby, and nobody puts baby in a….well, you know. And my kid is better than your kid, even though your kid is The Godfather II. That’s just how it is.
When I see Road House has been given Two Stars on my cable network listings, I grumble and mutter about how the Weinstein’s Kid, Inglourious Basterds, will probably get three or four stars even though it could never hold a candle to my boy Road House. Quentin Tarantino could never hope to make a movie like Road House, though he will certainly try in his own cut-and-paste grindhouse homage way. A movie—nay, an experience—like Road House is not born from self-awareness and irony. They happen the same way “viral videos” happen…by total accident. Which is what drives advertisers nuts: they can’t tap into what makes one cat playing piano video get a billion views, and another 200 views.
Shown: A painting I made for my friend Ryan Penagos on the occasion of his birthday. It sits above his mantle. From my series “Mediocre Celebrity Portraits.”
A movie like Road House is the kind of happy accident of 80s excess and earnest filmmaking by a man named Rowdy Herrington (and, when you’re born with the name “Rowdy,” did anyone have any doubt he’d be the messiah of big screen honky tonk dust-ups?). And that earnestness, no matter how shoddy the results might be, earns respect in a way, say, Transformers 2—another attempt to gold-dig at nerds by throwing loads of money around—never will. In Patrick Swayze’s throat-ripping, “Pain Don’t Hurt”-offering, Evil businessman-thwarting opus, there is an innocence and purity of creation.
The crap I post on this site—screwed-up, weird and obscure bricks of pop culture garbage that have built the Lego Kitsch Command Center of my life—I enjoy because its flawed and its fun and it makes my friends and I happy. That’s the joy of Patrick Swayze. (It doesn’t hurt that he was a model person in real life, and had a good sense of humor about himself.)
Apple Jacks cereal used to have a terrible ad campaign: “We like what we like,” or something to that effect. It was born, I believe, out of the fact that they found it impossible to market a cereal that neither tasted like apples or jacks. That’s how I feel as I get older, and that’s exactly what I railed against old people for when I was younger. I like what I like. It’s partly a resistance to 24/7 viral video pushes, ad campaigns, pop-up windows…millions of dollars spent by PR Firms trying to get you interested in what they’re selling. “Billion dollar tent-pole film? I’d rather watch Patrick Swayze fight a CGI dragon on the Sci-Fi network and laugh with friends. What’s that? It’s SyFy? Well, then eat me. We’re calling it SciFi Channel.”
My friends and I will always have Swayze. The rallying cries of Red Dawn. The desire to be those manly men of the eighties who had big hearts and bigger hair. A career of highs and lows and even critical redemption in movies like Donnie Darko and shows like The Beast. They’re all planning a three-movie Swayze Manly Movie Marathon right now that I wished like hell I could attend, and THIS song will be played there and analyzed and enjoyed.
There may have been a time when I thought the picture on the left was funny, and the picture on the right was funny for a different reason. Now, to me, the picture on the left seems like played-out, forced irony—an idea of a joke by an unimpressed hipster. The picture on the right, while completely ridiculous, kind of kicks ass. And, yeah, I’m kind of jealous.
I’m kind of jealous that Patrick Swayze is exactly as badass as we’d been led to believe.
My friend Rob is apparently trying to destroy any chance at me having a happy weekend by posting THIS picture today at Topless Robot.
Oh my god. No. Just….Oh Jesus, take it away. Make me a bird, so I can fly far. Far far away. Make me a bird, so I can fly far. Far far away. Make me a bird, so I can fly far. Far far away. Make me a bird, so I can fly far. Far far away……
And that got me thinking, where does the Princess Leia holgram co…oh. Oh no. Please no.
NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO
Now YOUR weekend is ruined. That’s called paying it forward.
Not only is today my 50th post since the site started, but Political Power: Barack Obama is finally out today. Please pick it up from somewhere like Journey Comics in Macomb, IL or at Amazon.com. I’m sure you’re all as tired of hearing about it as I am, but Azim and I worked really hard to make it something completely different, and I hope you’re really going to like it. Delta Sky Magazine apparently loves it, along with Jay Leno’s new show, Regina Spektor’s new album and NFL Football (really? NFL Football? Doesn’t it maintain a consistent degree of “hotness” year in and year out?).
This magazine is currently in the backs of airplane seats flying all around the world.
Before the reviews come it and potentially sour my mood, I should say that this comic couldn’t have been done without Darren G. Davis at BlueWater, (who’s just an all around great, caring guy to work with, and trusted my instincts sight-unseen) and Azim Akberali (one of the most gifted artists I’ve ever seen). But I also gotta thank my amazing wife, Sarah, who was understanding for the months I locked myself away to write and research this thing, my parents for becoming professional public relations folks overnight, my brother for his pusher-man skills online, the wisdom and friendship of David Styburski (“ha!” he’ll say)and Matt and Heather Carey, Love Guru Jeff Nordstedt, Don Smith for the tip and kind words, Kiper, Junkstore Thompson, Gary Hodges, Jeremy Zoss, my Memorial co-workers for putting up with this Obama-hype shit, and my ex-Wizard Magazine friends (all of whom you should visit in the links to the right!) for their encouragement on a weird project like this. And, also, my friend Andy for helping me set a goal one year ago that resulted in seeing this thing through. I’ve forgotten people. I’ll get back to this list later…
This comic is an Obama biography, but it’s also a snapshot of my life in Springfield at a very memorable time. So I especially want to mention Kim, Daymon, Katrell, Ben, Bryan and Sarah (again). That year was one of the roughest for me, but we had some pretty damn good times, and I’m glad you all were there. For better and worse, we can say we’ll never have another year like it.
Shown: Excluding that old man and Obama Girl…I love these guys.Circle gets the square!
A little tribute I mocked up referencing those awesome Canadian Club ads. I was going to make a list of the Top 10 reasons yesterday’s Nerds were cooler than today’s nerds, but even though the internet loves its lists, this says it all for me. If you get it, you get it.
Their YouTube account was taken down a few days ago due to copyright disputes like the one I’m currently engaged in with Tommy Wiseau’s company (he of The Room fame). The problem? They haven’t done anything wrong: their videos, like many of mine, fall under that great section of Copyright Law called Fair Use. All the re-purposing and re-editing the do is legal. Because of the nature of my site, and my interest in art and copyright, I’m following this thing closely.
YouTube removes thousands of videos a day on the behalf of copyright holders, and rarely does anyone fight back because of the hassle, potential lawsuits, and red tape involved. Well, Everything Is Terrible is fighting back, so please support them. I’ll let you know how the Tommy Wiseau thing shapes up…I’ve filed a counter-claim.
In the meantime, here’s something new from “Mountain Fury.” It answers the questions “I thought I told you to SHUT UP?” and “What’s all this ruckus aboot?”
Three things:
1. That dad can apparently will an axe into his hand from another dimension whenever a damn tree (especially THAT damn tree) rears it’s head. Did he walk out carrying that, at the ready? Is this Patrick Bateman: The Retirement Years? I don’t know…but it’s like the lowest rent Deus Ex Machina imaginable.
Shown: It’s that damned plot hole again.
2. Least Convincing “ohmigod you fell out of a tree” EVER.
3. This is the kind of thousand-yard stare usually reserved for “Mr. Johnson, your prize racehorse has inoperable everything. We have to put a nail in its head.” It is not, however, appropriate for a childhood trauma about falling out of a tree while being taunted by a bitchy Asian, your axe-wielding father, and a clear-blue sky thunderstorm.
There’s a reason my hometown newspaper is the greatest newspaper in the world, and it’s because it regularly features stuff like this. Start reading at “Rosemary” and keep in mind this story is CONTINUED FROM PAGE 3:
One of my favorite things about living in New York was subscribing to the Rushville Times and showing my co-workers and associates the news from my hometown so everyone could guffaw at the seemingly trivial antics from my corn-fed hometown. Once, the actual Crimestoppers Crime of the Week was this: some farmer discovered a bunch of hay bales were missing off his property. It took every inch of my strength not to buy a plane ticket home, find a horse, lead him to the Sheriff’s front door, tell him I had found his man, and collect the reward money.
So what first crossed your mind when you read the snippet above?
What’s interesting to me is that landmark stories like Birdie v. Sewing Machine get the same reactions from people every time when they see it in print: A:) “They print shit like this?” B.) “Who cares about this crap?” and C.) “Who the hell is Jenny to tell Birdie how she heats her food? That’s classic Jenny…so goddamned nosy!”
I used to pull my hair out every time news about, say, Rhonda’s green bean problems showed up in the paper (every gal’damn summer!). My friends and I used to prank call the nice ladies who wrote this column, and provide crazy news bites about our lives to them… and they would print every detail in good faith that we had actually ridden dinosaur robots all summer in Baraboo, Wisconsin.
But get this: The Rushville Times has been printing shit like this since 1848—a full 161 years before Facebook. The reality is that most of your day is now spent with your nose in other people’s inane business. At least the people in Rushville, pop. 3000, sort of know each other and, I suspect, can really feel Birdie’s pain when she can’t fix that bobbin. Whatever the hell that is.
Suddenly, Rosemary’s doctor visit seems a helluva lot more interesting than 95% of the stuff I read on Twitter. And it means the Rushville Times is ahead of the curve by a full century, and everyone else is just catching up. No longer will I be dumbfounded by reading about “Bo returning from the park to find the grass dry,” and how he “proceeded to mow the yard” or even continuing the story on page 9 with baited breath.
Now, it just seems like the exact kind of normal thing everyone can’t get enough of.
