When it rains it pours, and this latest Skywalker squall has left me soggy and aching. What can I say? Ball Droid, fetch me a mai tai.
The new Force Awakens trailer is cool (even though Han’s collar is a little too popped for my liking). The teaser for Rogue One is cool (even though it’s the five billionth spot that insists on lifting dialogue from the original trilogy). The new Battlefront vid-juh game looks like every other Star Wars blow-’em-up that came before it, except with better graphics (which is fine; I’ve always been more of a Lego Star Wars guy).
The Star Wars emojis are very cute and I forgive their creator/”maker” for not rendering some of the more obscure characters like Bossk or Yakface.
I don’t even know what to say about that medieval document they found with the drawing of Yoda on it. “Obviously it’s not Yoda,” they keep saying, but what if it is? What if Frank Oz is a highlander?
This fandom is exhausting. And you wonder why I occasionally retreat to the barren confines of a Skatetown, U.S.A. or a Grease 2.
Like Depeche Mode, I enjoy the silence.
[EXT. A PIER ON MANHATTAN’S WEST SIDE, OVERLOOKING THE HUDSON RIVER – SUNSET]
HER: [NERVOUS] I have to tell you something.
HER: You know [GAME SHOW HOST]? I dated his son.
HIM: Really? That’s pretty cool. Honestly. Was he nice?
HER: I mean, I say “dated,” but it was really a one night stand.
HIM: Oh, okay. You know, that’s cool too.
HER: I don’t want you to think I’m crazy or weird because of it. Or a slut.
HIM: [LAUGHING] Why would I think that? That’s just…life.
HIM: It doesn’t change my opinion of you.
HIM: You wanna get some fried chicken?
You like the Beatles? This is better than the Beatles.
According to me, some ding dong on the Internet.
They said bagpipes could never work in rock music. They were wrong.
Everything you need to know about the late Bon Scott in three and half minutes: he’s charming, he’s got a strong voice, he’s in control, he might sock you in the face if you give him any guff. Very Sinatra, in a way, and it isn’t hard to imagine Frank putting his spin on this rakish bruiser. Of course, the Old Man woulda cut the “oi” chant, on accounta it ain’t classy.
AC/DC rewrite “T.N.T.” with the new angle: “what if we were mean, but like, professionally, as a commercial service?” The damn thing works, right down to the anguished scream that punctuates the ending.
Yes, I’m counting these as one song. “Rocker” is a hilarious freewheeling apology for the juvenile “Balls”—it’s AC/DC saying, “listen, we’re just dirty rockers, what did you expect? We’ve happily wasted one of our best slower arrangements on a drawn out testicle joke.” I realize “Rocker” did not make its debut backing up “Balls” on Dirty Deeds; I know it came out a year earlier on T.N.T. and that it only appears on the international version of Deeds, but I refuse to apologize for not being Australian. Besides, as noted, this pairing gels like Moe’s hand and Curly’s forehead.
As satisfying as watching a golden retriever chase its tail. Knocks over as much furniture, too.
A celebration of the zaftig woman built around one of history’s most shit-kicking guitar riffs. If you can’t boogie to this get the hell out of my car wash.
The sinner’s anthem, but it’s hard to tell where the protagonist is emotionally. Is he joyous? Is he resigned? Is he daring to exercise irony? It doesn’t matter when that hymnal of a chorus kicks in.
Catchy strut of blues cloaked in darkness not just because it’s about murder but because AC/DC denied it being about murder after a murderer cited it as inspiration to murder. Does that compel me to keep returning? Sure, but so does the musical performance, and I remain more mystified by Bon Scott’s decision to end the tune by impersonating Mork from Ork. If this song is really so evil Richard Ramirez would have also tried to kill Pam Dawber.
A monster truck being driven by a grizzly bear in sunglasses, crushing your fears and doubts and delivering you a sizzlin’ onion burst of empowerment. I don’t know, you try to explain the omnipresence and worth of the ultimate “hard rock” song.
This band wrote a lot of material about their dicks. This selection is the least stupid. Also, for some strange reason, I’m really partial to the lyric about the “baaaaad man cruisin’ around in a big black limousine.” Maybe that’s what I aspire to, secretly.
If I could change one thing in the world, I would reengineer cell phones so the person talking could hear their own voice in the earpiece of their phone…as someone who grew up with landlines, I can tell you: Hardwired phones were engineered and designed to give you the confidence that you were being heard—which is why people would whisper into their phones and know that they were being heard because they could hear their whispering voice in the earpiece as loud as they could hear their regular, full-volume speaking voice. It was compressed and loud and audible. And it’s a little bit of a reassurance that you’re being heard. The limitations of cell-phone technology are such that your voice would be delayed if you heard the actual, real signal. It’s not coming back in real time. So they just make the receivers dead, like you only hear the other end of the line, which is why everybody shouts into their cell phones. Nobody shouts into landlines. You can be in a phone booth by a highway and you can just talk and you can tell that people can hear you. But when you’re holding this dead object that is the cell phone, it makes you scream. And this is a very low-cost engineering solution to the problem of cellular telephony. I’ve thought about it a lot.”
– John Flansburgh, from this great interview
A: Oh, “The Addams Family.” Morticia and Gomez have such a beautiful relationship, full of respect and understanding and expression. Most of the time it seems they work together to solve their dilemmas. The Munsters are more typically sitcom; Lily tolerating Herman’s lunkheaded crap, even when it blows up their living room or puts him in traction. And Grandpa Munster is always egging Herman on…it’s like “Leave It To Beaver” with neck bolts. Herman and Grandpa need a goddamn babysitter.