Holy shet!
My favorite VH1 commentator - or maybe the best talking head in the history of anything in the universe - Michael Ian Black, has challenged Tucker Max to a deathmatch. And in true (drunken) alpha male form, Tucker has heartily risen to the bait. Hurrah. My money's on Tucker, because he is like five times the size of Black with ten times the wired adrenaline, but Michael Ian Black does have that advantage of, you know, fully functional nerve endings and is like, a whole immune system ahead.
Michael Ian Black, by the by, is some hot ass shit right now. Not only because he's the only one worth watching on VH1's new nostalgia fest I Love the New Millennium, but also because he's June's Hot Slut of the Month on Dlisted. I'd post a video of him being filarious on VH1, but that's tired. Here he is in the greatest cinematic tour de force that God ever had the mercy to bestow upon mankind, Wet Hot American Summer:
UPDATE: Michael Ian Black roars with excitement! Tucker responds, "I assume that he is kidding about this. I am not at all. Once he realizes I am completely serious and that this means he is going to get punched in the face, I doubt he'll be as eager as he is now."
Showing posts with label books. Show all posts
Showing posts with label books. Show all posts
Monday, July 14, 2008
Sunday, July 13, 2008
Monday, March 24, 2008
Special topics in conceptual marine life
It's been a baron two weeks since I last paid any heed to this blog, and for that I apologize. To my fan base of what seems to be, like, three people, I'm sure this has been a veritable drought for you. Please forgive my neglect in the wake of yet another shitfest which befell the New Kennedys, codename: my family, eleven days ago (see, Caroline, I have an excuse to abandon my responsibilities- get to it, sister). I'm not one to turn a blog into a daily chronicle of my (not always so) pedestrian life, however, so on to my inner monologue - hurrah!
I only read about three books a year. I find this truth - like you, I'm sure - exceedingly unsettling and disappointing, considering my effort to augment my rich vocabulary, well-rounded mental bank of culture, and overall savoir-vivre. Such a thin reading list is also kind of fridiculous considering the fact that I work in and hope to pursue a career in publishing. A blazing sign of my mediocre literary pursuits also vests itself in my plebeian tastes: I only seem to go for books that are a step up from trashy romance rags that you'd find at Safeway, or similar deviations of The DaVinci Code. The only books I have read in the past twelve months include the final Harry Potter and Special Topics in Calamity Physics. Looking past Harry Potter, since it's a blaring chef d'oeuvre in the Western canon and therefore there's no need for me to defend it, I picked up Special Topics because it promised a strange mystery and a healthy wealth of cultural trivia that was vital to its plot. Its fresh quirkiness really, really resonated to me, and I found its puzzle admirably well executed.
I guess the reason I'm disappointed in myself for only choosing these sorts of novels is that they're so fast-paced that they demand absolutely no effort on my part to commit my voluntary attention to the book. They're so captivating that I feel I "can't put them down," if you will.
Such was the case with the third book I've read this year, The Raw Shark Texts by Steven Hall. Any book that would do well advertised in Maxim or Playboy is a book for me. Not only because I think about naked girls and Ducatis all the time*, but also because I think I crave the sort of
story-telling that a man would love: perverse, violent, and wickedly imaginative (I'm embarrassed to admit that Chuck Palahniuk is the only author I've consistently stayed loyal to, save whoever wrote The Babysitters Club series way back in fourth grade land). Shark Texts was the epitome of this kind of language, and I don't disagree with the praise its received as a ground-breaking new genre. The story and concept were a bizarre, existential amalgam of psychoanalytical theories not unlike those glorified in The Matrix. Lucky for the reader you just don't have to suffer through two and a half hours of Keanu Reeves and Cari Ann Moss humping in a cave. I don't want to divulge too much about the book, but trust me when I say that it beautifully embraces mystery, thriller, and even romance, without sacrificing original thought. In fact, (while the abstract theories are sometimes overwhelming), the psychological questions and mechanics Hall evokes are simply... exciting? The pace was absolutely perfect, and even the ending, though it threatened to be a little weak and macabre for a minute, was perfect.
Basically, buy it. Read it. You won't be sorry.
OK. I wrote an entry about a book. Now my blog is intellectual!
*I don't really think about naked girls and Ducatis all the time.
I only read about three books a year. I find this truth - like you, I'm sure - exceedingly unsettling and disappointing, considering my effort to augment my rich vocabulary, well-rounded mental bank of culture, and overall savoir-vivre. Such a thin reading list is also kind of fridiculous considering the fact that I work in and hope to pursue a career in publishing. A blazing sign of my mediocre literary pursuits also vests itself in my plebeian tastes: I only seem to go for books that are a step up from trashy romance rags that you'd find at Safeway, or similar deviations of The DaVinci Code. The only books I have read in the past twelve months include the final Harry Potter and Special Topics in Calamity Physics. Looking past Harry Potter, since it's a blaring chef d'oeuvre in the Western canon and therefore there's no need for me to defend it, I picked up Special Topics because it promised a strange mystery and a healthy wealth of cultural trivia that was vital to its plot. Its fresh quirkiness really, really resonated to me, and I found its puzzle admirably well executed.
I guess the reason I'm disappointed in myself for only choosing these sorts of novels is that they're so fast-paced that they demand absolutely no effort on my part to commit my voluntary attention to the book. They're so captivating that I feel I "can't put them down," if you will.
Such was the case with the third book I've read this year, The Raw Shark Texts by Steven Hall. Any book that would do well advertised in Maxim or Playboy is a book for me. Not only because I think about naked girls and Ducatis all the time*, but also because I think I crave the sort of
story-telling that a man would love: perverse, violent, and wickedly imaginative (I'm embarrassed to admit that Chuck Palahniuk is the only author I've consistently stayed loyal to, save whoever wrote The Babysitters Club series way back in fourth grade land). Shark Texts was the epitome of this kind of language, and I don't disagree with the praise its received as a ground-breaking new genre. The story and concept were a bizarre, existential amalgam of psychoanalytical theories not unlike those glorified in The Matrix. Lucky for the reader you just don't have to suffer through two and a half hours of Keanu Reeves and Cari Ann Moss humping in a cave. I don't want to divulge too much about the book, but trust me when I say that it beautifully embraces mystery, thriller, and even romance, without sacrificing original thought. In fact, (while the abstract theories are sometimes overwhelming), the psychological questions and mechanics Hall evokes are simply... exciting? The pace was absolutely perfect, and even the ending, though it threatened to be a little weak and macabre for a minute, was perfect.Basically, buy it. Read it. You won't be sorry.
OK. I wrote an entry about a book. Now my blog is intellectual!
*I don't really think about naked girls and Ducatis all the time.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
