I was born and raised in southeastern Wisconsin in a modest and love-filled home. We were a happy working-class family that spent endless hours together doing all the kinds of things suburban families did in the 1980s in Wisconsin. Namely, eat good food and watch sports.
My grandparents would regularly take the grandchildren in […]
I didn’t go to Chick-fil-A yesterday. But I didn’t not go either.
I am done with this whole exercise in protest, and protesting the protest. Not because the two sides are protesting, but because the grounds from which both sides are protesting are so shaky.
Everyday, everyone of us patronizes some private business […]
What’s wrong with this picture?
Not sure yet? Besides the awful color palette and type selections, the flag waving ever-so-hopefully at the top is union down. Do you know what that means? I do.
Unless you are slobbering neanderthal (a creature that most certainly did not exist… EVER!) you ought to be very frustrated with American political discourse, and equally, evangelical discourse on political America. With the constant stream of opinionating and commentating on the opinionators coming from politicians to the media, to major evangelical mouthpieces, it is almost impossible to find a cogent argument these days that isn’t riddled with fallacies.
So when I discovered The NonSequitur it was like finding the stash of Christmas presents in my parents’ closet still unwrapped. Here’s an excerpt from the site’s “about” page…
After reading this article yesterday (which, in short, explains why Survivor’s choice of Nicaragua as its next glamorous-unglamorous location is an ethical atrocity and should be boycotted by all fans and non-fans of the show), I was reminded of, not only how this show carelessly dehumanizes our culture by covering up the socio-political realities of the places they choose as locations for the sake of ratings and ad dollars with no regard for the long-term effects of their decisions and actions, but also how it’s time for some real danger in these shows. (Anyone remember Schwarzenegger’s magnum opus The Running Man?)
To amplify the point, I present to you a prophetic Looney Tunes cartoonwhich is a glimpse into what will put the “real” back in reality TV. Sit back, relax and enjoy the future.
Editors Note: Congratulations to Kevin Gosa for writing the longest, most rambly (and yet still grammatically correct) sentence ever published on Patrol. Happy Friday, readers.
I am the Omega Man. I am Legend. I am the only man on earth who doesn’t think Arcade Fire’s new record is the pinnacle of the evolution of popular music. In fact, I need to stand on a six-foot stepladder just to keep my head above the effusive foam rolling out of the dropped-jaw mouths of rabid fans.
For the record, I do not think “The Suburbs” is bad music. It’s good. But is it great? Will it still be memorable in ten years? Or even ten months? Is Arcade Fire’s music comparable to a comet coming from another solar system to shed a kind of light we’ve never seen before? Or is it more like an ordinary flashlight that simply shows us how dark things usually are?
I’d go with the latter, and this is a role that I consider honorable. But let’s be clear that it is the abyss-like darkness that surrounds Arcade Fire which makes their illumination so brilliant, not the light itself. Bands like them have come before and they will come again, producing albums of “Suburbs” caliber as well.
Of course, since it feels like the music that is all around us, the music most accessible and prevalent, is as dim as a forest unlit by the moon, a musical flashlight emerging from the darkness feels like the most wonderful and hopeful light we’ve ever seen.
I’ve been feeling weighed down since the weekend – body and soul. I haven’t been able to determine whether it’s from this hellish Northeast heatwave, or from the knowledge that someone out there is still willing to pay M. Night Shyamalan to direct feature films.
After half of a week of partially sleepless nights, I realized from whence my sorrow cometh. And it is clear to me now that only way to shed this burden is to ensure that justice will be done.
I was reminded of a trio of summertime childhood heroes who upon the discovery of their true enemy, their own personal El Guapo – who in their case happened to be the actual El Guapo – would declaim, “wherever there is injustice, you will find us. Wherever there is suffering, we’ll be there. Wherever liberty is threatened, you will find,” well, today me…
What could possibly explain the new data plans they rolled out?
I don’t know.
Seriously, if anyone knows, leave a comment on the blog. Because I sure as heck-fire don’t. In fact, I don’t even have anything to say about it. I have a deadline for this post and no material because all but the confundus neurons have stopped firing in my, apparently, pea-sized brain. All I can think about is how AT&T came up with this cockamamie scenario.
What was that meeting like?
“Hey, I’ve got an idea! How ’bout we we start charging 65% of our customers half of what they’ve been paying us for the same exact thing they are already using!” And then some balding, bulge-bellied buffoon shouts, “that’s brilliant,” with a tongue-gurgling attempt at an Irish accent hoping the female executive sitting four leather-clad chairs down will think he’s earned that man-pooch drinking a couple Guinness every night while watching UEFA Champions League matches, not sitting on his fart-stained couch with a kiddie pool full of half-empty PBRs, melted ice and silk undies instructing him to “wash cold,” while the TV burns WWE SO-RAW-YOU’LL-GET-BOTULISM deep enough into his retinae to erase those now painful memories of “the good ole days” back in the frat house at Coasted-Through-College-Cause-Dad-Has-Got-A-Friend-At-AT&T State.
Oh Dear Lost-Lovers,
I know your recent loss of Lost is looming; it’s hard to let go of a love so long in lingering. Even when you had begun to think that perhaps it’s time for less Lost; you feel its absence and know that while the drama’s players are now found, you are lost.
I can empathize; I was lured then left by a long-running love once. And, I lived to tell that there is hope. That you, too, will find your way to the church and see there all that you loved about Lost.
In fact, what if I told you that I knew where that church was? What if I said its doors will once again open this fall? And what if, over the summer, it were possible to begin to climb your way out of the purgatory in which you now find yourself?
What if you could have back all of what made Lost your greatest love – and more?
Characters that feel like family, unrequited love, death and resurrection, action and adventure, consipiration, mysterious origins, sub-sub-subplots, high-techery, super-suspension of disbelief, familial uber-loyalty, double-crossing, triple-crossing, flashbacks, fabulous acting, rich characterization, profound writing, a weekly abandoning of your mundane existence into a world of enigma and possibility, beautiful people, unlikely heroes and likeable/hateable villains – all of these could once again be yours. And then add to that humor, silliness, stupendous non-sequiturs, elaborate covers, spies and Captain Awesome.
As much as I would love to promise you tropical polar bears, time travel, flash sidewayses (that is the correct plural of flash sideways, right?), immortals, and smoke monsters, you won’t find those here.
And still, you ask, “Where can I find this great hope?”
Some things are indeed sacred – set apart. Only with the greatest degree of penitence and reverence shall such objects or artifacts be approached. And even then one ought to question their motives and intentions for approaching.
In spite of this universal reality, we again see the brazen arrogance of our society, its gatekeepers and the public manifested in the heretical handling of a pillar of contemporary American culture. And I will not apologize for standing my ground. I will draw a line in the sand – a line which you do not cross. A line that places those icons on the pedestal they deserve. You don’t draw a mustache on the Mona Lisa. You don’t defecate in Duchamp’s Fountain (unless you’re using the one at his house when he invites you over for BBQ). And you don’t adapt, adjust or alter the A-Team.
In great anticipation of Iron Man 2’s opening scene, I sat, snarfing snacks shortly after I savored supple steak and scintillating conversation with several associates. I sat, a mouthful of corn in both popped and syrup form. I sat, my captain’s chair slightly reclined, feet perched atop empty seat in front of me, and seasoned my obese tub of popcorn with the salt of my own tears as I watched the last of my childhood heroes die a humiliating death before my eyes (and by this point already greasy pores).
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