Ho Ho Holy Shit

YOU GUYS. I cannot even explain. Go to the website Betamaxmas right this minute. Basically, the geniuses over there have curated a collection of YouTube clips of eighties Christmas shows/specials/commercials. Not impressed? Um, there are three channels and a *guide* that will quite possibly keep you from accomplishing anything for the next three weeks.

The setting:
Now, GO.

It All Comes Down To You

Sometimes, I get the random urge to watch forgotten romantic comedies like this one, staring the forgotten Freddie Prinze Jr., the forgotten Julia Stiles, and a slutty Selma Blair. Can someone please tell me where I even saw this movie in the first place? Probably on a brown basement couch.

As Far As I'm Concerned, Joan Baez Is Having A Moment.

Yesterday, I read Joan Didion's essay "Where the Kissing Never Stops" in Slouching Towards Bethleham about Joan Baez and her school for non-violence, and today I read this "Peace, Love, and Shopping" business about Simon Doonan's hippy-dippy, peace sign-dripping holiday windows for Barneys that—guess what?—also pay homage to the folk superstar (among others). This is a case of synchronicity...and plenty of reason for a mini ode.

From here.

And here.

GOD, I heart b&w photos. (And wish I could pull off long, flowing hair.)

I Hope You Had The Tiiiiiiime Of Your Life

Now, I didn't post this last week because of election overload '08, but now the nostalgia is really settling in. Like, the puppy guessing game has been dominating the news cycle for days, dudes. I long for the times when people "on the trail" would say stupid shit to a group of 43 people outside of the Omaha airport, and we'd hear about it seven minutes later and see video within the hour. This mashup from the folks at Best Week Ever sums up the unforgettable moments of the two-year-long campaign—and it's set to a collection of truly tear-jerking tunes.



I don't know why I remember this, but the class ahead of me in high school chose Greenday's "Time of Your Life" as their graduation song. The well-tanned girls in that class called themselves the senior bitches. That is all.

Right Now It's Impossible Not To Miss University of Chicago

The Daily Beast has an article today about why Chicago is (or should be) America's new cultural center, and it's chock-full of U of C references. Which makes me wish I was spending my rainy fall day in the C-Shop. In a booth, duh.

ADsolutely Fabulous

Now, if I see one. more. story about Don Draper/Mad Men style...I swear. But the sixties is one of my favorite decades to be ignorantly nostalgic for (along with the war-plagued forties!). I stumbled upon this REALLY awesome blog called Found in Mom's Basement that archives vintage ads. I couldn't give an F about eighties business, but check out some of this Beatles-era stuff:





I love you, Found in Mom's Basement.
SIGH.

"You Want To Be With A Winner."

The most Hunter S. Thompson thing I've read this election season is a story in the Nov. issue of GQ (the one with the kinda annoying Jimmy Kimmel cover) called "Hack: Confessions of a Presidential Campaign Reporter" by Michael Hastings.

On the campaign trail:

"The reality is: I quickly realized Rudy was a maniac. I had a recurring fantasy in which I took him out during a press conference (it was nonlethal, just something that put him out of commission for a year or so), saving America from the horror of a President Giuliani. If that sounds like I had some trouble being 'objective,' I did. Objectivity is a fallacy. In campaign reporting more than any other kind of press coverage, reporters aren’t just covering a story, they’re a part of it—influencing outcomes, setting expectations, framing candidates—and despite what they tell themselves, it’s impossible to both be a part of the action and report on it objectively. In some cases, you genuinely like the candidate you’re covering and you root for him, because over the long haul you come to see him as a human being. For a long time, this was John McCain’s ace in the hole with the press, whom he referred to as “my base.” Reporters rode along with him, and he joked with them, and that went a long way toward shaping the tone of their coverage. (Last January a group of reporters asked McCain’s staff to make McCain campaign press T-shirts for them.) And because your success is linked to the candidate’s, you want to be with a winner, because that’s the story that makes the paper or the magazine or gets you on TV."

Hunter S. Thompson in 1971, by way of guardian.co.uk. Chic.
And on time with the Clinton crew:

"I thought it might be better jumping over to the Democrats; at least I wasn’t appalled by their basic ideas. But Hillary Clinton’s campaign was killing me. I could feel my soul die a little more with each cigarette break I took, each prepackaged meal I stuffed into my face. I couldn’t stop eating when I was with her, and there was always food available. On most days, we took three to five flights, and each flight, no matter how short, had a catered meal. The campaigns charge reporters for all travel (the cost runs from $1,000 to $3,000 per day, per reporter), and catering is included in that price. Then there is food served at each event—pizza, sandwiches, celery, carrots, broccoli, bowl upon bowl of ranch dip, baskets of candy and chips. In part I felt obligated to eat every fucking thing in front of me, since it costs enough. But there was also a feeling that you were in a Gulag on wheels. Everyone traveling with the campaigns is completely dependent on them for food and transportation and shelter—not to mention any little interview crumb they toss our way, any remotely intriguing piece of information. Political reporting is founded on very dysfunctional relationships. You need them and they need you, but on some level they hate and distrust you (and on some level you, too, hate and distrust them), and in my experience a lot of that gets sublimated into food. Eat, hoard, scrounge, because you never know if they’ll give you anything more."

"Every Editor-In-Chief's First Name Has Started With an A."

Once upon a last spring, I was obsessed with a show called The Paper. If I didn't tell you about this, you're lucky. It was an eight-episode MTV reality show about a high school newspaper in Florida, and this was the beauty of it: It wasn't in New York or L.A. It took place at an otherwise normal public school in Weston, Florida, that just so happened to have an award-winning paper.

The best character on the show was, by far, Amanda Lorber. She wasn't especially charming or smart or bitchy. She was unapologetically herself and was the editor-in-chief. (Note: One of the funniest things about the show was that all the paper's staffers called the head-honcho gig the "In-Chief" job. I have never heard this abbreviation used anywhere else. God, that's soooooooo H.S. clubby. LOVE.)

Beyond Amanda, there's Alex, who used to be really good friends with Amanda but found a new group of friends between junior and senior years (I suspect he started smoking pot?) and is now too cool for Amanda. There's Adam, who lives for drama and is an Ice Capades-loving gay. There's Gina, who's a cunning bitch who's not so big on hangin' with girls, and her boyfriend Trevor, who no doubt spends hours staring at himself in the mirror.

I'm telling you, this is good shit. And it's all online. This is the stuff Sunday afternoons are made of. To prove my devotion, a screenshot of A.L.'s Facebook page because, yup, I befriended her—in the online stalker sense of the word.

Forgotten Amazingness

J and I got on the topic of nineties music tonight, and I couldn't for the life of me think of the name of what must be one of the most influential boy bands to ever exist. That is, O-Town, the subject of the first season of MTV's tragic Making the Band and a group that was successful from about 2000 to 2001...soooo not the nineties. Oopsy doops. The group photo is, in a word, depressing. It makes Sugar Ray look chic. But the music...oh the music...

Hit number one: "Liquid Dreams," which is basically as slimy as it sounds. (Please note that this is a remix. Apparently the song isn't famous enough for the original to exist on Imeem? Whatevs.



Then the heartfelt "All or Nothing." Chorus:
Cause I want it all
Or nothing at all
There's no where left to fall
When you reach the bottom it's now or never
Is it all
Or are we just friends
Is this how it ends
With a simple telephone call
You leave me here with nothing at all



Dy-na-mite.