Everyone’s got Oscars opinions and so do I, and I’m putting mine here, on my blog.
Best Picture: Should’ve been Selma. The first MLK biopic, just a better more enjoyable more thoughtful more emotionally stirring movie than every other movie this year, come on yall. Come on.
Best Director: Richard Linklater for Boyhood. Linklater had the most original idea, took the most risk, and made the biggest most intense commitment of anyone. There’s never been a movie that did what Boyhood did and odds are no other movie ever will.
Best Actor: David Oyelowo in Selma. Seriously yall I shouldn’t even have to explain myself on this.
Best Song: “Everything is Awesome” from The LEGO Movie. They gave this to “Glory” as a token recognition for Selma and an insincere apology for snubbing them in the categories that really matter. “Glory” is not a good song (sorry Common and John Legend), and “Everything is Awesome” is a good song.
Other Awards: I dunno, I either agree or don’t care about the rest.
Best Presentation of an Award: Terrence “When the molly hits” Howard
Moral of the story, fuck the Oscars.
The list could surely go on, and there is nothing more wonderful than a list, instrument of wondrous hypotyposis. -Umberto Eco
I hurt my fuckin wrist tryina write all these lists. i’m writing all these lists doing donuts in the 6. –Michael Depland
Songs don’t have to marinate like albums do. They’re more immediate, visceral. Two to five minutes for the most part, quick lil dopamine hits delivered via your eardrums. They get the blood pumping, the body moving, the emotions flowing, whatever. There’s no fakery with songs you like, can’t think about it so hard you like it now or don’t like it anymore. It gets in you or it doesn’t, nothing more to say. These were mine:
“The list could surely go on, and there is nothing more wonderful than a list, instrument of wondrous hypotyposis.”
Tonight it’s my favorite TV shows from this year. TV lists don’t need to marinate like music lists, because, uh… [inaudible]
So anyway here’s the best shit out there according to me, screaming into the void and praying I don’t hear echoes or answers. Top Five again but I’m starting with the unranked best this time because there’s more of them.
Yeah you read that headline right, this the best music of 2013 fool. You gotta let that shit marinate. Every year-end list last year looked stupid as fuck because Beyoncé dropped in mid-December. Take a breath yall.
I’m doing albums because singles are too hard to keep track of since I listen to those more in YouTube or SoundCloud than iTunes. Went through my library and arrived at 10 without counting, it was weird. I’m only ranking 5, the other 5 are just honorable mention. This is because I don’t want to put much effort into ranking them.
Listen: everybody loves gossip. How can you not love gossip? You can’t not love it. We all love it. If you don’t, you’re a liar.
Here at Vuvuzela Stylings we are very much about raising a ruckus. So let’s start some shit: I saw Diego Costa and Andre Schurrle go for the same pass a couple times in Chelsea’s easy 2-0 win over Leicester City, and even saw a brief look of frustration pass over the German’s face when his teammate scored instead of him, ergo they hate each other now. Spread the word.
Ah, the sticky hot disgusting late summer. A time when your ice cream cone melts faster than you can eat it but you don’t mind because the tear gas that police threw into your back yard has ruined the taste anyway. A time when your scenic mountain hikes to take in the beauty of nature also provide a convenient hideout from the ultraviolent militants who’ve sworn to exterminate your religious minority. A time when kids all across America are going back to school to learn about fractions in math class and electricity in science class and sentence diagrams in English class and that racism ended in the 1960s in history class and that condoms don’t work while abortions give you cancer in sex ed class. A time when your favorite sport, soccer, starts its regular season back up in jolly old England and you can forget for at least a few hours every weekend that assholes are everywhere and they run the world, which is rotten all the way down to its subatomic particles, except no you can’t ever forget that because soccer too is a parade of assholes 24/7.
Summertime, and the living is easy. Let us count the ways:
Who now knows the word Comprachicos, and who knows its meaning?
The Comprachicos or Comprapequeños were a hideous and nondescript association of wanderers, famous in the 17th century, forgotten in the 18th, unheard of in the 19th. The Comprachicos are like the ‘succession powder,’ an ancient social characteristic detail. They are part of old human ugliness. To the great eye of history, which sees everything collectively, the Comprachicos belong to the colossal fact of slavery. Joseph sold by his brethren is a chapter in their story. The Comprachicos have left their traces in the penal laws of Spain and England. You find here and there in the dark confusion of English laws the impress of this horrible truth, like the footprint of a savage in a forest.
Comprachicos, the same as Comprapequeños, is a compound Spanish word signifying Child-buyers.
The Comprachicos traded in children. They bought and sold them. They did not steal them. The kidnapping of children is another branch of industry. And what did they make of these children?
To laugh at.
The populace must needs laugh; and kings too. The mountebank is wanted in the streets; the jester at the Louvre. The one is called a Clown, the other a Fool.
The efforts of man to procure himself pleasure are at times worthy of attention of the philosopher.
What are we sketching in these few preliminary pages? A chapter in the most terrible of books; a book which might be entitled – The farming of the unhappy by the happy.
An Excerpt from The Man Who Laughs
Victor Hugo, 1869
The Post-Cesc Era is over, yall. The Age of Özil is upon us. Praise God. Verily I say unto you, these are days of which we hath not witnessed the like. A celestial power walks in the midst of mere boys, our latter-day Zidane come down from the great plateau to mete out blessings and curses on the roiling throng. Truly Fortuna smiles upon we humble vuvuzelists, to live in such a time.
Dost thou know not the golden eye that sleeps and wakes? Dost thou know not the star of the depths? Bask in its glow with us! Read on, dear reader! Join our song in glorious harmony!