...ohoh...I've gotten sucked into that VH1 "Greatest Songs of the 80s" marathon...shit. I just saw Nena, who did "99 Luft Balloons." How do you do a song in English, and then another version in German? How do the words rhyme in both languages? Oooh, I see now that she is "fighting as an advocate for children." What does that mean? Who is she fighting? Are there really groups actively against children? Other than Kathie Lee Gifford, I mean?
oooh, "Fight the Power"...whoever this lily-white woman narrator is, I like the way she's dripping with glee as she says the song was "about 'The Man'", as if she's on their side of this, like she was "down" with PE and the black struggle in general. "Finally, somebody GETS me and my Vassar sistahs!!!" Hmm. Maybe if you're getting paid thousands of dollars to read cue cards on MTV you ARE 'The Man.'
Oooooh....”Keep on Loving You” by REO. Who doesn’t love this slice? Camon. Tho getting an up close look at Kevin Cronin’s “a little too tight poodle mullet” reminds of why all of a sudden a lot of those bands disappeared once videos became the standard instead of radio. Christopher Cross, I’m looking at you. Well, not anymore actually, but you get my point.
Some dude just said “I slow-skated my ass off” to Foreigner’s “I Wanna Know What Love Is.” His Venezuelan waiter boyfriend is gonna choke on a dick when he looks up and sees his bf on tv saying that. Yeesh.
I just saw a headline on CNN.com “Teenage Boy Rapes His Own Mother.” Am I going to hell for instantly thinking “mmmm...wonder if she’s hot.”?
“Whip It”, Devo. Whatever.
Hmmm. Appears there is now Devo 2.0, which is a kiddie version of Devo, a la that Guns n Roses kiddie band. This seems to be the new kitsch trend, no? Maybe I’ll start the next trend, old men versions of kiddie groups. 80 year old dudes singing “MMMBop” or old reefer cats doing “Pass the Dutchie.” Sexy? Maybe. Either way, if you fuck a dead animal is it bestiality or necrophilia? Just wondrin. No reason.
I’m not even joking, write after I typed this old man line I got a recruiting email from the Army, and it mentions that I must be between the ages of 17 and 41. 41???!!! No wonder we can’t win this fucking war. Nothing against older guys, but it probably is hard to win a war if half the troops gotta piss every 5 minutes. And the time taken up by prostate exams alone must be adding years onto this fucking war.
Oooh, “Mr. Roboto”!! Secret secret, I’ve got a secret!!! (actually, no you don’t...the word is out: you suck, and your perm is NOT helping out your “straight case.”)
Crap, its over for now.....I’ll hafta be on the lookout for the next 60 “classics” when they show it.
PS – spellcheck just informed me that the spelling of the word for “Sexual relations between a human and an animal“ is NOT what you would naturally think it is, B-E-A-S-T-I-A-L-I-T-Y, as in okay, makes sense to start it with the word “beast” but is in fact B-E-S-T-I-A-L-I-T-Y. Is this weird? To me, seems like someone consciously changed what would be the natural spelling so that the first 4 words spell out the word “best.” I guess it’s nice to see that whoever came up with the word for the act is also a big fan of it.
Tuesday, October 31, 2006
Happy Halloween
Lookin forward to tonite, my first Halloween in 20 years that i can enjoy with KIDS instead of getting shit-faced hitting on chicks in their drawers pretending to be a squirrel. Can we get an official number of women that were "horrified" by Monica Lewinsky yet snapped their ankles in half sprinting to dress up as her for Halloween? And does anyone know anyone who knows anyone who actually got the 'ol razor in the apple? Seems like if anyone pulled that on a kid he'd get busted - seriously, if some asshole tried to pass an apple off on you during trick or treating, you'd fucking remember who it was, no? And what kid came home, dumped out his bag of candy on the table and immediately reached over the piles of Snickers and candy corn to shove an APPLE into his mouth? Who's this Poindexter? I would think you'd eventually SEE a razor since by the time you had gorged on your loot the damn thing woulda rotted away. "Oh look, there's a razor in this apple."
Anyways, this is the most excited about a Halloween since the first year I went as "The 7-Up Dot", my freshman year of college. Was a hit then and for the next 3 years. I believe the axiom is "Don't fix what ain't broke, especially if it's directly responsible for a blowjob in the bathroom." And I will make a point to remember to use "Poindexter" more in the future!
Anyways, this is the most excited about a Halloween since the first year I went as "The 7-Up Dot", my freshman year of college. Was a hit then and for the next 3 years. I believe the axiom is "Don't fix what ain't broke, especially if it's directly responsible for a blowjob in the bathroom." And I will make a point to remember to use "Poindexter" more in the future!
Thursday, October 19, 2006
Guilt Pool Party
I’ve been thinking about my mother recently, her birthday being a few days ago, and it got me thinking about something I’ve felt guilty about even since I was a young boy. No, not THAT…whatever happens between a boy, stirrings in his young groin and Catherine Bach on the tv stays with that boy. Just to keep your mind wet, I will admit that this guilt had something to do with Barbie dolls.
My mother was incredibly down to earth, never one to put on airs. For example, one time I tagged along while she visited one of our neighbors and at the door mentioned that she had been up all night and gave my neighbor that “you know what I mean” look.
“Oh Judith, you were irregular?” my uber-Southern polite neighbor cooed. “Nah” my mom quickly said “I had the trots.”
Part of this, I always thought, was due to my mother HATING living not only in the South, but in a tiny, tiny town in the South. Both my parents were from parts of Lowell, Massachusetts, but while my father quickly adopted a Southern drawl and took to sipping iced tea while taking us from one Civil War battlefield to the next, my mother preferred to smoke her Winston 100s and pull her hair out wondering why the hell this hick town school system would shut down for a mere 8 inches of snow on the ground. “We used to go to school in a blizzard!!!” “Well, you lived in a city.” “Edmund, shut the hell up!” “I’m Xmastime!” “Whichever, you little (beep) redneck.” I always thought it was BECAUSE she hated the small-town Southern life that she clung to her accent like myself at the Pizza Hut buffet waiting for the meat pizzas to come out; she used her over-the-top Boston accent like a gun to spit at everyone, all the “natives” who turned their noses up at all the come-heres and kept them turned up no matter what. Unless you came over on the Mayflower in my hometown, you were viewed as outsiders, no matter how many generations you had been there. She took pride in being the only Yankee in a hick town, and she was the type to just not take shit from nobody - even to the point of telling Robert Kennedy to go to hell after accidently stepping on her foot. She worked at the town library, and apparently some old man redneck fuck started showing up to harass her, telling her to take her Yankee ass back home, the South will rise again, blah blah blah. She would barely pay attention to him. This went on for a coupla weeks until one day he’s standing there doing his spiel and all of a sudden he pulls a gun out and points it at her. In a library!! He says to her “Get your Yankee ass outta town or I’m gonna kill you.” Nice southern hospitality! Anyways. So my mother looks up at him slowly, takes off her glasses and says “Mister…I got four kids at home. Do your worst.” Puts her glasses on, goes back to work, and that was the last time he ever came by the library.
Not a lot of people know this, but my mother invented the phrase “If your fathah has to pull this caaahhh oveehhh, so help me Gwad.” This usually happened on long trips into Richmond for Mass, my brother and I in our suits (me – tan 150% polyester coat/pants, yellow short-sleeved button down and brown clip-on; him in the powder-blue counterpart) in the backseat clowning around like idiots. I don’t know how it could come to this in an air-conditioned car, but I don’t ever remember rolling up into the church parking lot and getting outta the car and NOT being completely drenched in sweat – shirttail out, a shoe missing, tie clipped to my neck. Anyways, now that I think of it, I don’t ever remember my father actually pulling the car over; you could tell that no matter how many times my mother would shout that threat my dad would be thinking “there’s no WAY in hell I’m stopping this car!” but the threat was always good enough to calm us down for a good minute or two. This was the same arrangement my parents had with the routine spankings – after fucking up, my mother would spend 3 hours letting me know that “when your faaathah comes home he is going to KILL you!” Of course my dad would come home from work exhausted, all he wants to do is shower and eat dinner, and he’s like “…what’d he do?...set fire to the shed, huh….” And he’d give me that glare that only fathers can give sons, that “every minute you keep me from dinner is a day BEFORE your 18th birthday I’m dropping your ass off at the Army depot” glare. But, without fail, it would be my mother running to the belt drawer to administer the beating; she always gave the daily beatings. And I was one of those kids that could NOT go sleep without getting a whuppin. I’d be in bed, trying to sleep thinking “…something’s not right, this is weird…” and my mother would be pacing the kitchen thinking “I know that kid isn’t asleep yet…” when without fail I’d find a way to rouse myself outta bed, roll into the kitchen and say something stupid enough to get the beating in before midnight. For my father to actually make the effort of beating one of us it would have to be the World Series of beatings, the kind of beating where for days after you’d make sure he saw you hand off that day’s school drawings etc to your mother with a happy “I love you!.” Or, even better, you’d cut the grass without being told. My father would beat me once a year, it was as if he’d realize his license for spanking a kid was about to expire for the year and he had to get his licks in.
Back to why I’ve been guilt-ridden all these years. In early 1979, when I was 6 years old, my mother’s brother was killed. My only memory of him was him teaching my brother and I how to swim. So of course I remembered him years later when I failed my college swimming test and had to take summer school after graduation. Thanks buddy!! Anyways, after he died I remember my mother locked herself in her room for a long time. Which, when you’re 6 years old, is probably 10 minutes. You’re not as sensitive when you’re 6, brothers and sisters have a different meaning when you’re that young. While the death of a sibling now would crush me, I’m fairly sure I spent a chunk of my childhood praying for my brother’s death, usually after another ass-whooping in the back yard or another session of “All A's again Edmund, great!...Xmastime, lets see your report card…” grrrr. So my mother’s in her bed with the lights out, I guess crying or whatever and my dad lines my brother and I up in the hallway and says that each of us is gonna go in and talk to our mother, to cheer her up a bit. Cause I guess nothing can cheer a woman up like a coupla kids who can hardly speak and are probably covered in dirt and gravel from “playing.” So my brother walks in, a few minutes go by. He comes out, and while the door was open for a second I swear I looked in and saw bright rainbow lights shining, angels singing “Allelujah! Allelujah!!” and, I'm not even kidding, cuddly cute forest animals sipping water from a brook. Greeeeat, I thought as my brother passed by, knowing His Goldenous had scored big. I knew this would be tough to top as my father instructed me to open the door and go in.
Now, when I was a young, young, YOUNG boy I was a bit of a, shall we say, dreamer. Okay, homo. No, dreamer. In the few moments when I wasn’t playing with my brother, I would dream I was, I dunno, a fucking cowboy or Luke Skywalker or whatever. Or, as we did in those pre-internet days, we’d go through the Sears catalog and dream about toys we knew we would never ever get. After the usual 6 year old boy tour of duty through all the sports stuff, my wandering eyes landed on…well, I’m at a loss but to show a picture here.
Ah yes, the Barbie pool party set. I saw the picture in the catalog, and it just seemed so…FUN!! There was a pool, there were some people hanging round a pool, what’s the problem?!?! For hours I’d look at the picture and pretend I was playing with it, going through all kinds of scenarios, moving everybody around the pool as I saw fit. Wanna go in the pool? No problem!! Wanna hang out in deck chairs being cool? No sweat! To me, it was the end-all of toys, the end-all of even being a kid. I guess when you’re 6 years old, you actually have to have a dick in your mouth to think “You know…this might be gay…”
So I walk through the door and close it behind me and the first thing I think is “boy, is it dark..” until my eyes adjusted to the darkness, after which all I could think was “..hey…how come THEY get air conditioning??!!” To this day I’m proud that at such a young age I was the public advocate for air conditioning that I was. Finally my eyes settle on my mother, who is curled up in bed, on her side. I go to the side of the bed and I can see she’s been crying, she IS crying, and she puts her hand on my head and smiles and starts talking about…I dunno what the hell she was saying, I was just like “this is weird.” Anyway she’s talking, she loves me blah blah blah I’m so lucky to have a brother and sister blah blah blah and then, from outta nowhere, she says
“Is there a toy you’d like me to get for you?”
I snap to the moment and look up at her. Now, even at 6, you know something’s wrong, there’s nothing more unsettling than a parent crying, and you KNOW you have to step up and not be an asshole, you have to say something like oh, I just want you to not be sad, or I just wanna be a good kid (well, for a week) etc. You KNOW this, but all I hear is
“Is there a toy you’d like me to get for you?”
People, I have given tons of presentations in my lifetime, be it in school or for work, and I have never pitched an idea as fervishly as I did on that day. Before I even realize it I’ve launched into a speech about why I wanted the Barbie Pool Party set, why I needed it and all the good it would bring to the family, I mean I was like Atticus Finch, presenting my case like someone’s life depended on it. I'm Knute Rockne shouting out the "Win one for the Gipper!" speech - I’m on the bed, I’m standing on a chair, I’m pointing out the window, I’m on my knees, I'm getting "Amen!!" shouts from the Pointer Sisters in the corner. I’m surprised I didn’t whip out some charts and graphs, maybe some slides. “If you’ll look at page 17, paragraph 2ii…” Christ. Finally I stop, sweating and out of breath, and I’ll never forget that look in my mother’s eyes. I knew I had let her down, I knew I had been a complete ass, and all I could do was turn around and slowly walk out the door into the hallway. I felt guilty that day, and I’ve felt guilty ever since, even though my mother never ever mentioned it probably never thought twice of it. For one, I was a kid, and I guess she also had bigger things on her mind at the time. It would be funny to think that, as the years went by and I grew into a strapping young man (hard to believe I know), if she ever thought of that moment; if one time she was at one of my football games and after I laid some dude out on the field, as the poor dude was twitching while the trainer came onto the field to help, did she ever flash back to a distant memeory and think to herself "...did...did this kid actually ask me for a fucking Barbie Doll set? with a POOL?!! If I hafta tell his faaathah about this..."
My mother was incredibly down to earth, never one to put on airs. For example, one time I tagged along while she visited one of our neighbors and at the door mentioned that she had been up all night and gave my neighbor that “you know what I mean” look.
“Oh Judith, you were irregular?” my uber-Southern polite neighbor cooed. “Nah” my mom quickly said “I had the trots.”
Part of this, I always thought, was due to my mother HATING living not only in the South, but in a tiny, tiny town in the South. Both my parents were from parts of Lowell, Massachusetts, but while my father quickly adopted a Southern drawl and took to sipping iced tea while taking us from one Civil War battlefield to the next, my mother preferred to smoke her Winston 100s and pull her hair out wondering why the hell this hick town school system would shut down for a mere 8 inches of snow on the ground. “We used to go to school in a blizzard!!!” “Well, you lived in a city.” “Edmund, shut the hell up!” “I’m Xmastime!” “Whichever, you little (beep) redneck.” I always thought it was BECAUSE she hated the small-town Southern life that she clung to her accent like myself at the Pizza Hut buffet waiting for the meat pizzas to come out; she used her over-the-top Boston accent like a gun to spit at everyone, all the “natives” who turned their noses up at all the come-heres and kept them turned up no matter what. Unless you came over on the Mayflower in my hometown, you were viewed as outsiders, no matter how many generations you had been there. She took pride in being the only Yankee in a hick town, and she was the type to just not take shit from nobody - even to the point of telling Robert Kennedy to go to hell after accidently stepping on her foot. She worked at the town library, and apparently some old man redneck fuck started showing up to harass her, telling her to take her Yankee ass back home, the South will rise again, blah blah blah. She would barely pay attention to him. This went on for a coupla weeks until one day he’s standing there doing his spiel and all of a sudden he pulls a gun out and points it at her. In a library!! He says to her “Get your Yankee ass outta town or I’m gonna kill you.” Nice southern hospitality! Anyways. So my mother looks up at him slowly, takes off her glasses and says “Mister…I got four kids at home. Do your worst.” Puts her glasses on, goes back to work, and that was the last time he ever came by the library.
Not a lot of people know this, but my mother invented the phrase “If your fathah has to pull this caaahhh oveehhh, so help me Gwad.” This usually happened on long trips into Richmond for Mass, my brother and I in our suits (me – tan 150% polyester coat/pants, yellow short-sleeved button down and brown clip-on; him in the powder-blue counterpart) in the backseat clowning around like idiots. I don’t know how it could come to this in an air-conditioned car, but I don’t ever remember rolling up into the church parking lot and getting outta the car and NOT being completely drenched in sweat – shirttail out, a shoe missing, tie clipped to my neck. Anyways, now that I think of it, I don’t ever remember my father actually pulling the car over; you could tell that no matter how many times my mother would shout that threat my dad would be thinking “there’s no WAY in hell I’m stopping this car!” but the threat was always good enough to calm us down for a good minute or two. This was the same arrangement my parents had with the routine spankings – after fucking up, my mother would spend 3 hours letting me know that “when your faaathah comes home he is going to KILL you!” Of course my dad would come home from work exhausted, all he wants to do is shower and eat dinner, and he’s like “…what’d he do?...set fire to the shed, huh….” And he’d give me that glare that only fathers can give sons, that “every minute you keep me from dinner is a day BEFORE your 18th birthday I’m dropping your ass off at the Army depot” glare. But, without fail, it would be my mother running to the belt drawer to administer the beating; she always gave the daily beatings. And I was one of those kids that could NOT go sleep without getting a whuppin. I’d be in bed, trying to sleep thinking “…something’s not right, this is weird…” and my mother would be pacing the kitchen thinking “I know that kid isn’t asleep yet…” when without fail I’d find a way to rouse myself outta bed, roll into the kitchen and say something stupid enough to get the beating in before midnight. For my father to actually make the effort of beating one of us it would have to be the World Series of beatings, the kind of beating where for days after you’d make sure he saw you hand off that day’s school drawings etc to your mother with a happy “I love you!.” Or, even better, you’d cut the grass without being told. My father would beat me once a year, it was as if he’d realize his license for spanking a kid was about to expire for the year and he had to get his licks in.
Back to why I’ve been guilt-ridden all these years. In early 1979, when I was 6 years old, my mother’s brother was killed. My only memory of him was him teaching my brother and I how to swim. So of course I remembered him years later when I failed my college swimming test and had to take summer school after graduation. Thanks buddy!! Anyways, after he died I remember my mother locked herself in her room for a long time. Which, when you’re 6 years old, is probably 10 minutes. You’re not as sensitive when you’re 6, brothers and sisters have a different meaning when you’re that young. While the death of a sibling now would crush me, I’m fairly sure I spent a chunk of my childhood praying for my brother’s death, usually after another ass-whooping in the back yard or another session of “All A's again Edmund, great!...Xmastime, lets see your report card…” grrrr. So my mother’s in her bed with the lights out, I guess crying or whatever and my dad lines my brother and I up in the hallway and says that each of us is gonna go in and talk to our mother, to cheer her up a bit. Cause I guess nothing can cheer a woman up like a coupla kids who can hardly speak and are probably covered in dirt and gravel from “playing.” So my brother walks in, a few minutes go by. He comes out, and while the door was open for a second I swear I looked in and saw bright rainbow lights shining, angels singing “Allelujah! Allelujah!!” and, I'm not even kidding, cuddly cute forest animals sipping water from a brook. Greeeeat, I thought as my brother passed by, knowing His Goldenous had scored big. I knew this would be tough to top as my father instructed me to open the door and go in.
Now, when I was a young, young, YOUNG boy I was a bit of a, shall we say, dreamer. Okay, homo. No, dreamer. In the few moments when I wasn’t playing with my brother, I would dream I was, I dunno, a fucking cowboy or Luke Skywalker or whatever. Or, as we did in those pre-internet days, we’d go through the Sears catalog and dream about toys we knew we would never ever get. After the usual 6 year old boy tour of duty through all the sports stuff, my wandering eyes landed on…well, I’m at a loss but to show a picture here.
Ah yes, the Barbie pool party set. I saw the picture in the catalog, and it just seemed so…FUN!! There was a pool, there were some people hanging round a pool, what’s the problem?!?! For hours I’d look at the picture and pretend I was playing with it, going through all kinds of scenarios, moving everybody around the pool as I saw fit. Wanna go in the pool? No problem!! Wanna hang out in deck chairs being cool? No sweat! To me, it was the end-all of toys, the end-all of even being a kid. I guess when you’re 6 years old, you actually have to have a dick in your mouth to think “You know…this might be gay…”
So I walk through the door and close it behind me and the first thing I think is “boy, is it dark..” until my eyes adjusted to the darkness, after which all I could think was “..hey…how come THEY get air conditioning??!!” To this day I’m proud that at such a young age I was the public advocate for air conditioning that I was. Finally my eyes settle on my mother, who is curled up in bed, on her side. I go to the side of the bed and I can see she’s been crying, she IS crying, and she puts her hand on my head and smiles and starts talking about…I dunno what the hell she was saying, I was just like “this is weird.” Anyway she’s talking, she loves me blah blah blah I’m so lucky to have a brother and sister blah blah blah and then, from outta nowhere, she says
“Is there a toy you’d like me to get for you?”
I snap to the moment and look up at her. Now, even at 6, you know something’s wrong, there’s nothing more unsettling than a parent crying, and you KNOW you have to step up and not be an asshole, you have to say something like oh, I just want you to not be sad, or I just wanna be a good kid (well, for a week) etc. You KNOW this, but all I hear is
“Is there a toy you’d like me to get for you?”
People, I have given tons of presentations in my lifetime, be it in school or for work, and I have never pitched an idea as fervishly as I did on that day. Before I even realize it I’ve launched into a speech about why I wanted the Barbie Pool Party set, why I needed it and all the good it would bring to the family, I mean I was like Atticus Finch, presenting my case like someone’s life depended on it. I'm Knute Rockne shouting out the "Win one for the Gipper!" speech - I’m on the bed, I’m standing on a chair, I’m pointing out the window, I’m on my knees, I'm getting "Amen!!" shouts from the Pointer Sisters in the corner. I’m surprised I didn’t whip out some charts and graphs, maybe some slides. “If you’ll look at page 17, paragraph 2ii…” Christ. Finally I stop, sweating and out of breath, and I’ll never forget that look in my mother’s eyes. I knew I had let her down, I knew I had been a complete ass, and all I could do was turn around and slowly walk out the door into the hallway. I felt guilty that day, and I’ve felt guilty ever since, even though my mother never ever mentioned it probably never thought twice of it. For one, I was a kid, and I guess she also had bigger things on her mind at the time. It would be funny to think that, as the years went by and I grew into a strapping young man (hard to believe I know), if she ever thought of that moment; if one time she was at one of my football games and after I laid some dude out on the field, as the poor dude was twitching while the trainer came onto the field to help, did she ever flash back to a distant memeory and think to herself "...did...did this kid actually ask me for a fucking Barbie Doll set? with a POOL?!! If I hafta tell his faaathah about this..."
Thursday, October 12, 2006
House of Horrors
I have to tell you people something. I, in my (X) years, have seen my share of B-A-D television. Actually I've seen my share, your share, and the cast of Ben-Hur's share. I screamed when Tori took over for a suddenly-gone Kellie & Jessie. I still think Beth overreacted for the cameras about David "raping" Tami. I spend a lot of my days wishing they'd put "Love Monkey" back on tv; such a show that transcends mere "bad tv" into "yes, these people are duping me and insulting me and I want more!!!" deserves to be on tv 24/7. And of course I have spent hours of my life screaming at the tv while Dawson and the gang parried one another, one-upping themselves with every possible amazing droplet of self-realization that belied the fact that they were 16, lived in the boondocks and one of them was a Scientologist Hereby in Training (S.H.I.T).
But then, just when you think you’ve topped out after spending months wondering why Flav could even entertain picking New York over Hoops, the Oh-My-God This Is Awful TV Fairy comes and drops a show on you that is so bad on every level, you feel that there is a God and he LOVES you. This is how I felt last night when I turned to E! and started watching…”The Carter House.” Hell, watching this steaming pile of a show, I realized that not only does God love me, but he must owe me something fierce.
To summarize, this is a reality (hahahah!!!) show about Nick Carter (Backstreet really IS back, bitches!!), his oversized house and his 4 mooching, whining siblings that live there. This includes Aaron Carter, who, if I have studied my InTouch and US Weeklys correctly, is some sort of “music” star. I vaguely know him from some lover’s feud between some combination of Lindsey/Paris/Hillary/whothefuckever. Turns out I misunderstood the headlines from this story; upon looking at this show I realize that these girls were not fighting over who got to HAVE this idiot as a boyfriend, but who DIDN’T have him as a boyfriend.
This show is the most high-pitched emotionally fevered show I have ever seen in my life; it opens with some apparent life or death crisis involving their mother, and then somehow gets MORE emotional as the show goes on. Mostly, these people stand around all day in bathing suits and scream at each other, losing their shit. I feel like I’m watching hour three of an 8 year-old black kid’s funeral in Alabama. Every single second is filled with some dramatic “We’re a family!! We have to be here for each other after all we’ve been through!!” screed while Aaron crouches on the ground and tries to look serious while wonderng “Can I get away with these Capri pants?” I’d say the show is a combination of “The Jerry Springer Show” and the Bailey intervention scene in “Party of Five”, but I don’t want to insult the integrity of Springer or teenage alcoholism.
As verbally emotional as these people are, they touch and hug each other a lot too. Here’s Aaron and Nick hugging it out after another fight. Here’s Nick in bed, hugging 2 of his sisters. Here’s Aaron teaching one of his sisters how to spin the pea. Okay, that one I made up, but you get the point. As I’m watching another hug ‘n kiss session I find myself thinking geez, these kids touch each other more than the guys in “Stand by Me” before laughing to myself that this is, of course, mathematically impossible. I don’t know just how insular this family is, but the description of episode 2 on the guide says “Aaron throws a party while Nick is away.” Ooooooh, Im thinking, nice! Nick’s gone, we can have all these smoking hot 22 year old chicks come over in bathing suits wanting to preen for the screen. So the party kicks off and the guest list is…Aaron and his three “maybe one more biscuit away from plumping up to the point of no return” sisters. Hmm. Seriously, about the sisters, I’m pretty sure I have never turned on a reality show with a dinner scene featuring a gallon tub of Country Crock on the table. Nice.
Hey, here’s Aaron curled up on deck chairs by the pool playing slappy-ass with his sisters. Great. But we do get what I know is some foreshadowing: Aaron gets wasted. This is twofold – it allows for the inevitable scene of Nick coming back and having a shouting match about Aaron turning into their father who is SURPRISE-A DRUNK! How can we have a reality show star have a beer without an emotional “you’re just like him!!!!” speech? And, if these producers play their cards right, we can get Lacey Chebert to come back with Scott Wolf to re-create the “Bailey, I loved you the best!” moment during Bai-dog’s intervention.
I guess the main crux of the show is that while the three sisters spend their days eating Nick’s food and trying to guess if big bro was in N Sync or Backstreet Boys, it’s Aaron’s job to challenge Nick’s authority. For instance, in the house is their recording studio. I’d love to hear the “gems” that have come outta this joint. First of all, anthropologists should spend some time with this room, because somehow when he walks through the door into the studio “Aaron”, who as far as I can tell alternates his time flailing on the floor crying about his family and accidentally stepping on the bombs his surely suicidal dog leaves in the kitchen, instantly morphs into “AC”, the whackest stone-cold thug this side of Malibu. His “Boyeeez!!” are in there waiting to work on some mad crazy beats with him, the baseball cap on his head gets spun to the side, and then we’re treated to a few moments of AC hitting some pretend buttons while his Boyeeez! online shop for boats with the money they’re getting for babysitting Casper the Friendly Idiot. The prize moment on tv though, is all of a sudden AC is alone listening to his newest song, and he starts doing some awful hip-hop dance, complete with flashing gang signs for the camera. First of all I’m like dude…did we learn NOTHING from the K-Fed video???!?!?! SIT DOWN!!! As I’m watching stunned I start cracking up, because unlike most segments in this MTV world, this one I notice is going on a lot longer, and I know that the scene of this spazz-dance is so dynamite I can hear the director in the editing room “Oh,wow….let it go…keep going, don’t cut yet! Let it roll!” Unreal.
A problem comes up between AC and Nick because as it turns out AC likes to drop his dope rhymes late at night, when Nick wants to sleep. He can't sleep with the noise, although he doesn't seem to mind sleeping while there's a dude by his bed holding a camera. Hmm. Finally Nick can't take it any more and he storms out into the studio, screaming at AC that he’s trying to sleep, why can’t he do this during the day? While AC is screaming at Nick “don’t dis me, bro!” the viewer comes to the conclusion that obviously AC’s Boyeez aren’t gonna take time from their real day jobs to come do this shit. This fight goes on just long enough for one to realize…this is a multi-million dollar house, with a huge million-dollar studio built in with money earned from Nick and Aaron being….well, I’ll use this word cause I don’t have ALL day to spend finding the appropriate one…”musicians”, yet it never occurred to them to, you know, soundproof it? What the fuck? Rosie O’ Donnell should be able to do pilates in this house without waking up Nick, but these idiots never thought “maybe we can throw some egg crates on the walls?”
Anyway, after some screeching/crying they compromise, and then because they realize it’s been 7 minutes since they’ve last discussed it all five siblings have a shouting match about how screwed up their mother is, how she might be in trouble, how at least they have each other after the awful hand life has handed them, Aaron says “You guys wanna hear the song I’m working on?” Listen to a new AC joint? Jesus Christ, I think, haven’t these people already been through enough? Jesus.
To top it off, by the end of two episodes we have no idea what’s wrong with their mother. In the first minute of the first episode we’re led to believe they’re mom is in a hospital and might die…but then you realize here we are a week later and they’re all still at the house with a now empty tub of Country Crock. Needless to say, I’m hooked for life.
But then, just when you think you’ve topped out after spending months wondering why Flav could even entertain picking New York over Hoops, the Oh-My-God This Is Awful TV Fairy comes and drops a show on you that is so bad on every level, you feel that there is a God and he LOVES you. This is how I felt last night when I turned to E! and started watching…”The Carter House.” Hell, watching this steaming pile of a show, I realized that not only does God love me, but he must owe me something fierce.
To summarize, this is a reality (hahahah!!!) show about Nick Carter (Backstreet really IS back, bitches!!), his oversized house and his 4 mooching, whining siblings that live there. This includes Aaron Carter, who, if I have studied my InTouch and US Weeklys correctly, is some sort of “music” star. I vaguely know him from some lover’s feud between some combination of Lindsey/Paris/Hillary/whothefuckever. Turns out I misunderstood the headlines from this story; upon looking at this show I realize that these girls were not fighting over who got to HAVE this idiot as a boyfriend, but who DIDN’T have him as a boyfriend.
This show is the most high-pitched emotionally fevered show I have ever seen in my life; it opens with some apparent life or death crisis involving their mother, and then somehow gets MORE emotional as the show goes on. Mostly, these people stand around all day in bathing suits and scream at each other, losing their shit. I feel like I’m watching hour three of an 8 year-old black kid’s funeral in Alabama. Every single second is filled with some dramatic “We’re a family!! We have to be here for each other after all we’ve been through!!” screed while Aaron crouches on the ground and tries to look serious while wonderng “Can I get away with these Capri pants?” I’d say the show is a combination of “The Jerry Springer Show” and the Bailey intervention scene in “Party of Five”, but I don’t want to insult the integrity of Springer or teenage alcoholism.
As verbally emotional as these people are, they touch and hug each other a lot too. Here’s Aaron and Nick hugging it out after another fight. Here’s Nick in bed, hugging 2 of his sisters. Here’s Aaron teaching one of his sisters how to spin the pea. Okay, that one I made up, but you get the point. As I’m watching another hug ‘n kiss session I find myself thinking geez, these kids touch each other more than the guys in “Stand by Me” before laughing to myself that this is, of course, mathematically impossible. I don’t know just how insular this family is, but the description of episode 2 on the guide says “Aaron throws a party while Nick is away.” Ooooooh, Im thinking, nice! Nick’s gone, we can have all these smoking hot 22 year old chicks come over in bathing suits wanting to preen for the screen. So the party kicks off and the guest list is…Aaron and his three “maybe one more biscuit away from plumping up to the point of no return” sisters. Hmm. Seriously, about the sisters, I’m pretty sure I have never turned on a reality show with a dinner scene featuring a gallon tub of Country Crock on the table. Nice.
Hey, here’s Aaron curled up on deck chairs by the pool playing slappy-ass with his sisters. Great. But we do get what I know is some foreshadowing: Aaron gets wasted. This is twofold – it allows for the inevitable scene of Nick coming back and having a shouting match about Aaron turning into their father who is SURPRISE-A DRUNK! How can we have a reality show star have a beer without an emotional “you’re just like him!!!!” speech? And, if these producers play their cards right, we can get Lacey Chebert to come back with Scott Wolf to re-create the “Bailey, I loved you the best!” moment during Bai-dog’s intervention.
I guess the main crux of the show is that while the three sisters spend their days eating Nick’s food and trying to guess if big bro was in N Sync or Backstreet Boys, it’s Aaron’s job to challenge Nick’s authority. For instance, in the house is their recording studio. I’d love to hear the “gems” that have come outta this joint. First of all, anthropologists should spend some time with this room, because somehow when he walks through the door into the studio “Aaron”, who as far as I can tell alternates his time flailing on the floor crying about his family and accidentally stepping on the bombs his surely suicidal dog leaves in the kitchen, instantly morphs into “AC”, the whackest stone-cold thug this side of Malibu. His “Boyeeez!!” are in there waiting to work on some mad crazy beats with him, the baseball cap on his head gets spun to the side, and then we’re treated to a few moments of AC hitting some pretend buttons while his Boyeeez! online shop for boats with the money they’re getting for babysitting Casper the Friendly Idiot. The prize moment on tv though, is all of a sudden AC is alone listening to his newest song, and he starts doing some awful hip-hop dance, complete with flashing gang signs for the camera. First of all I’m like dude…did we learn NOTHING from the K-Fed video???!?!?! SIT DOWN!!! As I’m watching stunned I start cracking up, because unlike most segments in this MTV world, this one I notice is going on a lot longer, and I know that the scene of this spazz-dance is so dynamite I can hear the director in the editing room “Oh,wow….let it go…keep going, don’t cut yet! Let it roll!” Unreal.
A problem comes up between AC and Nick because as it turns out AC likes to drop his dope rhymes late at night, when Nick wants to sleep. He can't sleep with the noise, although he doesn't seem to mind sleeping while there's a dude by his bed holding a camera. Hmm. Finally Nick can't take it any more and he storms out into the studio, screaming at AC that he’s trying to sleep, why can’t he do this during the day? While AC is screaming at Nick “don’t dis me, bro!” the viewer comes to the conclusion that obviously AC’s Boyeez aren’t gonna take time from their real day jobs to come do this shit. This fight goes on just long enough for one to realize…this is a multi-million dollar house, with a huge million-dollar studio built in with money earned from Nick and Aaron being….well, I’ll use this word cause I don’t have ALL day to spend finding the appropriate one…”musicians”, yet it never occurred to them to, you know, soundproof it? What the fuck? Rosie O’ Donnell should be able to do pilates in this house without waking up Nick, but these idiots never thought “maybe we can throw some egg crates on the walls?”
Anyway, after some screeching/crying they compromise, and then because they realize it’s been 7 minutes since they’ve last discussed it all five siblings have a shouting match about how screwed up their mother is, how she might be in trouble, how at least they have each other after the awful hand life has handed them, Aaron says “You guys wanna hear the song I’m working on?” Listen to a new AC joint? Jesus Christ, I think, haven’t these people already been through enough? Jesus.
To top it off, by the end of two episodes we have no idea what’s wrong with their mother. In the first minute of the first episode we’re led to believe they’re mom is in a hospital and might die…but then you realize here we are a week later and they’re all still at the house with a now empty tub of Country Crock. Needless to say, I’m hooked for life.
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