The Sad-Ass Guide to Being a Man
You’re not 11 or 17 anymore. Get your fucking shit together. The days of John Bendering around your highschool, acting like you’re so fucking tough and rad are over. Everyone expects you to button your shirt, pull up your pants, get a job and get real. Well, guess what? That’s what being a legitimate adult is all about. Yeah, ugh, sorry bro, but time to man up and enter the real world. I say as I’m laid out across my bed, typing this in my underwear, at 12:30 PM on a Wednesday.
Yeah, you should probably read some. Maybe start with Bukowski, Hunter S. Thompson, or Harry Crews, or shit just start at the articles in Playboy, but fucking start somewhere. Take a cue from Bill Hicks. You don’t wanna end up a waffle waitress. You need to expand your mind, somehow someway. I’m not even talking about the Accounting book that got rain-fucked in the bed of your pick-up. I’m talking about things that will expand not only your intellect, but maybe grace you with a little bit of finesse, swagger, confidence, humility, and shit, maybe even a stroke of brilliance. Chances are writers have lived 1,000 of the lifestyles you can only dream of, so you might as well take notes, dude.
Buy some already you fucking mutant.
Look, I know growing up, something in your brain told you that by being the biggest douchebag in the world, you’d get all the respect, power, money, girls, etc etc til the day you die. Well, I’ve got something to tell you, 9 times out of 10, uuuugggghhhh, that’s totally true. I hate to be that way, but it’s just the way the world works. That’s why you have to realize, we need to make a change. I’m not saying you can’t be an asshole, sure you can, just practice some moderation, bro. It’s 2013, so let’s just try to start giving nice guys a good name.
Yeah, like, actually eating food… Practice some restriction here piggy. Hey now, don’t get all huffy puffy, I’m fat, it’s cool. I’m just saying, don’t eat a rack of BBQ ribs like it’s cunnilingus hour at the pussy patch. Use a napkin, chew with your mouth closed, really show that special someone that you’re trying to put forth some effort to appear slightly post-neanderthal. Also, y’know, maybe watch a few cooking shows, read a couple cook books (see back to “b”) and learn a couple tricks. I’m telling you, special someones get mighty impressed (read: horny) when you bring them home to a nice, home-cooked meal. Even if it is grilled cheese, tomato soup, and Miller Lite.
A gift from on high, just like, don’t fart into the refrigerator while your beloved is cooking you dinner.
Alright, so wild card… Eventually you’re going to meet someone, and they’re going to be a GAME CHANGER. Let me explain. You’ve probably been in love, thought you’d been in love, really were in love, but aren’t in love and now you might be jaded, or just some weird shit involving love. Well, here’s the thing. Eventually, you’ll meet the game changer, and they’re going to fuck your whole world up. They’re going to make you want to get your shit together. You’d lay down in the street for that person. You take a bullet for them. There’s a sincerity that comes with the game changer that you’ll immediately pick up, and thus, you’ll understand, this is my game changer. Now, I’m not saying this will come at a certain point in time, and shit, I’m not even saying you should hold your breath for the game changer. But. You should always keep an open mind and be ready, because the game changer could show up any time, and you’ll have to be prepared for a whole new world. Cue Aladdin on his stupid flying carpet.
You need to just come to grips with this fact, when you were like 12, you figured out you could get weird with your own dick and things would happen; a mini-blackhole would gobble you up and spit you out, through the end of your own penis. You would then wake up as a freshly born fawn trying to coax its legs to working. Metaphorically, or something. So, then you perfected that over the next, like, ten years, twenty years, whatever. So, face it , you’re realllllllllly good at giving yourself a sweet heej, but understand, no one else is. Just deal.
“Half of us is punk rock, and the other half of us is super theatrical, and wants to bring a Queen vibe to the show,” fun. singer Nate Ruess said in a recent interview with Downtown Julie Brown. Fun.’s “We Are Young,” popularized by Glee, has been at the top of Billboard’s Hot 100 for four weeks; Billboard,depending on its mood,classifies the band as “alt-rock,” “indie-pop,” or “alt pop,” and credits fun. with a “warm retro sound.” Here is a question: do any of these words mean anything?
I have no particular beef with this terrible band, although I strongly believe that grown men who have walk-in closets devoted to Star Wars toy collections should be forbidden to express themselves in public. What interests me is that most of the words that the music press, or fun.’s members themselves, use to talk about fun. are not only misleading, but are the exact opposite of the truth. Take “indie.” “Indie” used to be short for “independent,” as in: this band is signed to an independent label. However, I see that fun. is signed to Fueled by Ramen, a subsidiary of Warner Music Group, and that their new album was produced by Jeff Bhasker, known for his work with Jay-Z and Beyonce. Has the word changed its meaning? If “indie” is now short for something else, like “indistinguishable from other music” or “independently wealthy,” let it stand. Otherwise, this band should be categorized as “third-largest-conglomerate-in-the-record-industry pop.”
I am also at a loss when it comes to the “warm” and “retro” qualities of fun.’s music. Again, antonyms like “cold” and “contemporary” have the ring of truth to my ears, but maybe all it takes is a guy playing a physical keyboard with his human hands to transport listeners back to the soft, blankety olden days. In fun.’s case, the olden days are the 1990s. Ruess likes to wax nostalgic about the great music (and music videos!) of that faraway time, when giants like Ned’s Atomic Dustbin, Republica, Garbage, Hum, Superdrag, the Mighty Mighty Bosstones and Toad the Wet Sprocket bestrode the media landscape. As theOnion’s A.V. Club described “the dream of the 90s” in its recent interview with Ruess, that time was “a golden age in mainstream pop and radio when […] the oddballs ran the show.” Of course, that is a lie, besides which, fun.’s tinny, Auto-Tuned music sounds nothing like any rock music that was popular during the 90s. But what qualifies these three ordinary clods as “oddballs”? Their outrageous style? Their shocking lyrical content? Their challenging, avant-garde compositions? I am aware that “oddballs,” “quirky,” and “alt-rock” are just code words for ugly white men with instruments, but I would be willing to bet that this band’s sales would not have suffered one bit if they had been marketed as everyday, dirt-average wieners who are just like everyone else you already know.
Deleted Scenes from Drive
Scene #1: Before opening credits
Ryan Gosling stands with his back to the camera. There is a scorpion on the back of his jacket. A baseball game is playing on TV. He says in a hushed, serious voice into a phone, “You give me a time and place, I give you a five-minute window. Those five minutes I’m yours. Whatever goes down I’m yours. Minute either side, you’re on your own.” A baseball game is playing on TV. Minimal, quietly droning, tense electronic music plays. “One last thing,” Ryan Gosling says. “You won’t be able to reach me on this phone again.” He tosses the phone on the bed and leaves the apartment.
Deleted Scene #1: Before he leaves the apartment
We see a close-up of Ryan Gosling’s watch. If he left the apartment now he’d be ten minutes early. The camera follows Ryan Gosling’s scorpion jacket to the kitchen. We see him open the refrigerator door, select a box of Chinese leftovers, hesitate, take a tube of “Go-Gurt” instead, and tear off the top. The camera follows the Go-Gurt’s course of motion to Ryan Gosling’s intense, sincere, boyish yet melancholy face. This is the first time we see his face.
Off-screen, a tinny loop of the chorus of “Kiss Me Through the Phone” by Soulja Boy Tell Em plays. Holding the Go-Gurt, Ryan Gosling walks to the phone, almost deliberately out of pace with the ringtone.
“One last thing,” he says into the phone, “You won’t be able to reach me on this phone again,” tosses it onto the bed, and leaves the apartment.
When I was in high school I got in a major pissy baby fight with my second girlfriend ever (A girl named Jeannie who now goes by Andy …eeep!) because she said that one of her celebrity crushes was Donnie Wahlberg. The guy who she had been backseat-boning before she met me looked kind of like Donnie Wahlberg, so in my teenage mind of insanity this meant that she masturbated day and night while watching NKOTB videos, but secretly thinking about her ex-bf.
I would imagine that Ryan Gosling makes a lot of jealous boyfriends/girlfriends feel this same sort of nuttery because he is, hands down, the dreamiest salt lick that any pony could ever hope for. Somewhere, right now, a young lady or young man is crying tears of frustration and asking their significant other something hilarious and vulnerable like “UGHHH, if we were on a boat with Ryan Gosling and the boat started sinking, and there was only one two-person life raft on board, would you offer it to me or Ryan Gosling?” This is a ridiculous scenario, but I still have to say that if I were presented with it, my answer would be obvious: give the raft to the loser I was dating and float to safety on top of Ryan Gosling’s peen.
Read the rest at Vice Magazine: KELLY’S KRUSH KORNER - RYAN GOSLING - Viceland Today