A couple of months ago I wrote an article 10 Heartbreaking Last Words from Executed Texans. In order to compile the list, I read all of the final words from the 500 death row inmates, which ended up being an even more emotional experience than I anticipated.
In addition to reading words that shook me to the core, I also found a handful that were fairly funny. Not LOL hilarious, mind you, as these people were all seconds from death, but morbidly funny. If you can stomach dark comedy, here are 10 of my favorites:
10. "If there's anything I have left to say, it would be that I wish I had a Shakespearean vocabulary, but since I was raised in TDC [Texas Department of Corrections], I missed out." - Raymond Kinnamon
9. "I've been hanging around this popsicle stand way too long. Before I leave, I want to tell you all. When I die, bury me deep, lay two speakers at my feet, put some headphones on my head and rock and roll me when I'm dead." - Douglas Roberts
8. "I said I was going to tell a joke… Death has set me free! That's the biggest joke… And the other joke is 'I am not Patrick Bryan Knight and y'all can stop this execution now.'" - Patrick Knight
7. "Um, I don't know what to say. I don't know. [pauses] I didn't know anybody was there. Howdy!" - James Clark
6. "I gotta go, road dog. I love you, Gabby. [Remaining portion of statement omitted due to profanity.]" - Cameron Willingham
5. "You all brought me here to be executed, not to make a speech." - Charlie Livingston
4. "They are fixing to pump my veins with a lethal drug the American Veterinary Association won't even allow to be used on dogs… I am worse off than a dog." - Reginald Blanton
3. "The reason it took them so long is because they couldn't find a vein. You know how I hate needles… Tell the guys on Death Row that I'm not wearing a diaper." - Charles Nealy
2. "The last meal was really good. That is about it." - James Collier
1. "If I am paying my debt to society, I am due a rebate and a refund." - Billy Hughes Jr.
As I exited a bar in Pasadena, a handicapped homeless man approached me for help. He said he was sick and needed money for a place to stay the night. He sure picked the right mark because not only has my white guilt been working in overdrive lately, I made a promise to myself to start seeing homeless people as people recently and hadn't had a chance to put that into practice yet.
You can do only so much research about the criminalization of the homeless before you try to adjust your attitude. We're trained to look at society's least fortunate citizens as "lesser." I can't remember the last time I went to a comedy show where a homeless man wasn't the butt of someone's joke. (Heck, I keep contemplating leaving out the word "homeless" of this post's title, but I also know it'll be pivotal in convincing people to read… a homeless man was IN your car?) We purposely try not to see the humanity in homeless people because it is too awful to see a human suffering in that manner.
While I don't have the resources to help all of them, I do have the compassion to assist more such people in need rather than my using my standby inclination of avoiding eye contact and saying sorry to all of them. I knew I had exactly three dollars in my wallet, so I opened it and gave it all to him. He saw that I literally emptied my wallet and still asked for more. "There's an ATM over there," he told me. "I need $20 to stay overnight at the Y." My rent comes to just under $20 a day, so that seemed a little steep, and I informed him I would not be giving him any more money.
"Don't be scared of me, I need help," he begged. He then asked me if I could drop him off at a shelter a few blocks down the road. It seemed walkable, but admittedly not for a man who was hobbling slowly on a cane. I was conflicted as to whether I should let a stranger into my car, but I agreed. As we very slowly hobbled toward my parked car, he told me that he was dying from prostate cancer. That, until recently, he had been in jail for twelve years and didn't want to be released because at least they took care of him. Sadly, a desire/need to stay in prison for free health care/food/lodging is not uncommon and such a despicable commentary about our country. He was having trouble moving and I had parked far away, so I finally offered to come back for him. He didn't believe I would actually come back for him, so I looked him in the eye and shook his hand promising to give him the ride.
I shook his hand not only to reassure him, but to reassure myself. I'd be lying if I said I didn't consider getting in my car and driving away. That would be the easier thing to do. That would be the safer thing to do. But what I saw in this man was someone who needed someone to acknowledge and help him, so I came back for him. I can't promise if he were a younger, able-bodied man that I would have done the same. Knowing he didn't have the strength to physically overpower me certainly made it easier to let him in my car.
As we rode, he kept repeating that he wasn't going to rob me. I wasn't that concerned about that previously because he already knew I didn't have any more money, but the fact that he was bringing it up made me worry. Like, stop trying to make me nervous, dude. "If I thought you were going to rob me, I wouldn't let you in my car," I told him. He started talking about how the world is scared of black people. And now gay people, too! "Yeah, society's pretty fucked up," I told him matter-of-factly. He liked that.
Although we weren't in the car more than a few minutes, he managed to urinate himself during the short trip. He started crying out of embarrassment, explaining he couldn't control it because of the cancer. I started tear up, too, but I didn't let him see that. We soon arrived, and as he struggled out of my car, he thanked me. "I know you were scared, I know you ain't never had a negro in your car before, but you're a good person." None of those three statements were entirely true, but I wished him well.
Driving off is when my tears really kicked in. I wasn't crying because he peed his pants in my car or because no good deed goes unpunished. I cried because of LIFE, man. The world and reality became were far too intense, and I felt overwhelmed and confused. I left a dying, destitute man no better than I found him... I just moved him a mile closer to temporarily relief.
I know that a lot of my friends and family are going to say I never should have put myself in that situation. I don't know that I did the right thing, but I'm tired of doing nothing.
If the last time I saw you was several years ago when you were sleeping on my couch and I woke you up by throwing a traffic cone at your head and continued to scream until you left my house because I was livid you had just raped my black-out drunk friend and ruined my life in a separate but also awful way, odds are I am not currently interested in adding you to my professional network on LinkedIn.
You see what I did there? I just inverted the syllables and got an accurate critique of the film.
It wasn't entirely bad. Some of the music was cool. Plus, with my activist tendencies, I started getting really excited whenever they featured the French Revolution -- too bad that kept getting pushed aside to make room for more love stories. But what was with the non-stop close-ups? The point of turning theater into a movie is to add some amazing visuals - but this was largely just a bunch of talking (or more accurately singing) heads. And if we - as the audience - aren't supposed to believe that Hugh Jackman is a child molester, then they should have done a better job of establishing that. I mean, I'm pretty sure he wasn't a ChiMo, but it's best not to leave that lingering doubt about your main character (unless of course we're talking about the movie Doubt, which is a way better example of adapting a play to cinema.)
I have no problem acknowledging that Anne Hathaway is pretty darn good. But then she dies really quickly. AND THERE'S STILL TWO HOURS OF THE FILM LEFT! You can't ask people to stick around for 120 minutes after the best part of your movie bites the dust.
The main criticism I've read about the film is that Russell Crowe really sucks. But honestly, I fail to see how he's measurably worse than most of the cast. Like, you're going to call out Crowe for having a poor singing voice when Sacha Baron Cohen and Helena Bonham Carter have multiple musical numbers in the film? And do you really think he's worse than that inbred looking kid who seems to have taken voice lessons from Kermit the Frog?
Also, when you're promised that everyone in the film dies, make sure you actually kill everyone. Because the young couple left standing at the end? I didn't really care for them. It didn't seem fair to let them live when everyone they know and love dies, particularly since Ginger Kermit played a big role in the demise of all of his friends.
I was told that even if I don't like musicals, I would get caught up in the tragedy and cry. I fully expected to cry, actually, because I was already crying a lot that week. That was another side effects of being covered in hives - I kept crying at the smallest things. It wasn't the pain, but I felt so vulnerable and hormonal that even the stupidest, sappiest things could provoke a few tears. Here's a list of things I remember crying about while be-hived (not to be confused with beehived):
Searching for Sugar Man
two consecutive episodes ofThe Biggest Loser
The Sessions
The Other Dream Team
merely thinking about a previous viewing of Beasts of the Southern Wild
Won't Back Down (and no one should cry over Maggie Gyllenhaal unless they're asked to spell her name or endure a conversation with the woman)
And yeah, shut up I watched a lot of movies last week - you try thinking of another way to spend your time when you can't use your hands.
Anyway, the point is that I cried at just about everything indiscriminately, yet I did NOT cry at Les Miserables. That should say something. Heck, that should say everything. Worst Best Picture nominee of the bunch.
Look at this shitty thing my mom received for Christmas from one of her friends.
This is what happens when she regularly gets together with her friends to drink wine and make crafts. I mean, I know it's a good time for her, but someone must have drank and crafted too much if they thought that this was a reasonable present.*
Firstly, what does that text even mean? Are there people who get really sad when snow melts and need to be comforted? Like, "There, there, that snowman you built is with God now. He's a snow angel." I'm also not sure how to go forward. Should I be making more snowmen so that there will be more snow angels? Or should we stop making snowmen altogether so that there's room enough for the rest of us in heaven? I don't want to get to St. Peter and have him say, "Sorry, there's no room at the inn, we've had an influx of snow angels."
Secondly - and I know I started over-thinking this, but the blame for that rests on that ridiculous poem - I have to nitpick about how the design of this thing spits in the face of physics. I don't know if you've ever built a snowman before, but a snowman doesn't melt bottom to top. The head is actually the first thing to melt: It's the smallest ball and the one that the sun has the most contact with. So, like, as cute as this craft is supposed to be, I suspect foul play was involved. For the head to be so intact, someone must have come and attacked its torso with hairdryers or something.
It all reminds me of a question (inspired by the Simpsons maybe?) I asked my Sunday school teacher as a kid: "If you're decapitated on earth, do you get your head back in heaven?" Given what remains, is this new snow angel going to have a head? Because if heaven is full of headless snow angels, that sounds terrifying and I don't want to go. I might start murdering snowmen just to avoid that.
* All of this criticism is moot if this was a regift. Because I would pawn that crap off on someone else pretty quickly, too.
I was really excited about this article I wrote because it gave me a chance to muse on some Christmas songs I think have some funky lyrics. I utilized a lot of outraged hyperbole, in part to poke fun at liberals - myself included - who can be overly politically correct at times.
But you guys, the internet hates me now. There are over 100 comments saying some pretty mean things about me. Like, they HATE me for this article. Basically, they're accusing me of being too PC and an idiot who took all the fun out of the songs. They're taking it at face value. So in one sense, I was successful in my satire, but then maybe I was TOO successful because very few people are reading the humor into it. Heaven forbid you gave them a copy of "A Modest Proposal".
I mean, in actuality, I only sort of have problems with "Baby It's Cold Outside" (if not outright date rapey, it's definitely creepy) and "Do They Know It's Christmas" (which I've ranted about before.) The other three I was just being obnoxious about - I mean who REALLY would be SUPER UPSET at "I Saw Mommy Kissing Santa Claus?"?
But forget Christmas music, I need a straight up Emo soundtrack for my life right now. I FEEL SO MISUNDERSTOOD.
Deep Blue Something is not considered oldies. I'm not only insulted at the implication, but I'm feeling really insecure about my age now. The thought of turning 30 doesn't scare me, but having my favorite song from when I was a preteen dubbed an oldie made me more emotionally distraught than I was prepared for. Next time just crash the plane if you want me to be less upset.
Never mind that the rest of his family is either terrified or crying, Kim Jong Un is beaming! At best, you could argue that a couple of his relations have neutral facial expressions, but the horror on the majority of their faces makes this the most epic Awkward Family Photo ever.
It would almost be funny if weren't clear that these people had guns pointed at them and are undoubtedly living a hellacious life.
The Lorax is a great book with a great message, but I preemptively soured on the movie version when I learned that the film had over 70 corporate promotional tie-ins. Calling it hypocritical for a book that is anti-corporation and pro-environment to lend its characters to a car commercial is an understatement. Viewing it as willfully ignorant of Dr. Seuss's central thesis, I was so apprehensive to see the movie, that I insisted on getting three sheets to the wind first.
Maybe I was liquored up enough to be forgiving, but I'm pleased to report that the movie itself is not a bastardization of Seuss's work. Evidently the marketing team didn't bother to watch the movie when they took over, but as far as the screenplay goes, it clearly illustrates unrestricted capitalism's destruction of the planet.
My friend Alex argues that it's important to look beyond the hypocrisy and just be thankful that big companies are still willing to make a movie about environmentalism at all. While the issue is a little more gray than that, I can agree that I'm glad that this message is out there. I say that as someone who got so worried about the earth that I had to leave a K-Pop night club early this past weekend. My friends were having a discussion about how much longer the human species could survive with the way we're destroying our own planet (consensus except for one: we're screwed soon unless we act on a massive scale, like, yesterday). I'm not upset the conversation happened, we need to talk about these things more often, actually, but I couldn't transition back into a place of "let's do shots and laugh at Korean pop music videos."
We're polluting, destroying our own food and water supplies, and using plastic like it's not a major problem. We protect the right for a small number of individuals to make money over our collective right to live. Today's big shots seem to forget that you can't make history if we don't have a future. Plus, even though we'll face an overpopulation epidemic soon (which I suppose climate change, famine, and disease will wipe out in time), this country is still subscribing to beliefs that make practicing birth control immoral and global warming is propaganda. We need to come together and use our intellectual capacities to solve these problems rather than listening to the fictions of the elite, but even that is increasingly unlikely as we let our educational system erode and promote a society that is discouraged from thinking critically.
I feel like the more I pay attention, the more depressed I get. I'm definitely not as "fun" as I used to be. It's a weird situation where I know I could just choose willful ignorance and have a relatively good, happy life. I could live in the now and let future generations deal with the problems that will hit them even harder. However, I can't shake my sense of responsibility. The Lorax is right, it's time we all start caring a whole awful lot.
The impending doom of having to get a Facebook Timeline stresses me out. Being on Facebook is like living through a zombie apocalypse. Every time I look, a new friend has been turned. "Not Brian!" "Damn, they got Terri, too." As much as I want to grieve these perfectly good Facebook Friends who have been taken to the dark side, with zombification happening on such a massive scale, all I can really do is be thankful that the Timeline hasn't infected me yet.
But it will eventually get me - the writing is on the wall… the Facebook Wall. These zombies have made it clear that we will all be Timelined one day. In the meantime, I'm going to keep trying to evade getting bitten while watching my friends fall by the wayside. Some of these friends have stupidly done it to themselves, agreeing to the transformation since it's inevitable anyway. Others have been infected without their consent, and unfortunately there's nothing I can do to help them.
Although I wish the zombie apocalypse were not a reality, I do perversely find pleasure in outlasting my friends. The longer I go without being Timelined, the more I feel it speaks to my survival instincts. I'll consider it an accomplishment if I can be one of the last to keep my profile from mutating.
Granted, I have already considered what my top banner photo will be when my time(line) comes, but don't mistake that for being in any way excited. It's akin to me choosing the music I want played at my funeral ("Turkey in the Straw" played on banjos): I'm just making the best of a bad situation.
Hey, watch this video. It’s pretty good, focuses on an important topic, and is something that made me cry.
Granted, I can get nitpicky about the film. I feel like I still couldn’t tell you enough about who Joseph Kony or what’s specifically going on in Uganda, but I’m nonetheless convinced that it’s awful and that this movement is a righteous one. Also, do we really need a cute white kid to hypothetically put in harm’s way to illustrate the point that the situation in Uganda is inhumane?… Maybe we do, it is an effective technique.
The main reason I recommend the video, however, is that I want to see this succeed. As much as the video is about using the most influential nations’ sway to arrest Kony, its thesis actually seems to be about activism in the new millennium. It’s about how the general population, made to feel unimportant by societal design, has the ability to make demands when its voices unite. I have no doubt that we can stop Kony through this crowdsourcing, just as I have no doubt we can use this same approach to tackle other injustices.
Make no mistake, this is why we’re beginning to see bills like SOPA and PIPA surface. Social and new media is changing the game, and those with power want to squash what is a clear and present danger to their elite standing. It’s not that they mind these tactics being used to oppose Kony - by now it should be obvious that they don’t give a damn what the outcome is in regards to him - but best believe that they know they’ll be the target of similar activism down the line. They see the writing on the wall, and they want to eliminate that threat before we even have a chance to realize just how threatening we can be.
The internet itself is a populous movement. The internet has the ability to educate and liberate us. Let’s start here by ending the terror in Uganda, and then let’s keep the ball rolling.
I intended to write about Leap Year birthdays today, but am slightly deterred now that Parks and Recreation already covered that topic this past week. (Side note: I'm going to a Parks and Rec-themed party tonight, can you think of anything better to do with your bonus day?) All the same, I did once have a friend, Chris, who was born on a Leap Day, so let's do this anyway.
Birthdays are everything when you're little, so considering that, Chris was pretty good-natured about only having a proper birthday every four years. Things would have probably gone better for him, however, had my first grade teacher not taunted him for it. I distinctly remember her leading the class in a chant of, "Chris is only one! Chris is still a baby! Chris is only one! Chris is still a baby!" As six-and-seven-year-olds, it was fun to laugh at a baby.
I used to love my first grade teacher, but looking back, I think I loved her out of fear. She was like an emotionally manipulative dictator. She had a cardboard box known as "The Whiners' Box" that you'd have to go stand in if you were caught crying or complaining (which is the natural result of a teacher-led chant that you are a baby). She'd also announce to the whole class if she caught you picking your nose, which is every little kid's #1 hobby. And there's the time when my friend Vivek, a math prodigy and future Harvard student who was bussed to the high school to take advanced math classes even in elementary school, missed one question on a first-grade level standardized math test we all had to take. Obviously, he was disappointed for making what must have been a careless mistake, but my teacher honed in on his insecurity and had the class chant, "Vivek got one wrong!" until he cried. Then he had to go stand in the Whiners' Box.
As for Leap Baby Chris, he eventually had the last laugh. He proved he was anything but a baby when he hit puberty well before the rest of us. By the end of elementary school, none of us kids were shaving yet, except for Chris, who actually had to shave his face every day out of necessity. Not bad for a "3" year-old.
Anyhoo, Happy 7th birthday, Chris. And I hope my first grade teacher uses her Leap Day to take a flying leap.
My grandmother passed away last week. She was a lovely woman (and former beauty pageant queen) who will be missed dearly by my family.
The funeral was rough on me, mainly because it was difficult watching my mom cry. How do you deal with that sight, other than crying yourself? I think the minister put it best when he said that we grieve at funerals because we must confront our own mortality. That's a heavy thing to deal with, and why I don't make it a habit of attending acquaintances' funerals... it's just too much.
But there is an old man named Herb in New York state who seems to thrive on it. I first "met" him five years ago at my other grandmother's funeral. He had been acquainted with her husband decades earlier and showed up at the funeral, which at first seemed nice, but then got weird when he appointed himself a pallbearer at the last minute, even though none of us knew who he was. So the pallbearers were six young grandkids plus this extra old guy who I'm sure my grandmother wouldn't even remember even if she hadn't had Alzheimer's.
Anyway, I still chuckle about the surprise pallbearer sometimes, but I never thought I'd see Herb again. But then he showed up, five years later, at my other grandmother's funeral. He arrived an hour before the service started, at least half an hour before anyone other than immediate family arrived. My grandfather sort of remembered the guy as a fellow community member from back in the day, but seemed confused as to why he would be there.
So it seems like Herb is a funeral crasher. Maybe this old guy just really likes to face mortality head on. Unfortunately for him, Herb wasn't able to insert himself as a pallbearer this time, but I bet he might have tried had my family not given him the cold shoulder. I joked years ago that I wanted to make pallbearing a hobby, but now that I've done it twice, I feel like I'd be glad not to have to do it again for a good long while. I'm sure Herb would be happy to assist, though. If you should find yourself short a pallbearer - or just want a bonus one - give Herb a shot. I don't actually know the guy, so I can't help you get in touch with him, but there's a pretty good chance he might just be at the funeral already anyway.
Oh look, this guy who used to sit next to me in Environmental Physics class (and I haven't seen since) has requested to be my Facebook friend. How nice of him to think of me after all of these years. I see from his profile that we now live in the same city, maybe that's why he's trying to reconnect.
I wonder if we know people in common in LA. Let me check our mutual friends... just high school people. Wait, he wasn't actually ever friends with her. Or him. And definitely not him. And what's this on my newsfeed?
Slut! Clearly, I ain't nothing but a number to him. Take our internet "friendship" and cram it.
"Come to the bar," he said. "I'll probably be there."
"Probably?" I asked. "What's with the indecision?"
"I don't want to say," he said.
"You don't want to say?" she asked.
"It's a phone call. About what, I don't want to say," he said.
"Sounds like a booty call," she said. "You're hoping to get a better offer for the night?"
"Now I really don't want to say," he said. "Maybe I'll see you there."
We walked to the bar without him. Fifteen minutes later, he appeared.
"Everything okay?" I asked.
"Everything's... okay," he hesitated.
"And the phone call?" I asked.
"Oh, the phone call didn't happen," he said.
"Why not?" I asked.
"It might have ruined my night," he said. "And I decided I'd rather come here."
"I don't understand," I said.
"I'm expecting to hear bad news," he said.
"Oh," I said.
"Now I feel like I have to tell you," he said.
"No you don't," I said. "Unless it really is about a booty call."
"No, it's..." he started saying, but he was laughing. "We have to stop laughing before I tell you this. Because it's not funny."
"Okay," I said.
"You can't laugh," he said again.
"I won't," I said.
I could already feel my lips moving upward into a smile, however. Not laughing is hard when you're forbidden from it. He looked about to laugh, too.
"The phone call has to do with a family member who... who is not doing well," he said.
"Oh no," I said.
"Really not well, actually," he said.
I laughed. I had tried to contain it, but I laughed, and I felt like a dick for doing so. But he laughed, too.
"I'm sorry," I said. "You're right, that's not funny at all."
"It's okay," he said. "I don't know why, but I'm laughing, too.
We laughed because we weren't up for crying that night.
I just found out Rilo Kiley broke up and I'm kind of devastated. I mean, sure, it seemed as if the band's better years were behind them, but people probably said the same of them after they were child stars in Troop Beverly Hills and Salute Your Shorts, and, through music, they managed to prove their merit once again, so I'm not ready to let go of that hope for more great things.
Not that the news is that much of a surprise: Rilo Kiley has been on a "break" for years now. The media often compared Rilo Kiley to Fleetwood Mac, not just because of their catchy pop music, but because of their behind-the-scenes personal drama. When a band is led by a pair of exes, it's obviously going to have a shelf life. But throughout what must have been years of tension, they put out some beautiful songs full of truth and wit.
Consequentially, I'll be playing Rilo Kiley on repeat for the near future. Here are my five favorite songs:
After years of being tricked, my friend Lena just had a pop culture myth I wasn't even aware of dispelled: Coldplay's song "Yellow" is not about jaundice.
The fabricated story Lena heard was that Chris Martin wrote "Yellow" about his mother who was dying of jaundice. Facts be damned, a part of me just wants to believe this myth anyway.
The funniest part is that "Yellow" is Lena's go-to karaoke song. Why she continued to sing a song she mistakenly believed to have such a depressing - and dare I say gross - meaning is a mystery to me. Clearly, she's seen the lyrics a bunch of times, so I also didn't understand how she didn't figure out it wasn't about jaundice on her own.
But then I looked at the lyrics. And holy shit, it could be about jaundice! The message is kind of like, "You're beautiful, despite being yellow and frail. But your skin pigmentation matches the stars, so keep fighting!"
I'm generally not a fan of propagating lies, but in this one instance, I'm going to give a Kevin Babbles stamp of approval to anyone who helps spread the Yellow Is About Jaundice rumor. Let's make this a thing!
I've been out of commission the past few days. Not just on this blog, but in real life. I had my 90s themed birthday party on Saturday night, and I'd tell you all about it, but just like the real 90s, the details are a bit hazy.
So let's just stick to the facts I do know: 1. People had a really good time. 2. I had the best time, if being the drunkest makes it the best. 3. I rubbed cake all over everyone whether or not they were happy about it. 4. I remember everyone arriving, yet very few leaving. 5. When the police show up to shut down your party even after all of the guests have left, they will still try to assert authority because they have nothing else to do. 6. According to someone, I had the most projectile of all projectile vomits they have ever seen. (It's all right if I take this as a compliment, right?) 7. I have some really amazing friends for cooking for me, celebrating with me, and cleaning things up (mainly me) afterwards.
As more facts become clear, I might attempt to give a more detailed account, but if they're as embarrassing as I expect, you can forget about that. The good news is that my birthday isn't actually until next weekend, so I have a chance to celebrate it again in a way that I'll actually remember.
There is no word in the English language that is worse than “Rhythm.” Not only do even highly educated people have trouble spelling it, but it is also needlessly deviant. If it would just conform and include a proper vowel or two, we wouldn’t need rules like “and sometimes Y”. Poor Y probably suffers from gender identity confusion.
Obviously, no group of people is more familiar with Rhythm than musicians, and fortunately, recording artists are on my side on this issue. Just listen to a few pop songs and it becomes instantly clear what a monster Rhythm is. By the end of this list, you’ll be steering clear of Rhythm, too.
RHYTHM IS A…
1) … ROOFIE! Rhythm Divine – Enrique Iglesias
“You fall under my spell. I will catch you in my arms now. Where the night will take us, no one can tell. All I need is the rhythm divine. Lost in the music, your heart will be mine.”
At first listen the song might sound romantic, but the whole “all I have to do is slip you some ‘Rhythm’ and then I’ll have my way with you” sounds pretty date-rapey to me. I especially like the part where she falls, presumably unconscious, into his arms. I’m sure he was a gentleman and took her straight home. As the song concludes, Enrique asks, “Can you feel the rhythm burning, burning?” I wouldn’t put it past Rhythm to be an STI as well.
2) … TORMENTOR Rhythm of the Rain – The Cascades
“Listen to the rhythm of the falling rain telling me just what a fool I’ve been. I wish that it would go and let me cry in vain, and let me be alone again.”
After getting dumped, the last thing you need is for someone to tell you how much you suck. But here comes Rhythm to kick the Cascades while they’re down. Just because Rhythm derives pleasure from others’ pain doesn’t give Rhythm the right to rub it suffering people’s faces.
3) …MIND CONTROLLER! Rhythm Is a Dancer - Snap
”Let the rhythm guide you, guide you, sneak inside, you set your mind to move… Let it control you, hold you, mold you.”
Snap may be able to fool some people by attaching its message to a funky dance beat, but there’s no way I’m going to let a hypnotic parasite like Rhythm take over my brain. Never concede your free will. For the record, however, if I could redo my high school yearbook quote, I’d change it to the lyric “I’m serious as cancer when I say, ‘Rhythm is a dancer.’” It doesn’t get much more poignantly ’90s than that!
4) … HEART ATTACK! Rhythm of My Heart – Rod Stewart
“Oh, I’ve got lightning in my veins shifting like the handle of a slot machine. Love may still exist in another place. I’m just yanking back the handle, no expression on my face. Ah, the rhythm of my heart is beating like a drum.”
It’s not just mind control, Rhythm will also mess with your circulatory system. Ever since letting Rhythm into his heart (love had to move elsewhere, apparently), Rod Stewart appears to have a looming cardiac arrest.
5) … METHAMPHETAMINE! Rhythm of the Night – DeBarge
“To the beat of the rhythm of the night, dance until the morning light. Forget about the worries on your mind to the beat of the rhythm of the night. Oh baby, I’m crying.”
I’m awake! I’m alert! I’m happy! I’m, I’m crying… Not since Jesse Spano’s dalliance with caffeine pills has drug abuse been portrayed so memorably. Meth may seem fun, but when the sun comes up and the high crashes, who’s going to be there to pick up the pieces? DeBarge, who look like the gay love children of Prince, Lionel Richie, and Oates of Hall and Oates, can probably finagle their way onto Celebrity Rehab, but most Rhythm addicts start the habit with fun and dancing and end it in a pit of despair.
6) … TRAMP! Rhythm of Love – Plain White T’s
“We may only have tonight, but ‘til the morning sun, you’re mine all mine. Play the music low and sway to the rhythm of love.”
Hey there, Delilah, you might want to get tested. It looks like your long-distance boyfriend, Plain White T, had a one-night stand with Rhythm. And don’t assume it was some isolated moment of promiscuity because Rhythm is also a…
7) … SLUTTY SLUT-FACE! Girl’s Got Rhythm – AC/DC
“You know she moves like sin and when she lets me in it’s like liquid love. No doubt about it, can’t live without it. You know she really got the rhythm, she’s got the backseat rhythm.”
Well, Rhythm, you’ve earned yourself quite a reputation. Have you no shame?
8) … VENGEFUL! Don’t Upset the Rhythm – Noisettes
“Don’t upset the rhythm, though. Don’t upset the rhythm. Don’t upset the rhythm, don’t you dare. I told you, don’t upset the rhythm.”
If the Noisettes know one thing, it’s this: don’t piss off Rhythm. Given that they sing this message repeatedly throughout the song, it seems like they have firsthand experience with getting on Rhythm’s bad side. You don’t even want to know what Rhythm is capable of!
9) … VIOLENT SOCIALIST UPRISING! Rhythm Nation – Janet Jackson
“People of the world unite. Strength in numbers, we can get it right. We are part of the rhythm nation.”
Spitting in the face of democracy, Janet is calling for radical political upheaval. How many must die in the name of Rhythm? What leads us to believe we can trust this new overlord? Rhythm strikes me as a tyrant.
10) … PSYCHOTIC KILLER! Rhythm Is Gonna Get You – Gloria Estefan
“At night when you turn off all the lights, there’s no place you can hide. Oh no, the rhythm is gonna get you.”
While you’ve probably already decided to stay clear of Rhythm by this point, good luck with that. As Gloria Estefan points out, Rhythm is also a creepy night stalker. Rhythm will break into your home and violently murder you. Many suspect that Rhythm was the intruder in Antoine Dodson’s home. Go ahead, try to hide ya kids, hide ya wife, but as Estefan threatens: Rhythm IS gonna get you.
UConn won the NCAA basketball tournament last night.
That news would normally be followed by an exclamation point or four, but it's hard to muster the enthusiasm with everyone talking shit about the game.
My two favorite teams, UConn and Butler, made the finals. This conclusion is unprecedented in the life of sports-watching Kevin, especially since I tend to root for the underdogs. To be fair, both of these teams were underdogs coming into the tournament, but proved their talent and determination.
I'm not going to pretend the game was a pretty one, but I'm also not going to agree with the hoards of sports pundits who call it the worst/ugliest championship game in all of sports. It was still a hard-fought game, and if it had occurred at any point prior to the final game, it wouldn't have blemished the accomplishments. However, since it ended on a strange note, many keep commenting that the title deserves an asterisk.
To that, I say PHOOEY. All y'all are just jealous that UConn refused to lose whenever it counted. Connecticutians don't have much - don't take our college basketball from us, too! You may have managed to take the excitement from me, but you won't succeed at making me sad. You see, I can't feel sad because I'm already indifferent.
That's right, I'm indifferent. I'm not about to let sports make me feel bad. Fanaticism is stupid anyway. I was in for the excitement, but I'm not up for getting upset about something as trivial as a sports game. If you want to keep shitting on UConn's win, that's on you, but I'm going to go back to not caring about sports again for a while... at least until I forget why I developed that stance in the first place.
