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Yes, I haven't been around for awhile — I know, sorry. In any case, I have some news to share. All three Chuang bros' URLs are finally live, meaning you now have your pick of Chuang when it comes to getting ridiculous, and more than likely, inaccurate, information. Visit John John or Andrew now. Maybe they'll be better at updating than me.
Above, is a James Beard Foundation Award — considered by many to be the Oscar of the food world. Today, the nominees were announced.
I was one of them.
I would write more, but right now I'm just exhausted from all the bone luges. See what I did there? Regular people may take regular shots of alcohol, but nationally recognized Jamesmotherfuckinbeard nominees celebrate their big moments by taking their alcohol from scraped out bone shanks.
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Like many other red-blooded American men, I am participating in Movember this month. The difference between me and the other guys is that a.) I am Asian and any attempt at growing facial hair results in me looking like an Ecuadorian farmhand, and b.) the agency I work for is full of creative assassins that can put out shit like what you see above. If you're not pro-prostate or testicular cancers, you should probably donate to me here. Gracias.
In case you didn't know, I am Asian. And like every good Asian, I drink my tea like a goddamned cowboy — throw that ish into a cup and add hot water. Steep. Drink. However, if I did drink tea like non-Asians, this is exactly what I'd use. I mean, look at his smile.
Yeah, yeah, I know. I haven't been posting much in the last three months, but that's because I've started working for a new agency — where you ask? None of your damn business. However, I will try to post more frequently, and it starts right now with this video for "Thrift Shop" by Macklemore & Ryan Lewis, featuring Wanz.
When the Dream Team formed in 1992, I did what any self-respecting grade school male of a certain socioeconomic class did--I annoyed my parents until they gave me $10, and then I went and bought the shit out of that 18x24 framed poster of Bird, Magic, Michael and company--man, fuck Karl Malone--standing in front of a firework backdrop from my neighborhood Wal-Mart. In remembrance of how much of a pain in the ass I was, NBA TV in a moment of lucidity actually produced something worth watching by creating this documentary on America's Team. Yeah, it's an hour long, but you're also reading this site, which means you totally have an hour to burn. USA! USA! USA!
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According to Warren, he's located the former Al-Qaeda leader's body about 200 miles west of Surat, India. As always, he's delved deeper into his bag of Jason Bourne hyperbole, telling Spanish newspaper El Mundo, "I'm the only one with this information." He goes on to claim that he'll begin diving in June, with a timeframe of finding the body to be anywhere from "under a week," to three months; the only thing really stopping him being the potential assassination attempts as set forth by the good ol' US of A.
Now Bill, listen to me this time, because I know you're an avid reader of this site--most treasure hunters are. Even if by some stroke of GPS-fluke you did locate the drop point of OBL's body, there is absolutely no way that you'll ever find him because it's the fucking ocean. A quick Google search of "how deep is the ocean" yields a result of roughly 3 miles, and that's the average depth. Based on my countless hours of attempting to drop a variety of coins onto rotating lexan islands at the counter of my childhood Taco Bell, let me tell you: shit doesn't drop straight down in water. I wasted approximately $300 of my future inheritance trying to predict how a penny would slice through roughly 2 inches of water and, hopefully, land on one of those platforms, I doubt you can figure out how a decaying, weighed down corpse would react over 90,000 times that depth.
If you can do this, you can find Osama Bin Laden.
Currently, Warren is attempting to raise his own $300--well, $200,000--to fund the dive. Anyone willing to fund him should feel free to contact me here. Because obviously you're Kim Jong Un. And if you're going to just throw away your money, it may as well be to a fellow Asian brother that went to boarding school.
One time in college my friend Ryan told me that I had to walk away from this guy that was making small talk with us at a party. "He was rapping to 'Gin and Juice,' Brandon." Well that hardly seems like a reason to stop ta--"The edited version."
To be honest, I don't even know why they still have edited versions of songs--do people even listen to music on the radio today? If kids are anything like me, they make sure to steal the torrent seed labeled EXPLICIT, because, dammit, I need curse words.
That's why I've posted this version of "Fuck You," by Cee Lo Green. 1.) Because it's been so long since I've heard the unedited version that I forgot it was "fuck" and not "forget." 2.) It co-stars one half of the duo that brought America this. 3.) They both genuinely seem so, well, fucking happy to be dropping the F bomb.
On a side note, I'm also amused by the fact that Daryl Hall and his band refused to use the n-word. "Listen guys, we can say 'fuck,' but god help us if any of us say, well, you know."
Oh, and sorry if you get fired for this because I didn't warn you in time that this is technically NSFW.
Above, is the video for Canadian pop songstress Carly Rae Jepsen's single, Call Me Maybe--which up until yesterday, I had thought was titled "Call Me Baby." You may think the confusion is minor, if not laughable, but I assure you it is not. In fact, it completely calls into question the perpetuation of assigned gender roles in a youth culture that seemingly boasts of turning a blind eye towards anything that could begin to be ascribed with a label or definition.
Either that, or I'm fucking old.
Listening to the song, Jepsen's tale is a familiar one: girl pining for a boy who doesn't know she exists. The ending is always the same: boy, through his own actions, finally recognizes the girl as the love of his life, and they live happily to the pan-away shot.
Originally, while still lyrically confused, I was impressed by the gaul of Jepsen. How refreshing to see the traditional woman's role be turned on its ear! The captured heart will no longer wait to be rescued, but will rescue itself, claiming its conquest with the bold proclamation, "here's my number, so call me, baby!"
When I found out the line didn't end with a statement, but a question--"so call me, maybe?"--I was immediately, and inexplicably, furious. Here is a song about a girl that is infatuated with a boy, so much so that she "[trades] her soul for a wish/ pennies and dimes for a kiss." Okay, so I don't really understand why the exchange rate for a kiss is so much lower than that of a wish--you'd kind of think it'd be higher since it suggests the wish would no longer be necessary. In any case, the girl is in love, and, in what seems to be an applause-worthy distortion of "the suitor" and "the suited," she decides to court him. That is, unless he's not interested. Then it's, you know, whatever.
I honestly have no idea why I'm so amped up about this song. I went to one of the last all-male liberal arts colleges in the country; trust me when I say I only skimmed Kate Chopin. I think what bothers me is the lackadaisical attitude the song has towards passions. You're talking about how "crazy" you are for this guy, and you finally build up the courage to address your feelings and confront him, only to fizzle out with an imploring, "maybe?" Zac Efron stalked some woman based off of a picture he found in the desert, and he didn't even know if he liked her. The least you could do is not act like you're asking for extra tartar sauce from the drive thru guy at Long John Silver's.
If you're wondering, this is how you assert your feelings with authority. Next doesn't have to say anything else; I know exactly what they want to do.
LA-based The Neighbourhood just released their second single and subsequent video, Sweater Weather. It's good, but it's also already been picked up by Nylon--the closest thing to an assassination attempt in the world of hipsters. However it also means that the Midwest will be seeing this in about three months.
If you want to know what'll be going on in Milwaukee in July, go ahead and press play.
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I admit, I normally don't give live action short films the time of day--namely because all the live action short films I've seen have been made by terrible, untalented people calling themselves filmmakers. However, Nirvan Mullick is not terrible, nor untalented, and his short film about a 9 year old boy and his cardboard business, called Caine's Arcade, is a great example of excellent storytelling and how I am a judgmental prick.
I don't necessarily have a problem with flavored vodkas, I just don't understand the reasoning. Women, you have cranberry juice to fix the fact that you can't stomach straight alcohol. Men, you have no excuse. I thought I drew the line when I saw Pearl's "Wedding Cake" vodka (seriously, just call it "vanilla"), but my head almost exploded when I saw that "premium" vodka maker Van Gogh has introduced a peanut butter and jelly flavor.
Even if this swill is good--which I most certainly will guarantee you, it is not--I wouldn't buy it based on the terrible bottle design alone. It looks like something a community college art major would make. And when did the alcohol industry decide to start pandering to 17 year olds? Sure, they consume a lot of booze, but not booze that costs $40 a bottle. I'm going to start a spirits brand that takes bottom of the barrel vodka, and pairs it with a variety of flavors that all inexperienced drinkers can enjoy. The introductory lineup will include Dino-Grape of Flintstone's chewable vitamins fame and Strawberry Big League Chew. Investors can find me here.
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