#walking parodies of themselves those silly fucks

[musings-from-mars]

There’s nothing more queer than having other queer people tell you you don’t belong in the queer community, like that just makes you extra queer, there’s not any better indicator of your queerness than that. If you’re too queer for the queers then congratulations, you have won. Now eat them

[dishesoap]

games i love and u should play, in no particular order:

chrono trigger

an old jrpg from the 90s, chrono trigger is a fantasy/sci-fi game about time travel, magic, and robots, with a fun plot, good gameplay, incredible characters, and one of the best soundtracks ever written.

youll find chrono trigger on best video game lists for a reason. its old, but its great. in fact, chrono trigger was the start and the inspiration for a lot of both jrpg mechanics and other games themselves.

ct is just one of those games You Should Play if you like video games. the base plot doesnt take forever - estimates are at about 20 hours, but you can speed through way faster - or, take the time to get over 10 endings, finish side quests, and have fun.

the beginners guide:

you know the Stanley Parable? this is the same creator.

the beginners guide is a short, introspective game i think everyone who creates content should play. its narrative, a man walking and talking you through short strange little games that his friend coda made. its about the process of creation, the reason, the rewards. the setbacks.

this is one of those games i had to sit quietly for a little bit after playing and feel some stuff. i try and replay it now and then, just cuz.

hatoful boyfriend:

okay. yes. i see all my friends groaning. youre about to as well. but hear me out.

hatoful boyfriend is a japanese dating sim with a twist.

you are a high school age human girl.

you go to a school for birds.

also, you live in a cave.

hatoful boyfriend is one of those games you think is a joke parody - and youre right, mostly, except if you stick with it long enough you stop laughing at the silly photorealistic bird jpegs. usually this is because youre either screaming or crying, but hey.

get through all the base routes and youll unlock the True Arc, which happens to be a murder mystery - and also explains what the fuck is up with the birds. and the human.

just. yes, the bird dating game (and its sequel, holiday star) has a plot. it has a lot of plot twists. some of em youll see coming. some of them you most certainly wont. listen, if you can barrel through the weirdness of it, its a fun, wild ride, and it has what is probably my favorite video game protagonist of all time.

(you, the player character, have base stats of 1 wisdom, 5 charisma, and 800 vitality. you run around screaming things like "MY HUNTER GATHERER BLOOD BOILS" before drop kicking your classmates, your heart is the size of the sun, and you wrestle buffalo for fun. this does not even begin to describe hiyoko's strangeness.)

undertale:

youre reading this on tumblr.

you know what undertale is.

just ignore the fans and the fandom and youll have a good time.

breath of the wild:

you probably know this one too. one of the more recent legend of zelda games, botw is an open world jrpg about a young hero waking up in the wild with no memories, but a huge responsibility.

listen. listen. i dont like games with fighting mechanics that require me to respond quickly. i am slow and bad at games. i also dont like games that are easy to get lost in, bc i am very easily lost, and botw has a HUGE open map. but this is probably one of my top three favorite games ever.

botw has it all - and all of it is amazing and unforgettable. characters, plot, gameplay, music, scenery, heartbreak, comedy-

this is another game you could blow through pretty quickly, or you could do what i did and finish every single sidequest and shrine and upgrade every piece of armor and then track down all 900 korok seeds. its up to you.

night in the woods:

indie side scroller/point and click about a 20 year old coming home from college to her hometown, a dying ex-mining backwater place called possum springs.

nitw is a mystery game, but its also about friendship, mental illness, the supernatural, and the slow, steady, inexorable decline of poor towns and the people in them as jobs disappear and the world crumbles.

its also really, really funny.

nitw also has two little side games - longest night and lost constellation - that are good!

stardew valley:

this is just a cute little farming sim. its well made. its fun. its addicting.

inherit a farm from ur grandfather as he dies on a fucked up bed, then escape to it from your menial soul-sucking office job to grow parsnips, raise cows, pet dogs, be gay, fall in love, make jam, fall down mineshafts, hit slime with swords, and buy probably-not irradiated sprinklers from a blob man in the sewers.

i have too many hours in this game.

pokemon mystery dungeon: explorers of sky

i am very tired of pokemon main games. i have been for years. i firmly advocate that the side games are where its at - and pmd:eos is The Best pokemon side game.

you are an amnesiac human-turned pokemon alongside your best friend, as you join an adventurers guild to explore new lands as well as rescue pokemon in need. but somethings going very wrong in the world, and you might just be connected to it all.

explorers of sky is like, the final version with more stuff, but time/darkness are both versions as well.

even when the plot twists are pretty foreseeable (this is a game written for kids, its pokemon) theyre still really good. i remember being a kid as my sister and i played this together and we both sobbed our little hearts out.

the soundtrack is phenomenal, and the gameplay is fun. its just a good game, yall!

off:

off is a french rpg with a free english translation available for download.

off is weird. you, the batter, are on a mission to purify the world. you travel through the zones of the world, defeating spirits and learning more and more about the strange, anxious drone-like inhabitants, the intimidating guardians, and the weird little side characters you meet - and, eventually, the strange child at the heart of it all.

off is slightly spooky, with a plot that that takes a bit to unravel, but its definitely worth it.

monster prom/camp:

a very lgbt+ friendly series, monster prom is a single or multiplayer american dating sim that really digs into the whole monster schtick. you pick your avatar from a list of monstrous choices, and then increase your stats in hope of being cool, charming, smart, etc enough to pick the right dialogue option and woo your intended monster beau.

monster prom is crass and heartfelt, with numerous wild and wacky endings. play it in a group, play it alone, but its funny and sweet either way.

summon an eldritch deity to watch naruto with you, aid your demon boyfriend in his quest to punch the sun, learn the meaning of life with a computer, get really high on illegal and dangerous substances with a ghost, and so much more.

inside:

spooky little puzzle side scroller/platformer

you are a little boy and you are trying to go somewhere. the world is grey and is trying to kill you.

something is very wrong.

[ganymedesclock]

A Sincere Thought About Final Pam

So this thought just hit me like a ton of bricks while I was waking up this morning, so bear with me, folks.

Final Pam- and the monster factory episode where they create and start playing her- was actually I believe, my first in-depth exposure to the Mcelroy brothers. And I specifically recall being hesitant going in. “So three male comedy personalities... are going to deliberately set out to create an ugly woman character, and then play her, and the point of this is they are trying very hard to make her strange and ugly.”

I kind of had my teeth half-grit in this, wondering how mean the jokes would be, about halfway through the character creation.

And then something happened.

They fell in love with their character.

When the subject was Pam being weird and grotesque and breaking the sliders, they were very enthusiastic about that. But just that- they were enthusiastic in a largely positive sense. Some of the choices they made- maxing out the muscle slider- they were just plain stoked about! “She’s like a human punch!”

And the character that emerged from it, even though she was designed as a parody, is someone who has captivated people’s hearts, who has a genuinely wonderful amount of personality and flair. I find myself thinking about Final Pam a lot, especially her dolled-up later look with the sunglasses, dress, and axe.

And if I’m honest. I think that this is a very important skill of the Mcelroy brothers as character creators- they will start with something silly. Something ridiculous. A wizard named “taco taco” (not spelled that way, of course). But they will then sincerely emotionally commit to the experience of being this person.

Pam’s face and body are not curses laid against her to depict her as someone who can’t be loved, only funny to laugh at- they are acts of defiance that brought together her character in total rebellion of how the game whose system spawned her wanted her to look. So the experience of Pam is not to be a mockery-worthy pariah who’s either unaware of it or scorned by it- but of telling the gods themselves or as close to it, to fuck off, because you look fantastic.

This actually changed the way I play video games. No joke. Before this point, I don’t think I ever really had that much fun with character creation sliders. In the Sims, in Skyrim, I agonized over them- but didn’t enjoy it. My characters had to be pretty. If I accidentally chose an option that made them look bad, I got frustrated. And because they had to be the narrowest imaginable standard of pretty, I never had fun.

But Pam looked like fun. Being Pam looked like fun, and creating Pam looked like fun.

The next time I fired up skyrim and stared at that character creator? I made a decision.

I tried to make a zombie, in a character creator that is designed, well, for living people. Experimented with options and overlays, how to add a very pale, drawn, sickly appearance, to suggest a character who is in early stages of decay- or a stage of embalming- in which they can pass, walking around, for the flesh of the living. Jutting facial bones, cavernous sunken cheeks, a bald head.

She was not pretty. I loved her. I had a lot of fun being her.

Now, I am not quite on the level of the Mcelroy brothers, though I may strive to get there. My heart has been somewhat closed to loving my own creations. I yearn for them to be taken seriously- they must be. They are too close to myself, and on a level, I am terrified of seeming like a joke to people. This may be part of the particular path I’ve tread through experiencing the world as a neurodivergent person- being autistic and adhd, it has felt in the past like my hard-won badge of maturity will be revoked in any context where I do not viciously fight to defend it. I fear becoming merely a comic relief character in someone else’s lives.

But ‘prettiness’ haunted me, both in video games, and in my art. I am also someone who was raised as a girl, and unfortunately, to many people, “pretty” is the best thing a girl can be, and they might superficially decry “an obsession with beauty”- but if you’re not pretty, it becomes harder to be taken seriously. For someone like me, whose features and body are passable for societal norms, I had an advantage I felt afraid of losing. 

And as someone who tends to feel more like a guy than like a girl, that adds a whole other layer onto it: guys are also held to standards of looking good, but rather than just being assumed “vapid” if you’re too caught up in your looks, that’s a matter of suspect and scandal. Beautiful men- sparkle sparkle- are treated as suspect, more fragile, more stupid than others, or outrageous, scandalous, a joke. 

Taken as a girl, I can be seen as not really concerned with my looks enough (I’m sure the beauty industry would personally love to sell me concealer and foundation to wear everyday rather than a single thing of mascara I fiddle with on rare occasions when I think it might be fun, and even people who aren’t makeup salesmen, probably rightly, think I don’t moisturize enough); but taken as a guy, if I ever passed enough as a cis article to be seen by others at first glance as a man, I’d probably pass off as far too concerned on it.

The thing about Pam, though, is she is undeniable. Pam looks however well she damn pleases. She sets her own standards, and by her standards, she’s rocking it. The experience of being Pam is an impassioned rejection of the standards of beauty, the narrative she’s ostensibly positioned in as a character, and, in fact, the raw laws of her universe- that is, those of the game. HA HA, WRITERS, YOU DECIDE WHAT IS IMPORTANT? NO. PAM DECIDES WHAT IS IMPORTANT. ROACHIE AND METAL HUSBAND ARE IMPORTANT.

Pam is vivacious, enthusiastic, a sheer force of chaos- and she is not even sorry for the slightest second, about her face, about her body, about her volume, about anything. Pam will never be measured as a failure woman, because Pam only measures herself as Pam. And she is the only Pam. The ideal Pam. The Final Pam. There is no failure state for being Pam.

While total chaotic disregard of other people also has a dark side... I think I personally have lived most of my life on the other side of the problem: not really wanting to make a fuss.

So watching that episode of Monster Factory, and coming into contact with Final Pam as a character made me realize that my own anxieties, my assumption that there is a failure state for being me, was a shadow that I cast over my character creation process. I made characters who were inoffensive, pretty, desirable, even as I challenged the idea with them being gross, or intense, or fearsome- they could have eyeballs growing out of their throats, just not too large of a nose. When I was given the toy of a character creator, I didn’t truly play with it. I carefully arranged them into inoffensive model features, and then tried to make up for it by having them rampage with a sledgehammer (but even then, only so much rampaging)

But people who are truly beautiful have always pushed the envelope of what was acceptable. Facial moles are ugly and disfiguring- oh, wait, no they’re not, Marilyn Monroe has one and it’s all the rage. If someone has the charisma to push themselves out into the public eye despite all of the setbacks and barriers, we are forced to acknowledge them.

I needed Pam. I needed to make characters who were not apologetic for being themselves, an “I’m sorry” baked into the elevation of their cheekbones.

I haven’t broken a character creator yet. But I do know that nowadays I’m having a lot more fun.

[easyfoodnetwork]

The Lack of Flavor in ‘Emily in Paris’ Is Only Emphasized by Its Meals

Courtesy of Netflix

Among the Netflix series’s set pieces are a boulangerie, a brasserie, and a bistro, which represent Paris as artlessly as the show’s American protagonist

Democracy in the United States is either in its death throes or just a very painful midlife crisis. We’re a country led by a very sick, very silly old man. Meanwhile, a non-ideological virus is metastasizing thanks to ideological idiocy, and a fly is the star of the vice presidential debates since it is slightly more meme-able than systemic racism. Meanwhile, I’m trying to decide whether to pay for COBRA or child care. Recession turns deeper, expressions turn dire. Sartre looks like a Hallmark card. And amid all this chaos, more chaos: Netflix releases Emily in Paris.

What could have been, and should have been, a blissful escapist confection, the Darren Star — he of Sex in the City and Younger — production is instead a croissant of poop and pee that proves, as Sartre entitled his play, there is no exit. The remit of this review, like all Eater at the Movies, is how food plays into the show. In this case, all of Emily in Paris’s ineptitude can be refracted through the show’s boulangerie, brasserie, and bistro, which, like every other aspect of the city, is simplified into inane simulacra, a fetishized form whose richness and texture has been stripped away through Instagram filters and the willful trite presuppositions, not to mention arrogance and cupidity, of the titular character, Emily.

Though the series bursts with an admixture of Parisian errata and cliche, the first true food moment doesn’t pertain to Paris at all but to Chicago, the former home of Emily Cooper, the social media manager hero (with fewer than 50 Instagram followers?) who has left the Windy City for the City of Light. Upon meeting her boss’s boss at the Parisian marketing firm to which she has been assigned, the man says, apropos her home city, “I know Chicago. I’ve had the deep-dish pizza there.” Emily begins to say how proud Chicagoans are of it when he interrupts, “It was like a quiche made of cement.” To which Ms. Cooper replies, “You must have eaten at Lou Malnati’s.” There are literally endless fictional pizzerie to slag off. Combine any vowel-heavy chain of syllables and you have a mediocre joke that would land almost exactly the same. And yet, no, Emily in Paris chose Lou Malnati’s, a deep-dish institution in Chicago since 1971. Sure, it’s a chain, but a small one, and there might be (certainly is) better deep-dish pizza out there, but why pick on Lou? This isn’t David versus Goliath as much as Goliath flicking boogers on David, and to what end? In a bid for insider specificity, the series shat on a small business. And if the argument is made that any publicity is good publicity, that simply proves that the inherent ickiness of the character is, sad to say, true to life: that all we have is spectacle.

We are, I think, quite rightly in need of some sort of frothy fantasy. I mean, how many times can you refresh the New York Times or rewatch The Social Dilemma or listen to the next NPR Politics Podcast? But it is equally true that in times as trying as these, which are — and here is a truth out of which we can not wriggle — a consequence of our dysfunction, the hitherto benign escape routes we previously took reveal themselves as not quite as benign as we thought. Would Emily in Paris hit differently if it weren’t also true that we are watching in real time how social media has rendered reality subservient to our easily shared interpretations of it? I dunno, does smoking look so cool on film when your grandfather died of lung cancer? I think not. Despite the beauty Paris has to offer, the show is built on an ugly and insidious premise. Everything is content. Nothing is real unless extruded into a social media algorithm, ratified in its existence by the likes of others. There is no present. There is only post, and posting.

Almost countless times through the first three episodes, Emily and the other characters demonstrate a complete disregard for reality in preference for the platforms of social media (in the show, these posts float on screen, complete with followers and hashtags, like ethereal projections.) Paris isn’t Paris but, as Emily tells her Chicagoan boyfriend while Facetiming as she walks, “The entire city looks like Ratatouille.” Meaning that the character’s entire frame of reference is itself a cartoonish recreation, a copy of a copy of a copy.

In another instance Emily’s friend Mindy Chen, one of the very few people of color to make an appearance in this unrelentingly white show, says, “Have you ever had ris de veau?” to which Emily replies, “Why? What is that, rice with veal?” to which Mindy replies, “That’s what I thought too. I think it’s brains or balls, but it tastes like ass.” As a frequent and fervent eater of ass, I can say affirmatively this is not the case. Ris de veau, which are sweetbreads, are not brains, balls, nor ass, but the thymus. This isn’t Chef’s Table and we don’t need a slow-motion disquisition on it but, for the love of God, would it hurt to close the loop on that in some way so that the error, and yes, defamation of a protein doesn’t stand uncorrected? No, and the reason is that reality doesn’t matter.

Now, it should be mentioned that Emily’s paramour, Gabriel (Lucas Bravo), is a chef; in fact, he is the chef at the bistro at which the ris de veau conversation takes place. He is incredibly handsome. So handsome. Like if Armie Hammer procreated with one of the sturdier barricades in Les Mis — Gabriel would be the gorgeous offspring. I mean, even though I’m quite upset about this true excrescence while contemplating his torso and face, I’m filled with jouissance, with all its Barthesian overtones of orgasmic joy. And I guess the contemplation of his beauty has put me in a good mood too, because honestly the acting throughout the series is really strong and Paris’s beauty does emerge from the shitshow unscathed and even if the boulangerie are nothing but blank parodies of themselves and the scenes within them are riddled with continuity errors, to see such vast array of batards, baguettes, pains au chocolat, croissants, and brioche is enormously pleasurable. But anyway, as angelic as he is, Gabriel can’t save this carnival of fart smell.

Look, there is smart-dumb and dumb-dumb and the archetype of an ingenue American in Paris is well-trod territory both in the hands of Star himself (viz. the “An American Girl in Paris” episodes of Sex in the City) as well as by luminaries such as Godard in A Bout de Souffle. Sometimes a naif from the Midwest is a divine fool, recognizing truths unseen by those accustomed to them. But Emily in Paris is dumb-dumb. That is to say, the show is silly in ways that I can’t imagine they meant to be. Consider the croissant. At one point, as an indicator of Emily’s rapier wit, she takes a picture of a gaggle of French women, fresh from spinning, enjoying a post-workout smoke. “#Frenchworkout #Smokin’bodies” she writes in a judge-y Instagram caption. Unremarked upon is the fact that Emily, still clad in her running outfit (which reveals, it might be noted, a totes shredded six pack), is holding a croissant — which is totally fine, but an indulgence all the same. This falls into a pattern that presents paradoxes without comment and which seem sloppy rather than provocative. The most egregious example, I think, takes place at the bistro where, unbeknownst to Emily, her potential new boyfriend Gabriel works as head chef. In a trope as well done as a Shake Shack patty, she sends her steak back, complaining it is undercooked. This is then followed by a brief very American diatribe about how, in America, the customer is always right. Is she supposed to be ridiculous or relatable? At any rate, the steak is sent back to the kitchen and then presented almost immediately with the predictable reply that the meat is cooked as the meat should be cooked. Emily is on the edge of advocating for herself when she catches sight of Angel Gabriel and, in an act again of unremarked-upon deflation, quickly backtracks to say the steak is perfect as it is. What are we left with but an increasingly futile hope that this is all pretext for a massive late-season volta in which Emily, like Oedipus or Creon, realizes her shortcomings, gouges out her eyes, and exiles herself to the periphery? No, this fantasy holds as little promise in Emily in Paris as it does in Washington, D.C.

There’s an early scene when Emily first meets her new best friend, Mindy, who is working as an au pair despite (or in spite of) her familial wealth. In this scene, the pair are sitting in a Parisian park and Mindy’s charges, two towheaded French children, are playing by a fountain. Without asking, Emily snaps and shares a picture of the kid to her account @emilyinparis, demonstrating her growing habit of photographing and Instagramming people without their consent. In this instance, I got so mad I had to get up and do a lap around my living room. What irked me so much was that taking a picture, let alone sharing it, of minors is so fucked up and, as it happens, illegal according to France’s Penal Code (Sec 226.1) and yet here passes without mention as if it were de rigueur. The gesture takes something beautiful and alive and, with an unthinking sense of entitlement, pins it like a dead monarch for the display and edification of others, imprisoning it behind hashtag bars and digested in the maw of a rapacious feed. And this gesture, which is essentially one of disrespect, is at the heart of every line, in every bite of every morsel of every meal that is served in Emily in Paris. To see something you know is beautiful made to bow in order to enter through the narrow aperture of idiocy makes one lose one’s appetite. Sure, Paris is a city of lights, of beauty, of love and, yes, croissants. But the more you love Paris, which is to say, the more you love life, with all its complexity, nuance and agenda- and metric-defying splendour, the more you’ll find Emily in Paris unpalatable, if not downright degueulasse.

Joshua David Stein is the co-author of the forthcoming Nom Wah Tea Parlor and Il Buco Essentials: Stories & Recipes cookbooks and the memoir Notes from a Young Black Chef with Kwame Onwuachi. He is the author of the six children’s books, most recently The Invisible Alphabet, with illustrations by Ron Barrett. Follow him on Instagram at @joshuadavidstein.

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Courtesy of Netflix

Among the Netflix series’s set pieces are a boulangerie, a brasserie, and a bistro, which represent Paris as artlessly as the show’s American protagonist

Democracy in the United States is either in its death throes or just a very painful midlife crisis. We’re a country led by a very sick, very silly old man. Meanwhile, a non-ideological virus is metastasizing thanks to ideological idiocy, and a fly is the star of the vice presidential debates since it is slightly more meme-able than systemic racism. Meanwhile, I’m trying to decide whether to pay for COBRA or child care. Recession turns deeper, expressions turn dire. Sartre looks like a Hallmark card. And amid all this chaos, more chaos: Netflix releases Emily in Paris.

What could have been, and should have been, a blissful escapist confection, the Darren Star — he of Sex in the City and Younger — production is instead a croissant of poop and pee that proves, as Sartre entitled his play, there is no exit. The remit of this review, like all Eater at the Movies, is how food plays into the show. In this case, all of Emily in Paris’s ineptitude can be refracted through the show’s boulangerie, brasserie, and bistro, which, like every other aspect of the city, is simplified into inane simulacra, a fetishized form whose richness and texture has been stripped away through Instagram filters and the willful trite presuppositions, not to mention arrogance and cupidity, of the titular character, Emily.

Though the series bursts with an admixture of Parisian errata and cliche, the first true food moment doesn’t pertain to Paris at all but to Chicago, the former home of Emily Cooper, the social media manager hero (with fewer than 50 Instagram followers?) who has left the Windy City for the City of Light. Upon meeting her boss’s boss at the Parisian marketing firm to which she has been assigned, the man says, apropos her home city, “I know Chicago. I’ve had the deep-dish pizza there.” Emily begins to say how proud Chicagoans are of it when he interrupts, “It was like a quiche made of cement.” To which Ms. Cooper replies, “You must have eaten at Lou Malnati’s.” There are literally endless fictional pizzerie to slag off. Combine any vowel-heavy chain of syllables and you have a mediocre joke that would land almost exactly the same. And yet, no, Emily in Paris chose Lou Malnati’s, a deep-dish institution in Chicago since 1971. Sure, it’s a chain, but a small one, and there might be (certainly is) better deep-dish pizza out there, but why pick on Lou? This isn’t David versus Goliath as much as Goliath flicking boogers on David, and to what end? In a bid for insider specificity, the series shat on a small business. And if the argument is made that any publicity is good publicity, that simply proves that the inherent ickiness of the character is, sad to say, true to life: that all we have is spectacle.

We are, I think, quite rightly in need of some sort of frothy fantasy. I mean, how many times can you refresh the New York Times or rewatch The Social Dilemma or listen to the next NPR Politics Podcast? But it is equally true that in times as trying as these, which are — and here is a truth out of which we can not wriggle — a consequence of our dysfunction, the hitherto benign escape routes we previously took reveal themselves as not quite as benign as we thought. Would Emily in Paris hit differently if it weren’t also true that we are watching in real time how social media has rendered reality subservient to our easily shared interpretations of it? I dunno, does smoking look so cool on film when your grandfather died of lung cancer? I think not. Despite the beauty Paris has to offer, the show is built on an ugly and insidious premise. Everything is content. Nothing is real unless extruded into a social media algorithm, ratified in its existence by the likes of others. There is no present. There is only post, and posting.

Almost countless times through the first three episodes, Emily and the other characters demonstrate a complete disregard for reality in preference for the platforms of social media (in the show, these posts float on screen, complete with followers and hashtags, like ethereal projections.) Paris isn’t Paris but, as Emily tells her Chicagoan boyfriend while Facetiming as she walks, “The entire city looks like Ratatouille.” Meaning that the character’s entire frame of reference is itself a cartoonish recreation, a copy of a copy of a copy.

In another instance Emily’s friend Mindy Chen, one of the very few people of color to make an appearance in this unrelentingly white show, says, “Have you ever had ris de veau?” to which Emily replies, “Why? What is that, rice with veal?” to which Mindy replies, “That’s what I thought too. I think it’s brains or balls, but it tastes like ass.” As a frequent and fervent eater of ass, I can say affirmatively this is not the case. Ris de veau, which are sweetbreads, are not brains, balls, nor ass, but the thymus. This isn’t Chef’s Table and we don’t need a slow-motion disquisition on it but, for the love of God, would it hurt to close the loop on that in some way so that the error, and yes, defamation of a protein doesn’t stand uncorrected? No, and the reason is that reality doesn’t matter.

Now, it should be mentioned that Emily’s paramour, Gabriel (Lucas Bravo), is a chef; in fact, he is the chef at the bistro at which the ris de veau conversation takes place. He is incredibly handsome. So handsome. Like if Armie Hammer procreated with one of the sturdier barricades in Les Mis — Gabriel would be the gorgeous offspring. I mean, even though I’m quite upset about this true excrescence while contemplating his torso and face, I’m filled with jouissance, with all its Barthesian overtones of orgasmic joy. And I guess the contemplation of his beauty has put me in a good mood too, because honestly the acting throughout the series is really strong and Paris’s beauty does emerge from the shitshow unscathed and even if the boulangerie are nothing but blank parodies of themselves and the scenes within them are riddled with continuity errors, to see such vast array of batards, baguettes, pains au chocolat, croissants, and brioche is enormously pleasurable. But anyway, as angelic as he is, Gabriel can’t save this carnival of fart smell.

Look, there is smart-dumb and dumb-dumb and the archetype of an ingenue American in Paris is well-trod territory both in the hands of Star himself (viz. the “An American Girl in Paris” episodes of Sex in the City) as well as by luminaries such as Godard in A Bout de Souffle. Sometimes a naif from the Midwest is a divine fool, recognizing truths unseen by those accustomed to them. But Emily in Paris is dumb-dumb. That is to say, the show is silly in ways that I can’t imagine they meant to be. Consider the croissant. At one point, as an indicator of Emily’s rapier wit, she takes a picture of a gaggle of French women, fresh from spinning, enjoying a post-workout smoke. “#Frenchworkout #Smokin’bodies” she writes in a judge-y Instagram caption. Unremarked upon is the fact that Emily, still clad in her running outfit (which reveals, it might be noted, a totes shredded six pack), is holding a croissant — which is totally fine, but an indulgence all the same. This falls into a pattern that presents paradoxes without comment and which seem sloppy rather than provocative. The most egregious example, I think, takes place at the bistro where, unbeknownst to Emily, her potential new boyfriend Gabriel works as head chef. In a trope as well done as a Shake Shack patty, she sends her steak back, complaining it is undercooked. This is then followed by a brief very American diatribe about how, in America, the customer is always right. Is she supposed to be ridiculous or relatable? At any rate, the steak is sent back to the kitchen and then presented almost immediately with the predictable reply that the meat is cooked as the meat should be cooked. Emily is on the edge of advocating for herself when she catches sight of Angel Gabriel and, in an act again of unremarked-upon deflation, quickly backtracks to say the steak is perfect as it is. What are we left with but an increasingly futile hope that this is all pretext for a massive late-season volta in which Emily, like Oedipus or Creon, realizes her shortcomings, gouges out her eyes, and exiles herself to the periphery? No, this fantasy holds as little promise in Emily in Paris as it does in Washington, D.C.

There’s an early scene when Emily first meets her new best friend, Mindy, who is working as an au pair despite (or in spite of) her familial wealth. In this scene, the pair are sitting in a Parisian park and Mindy’s charges, two towheaded French children, are playing by a fountain. Without asking, Emily snaps and shares a picture of the kid to her account @emilyinparis, demonstrating her growing habit of photographing and Instagramming people without their consent. In this instance, I got so mad I had to get up and do a lap around my living room. What irked me so much was that taking a picture, let alone sharing it, of minors is so fucked up and, as it happens, illegal according to France’s Penal Code (Sec 226.1) and yet here passes without mention as if it were de rigueur. The gesture takes something beautiful and alive and, with an unthinking sense of entitlement, pins it like a dead monarch for the display and edification of others, imprisoning it behind hashtag bars and digested in the maw of a rapacious feed. And this gesture, which is essentially one of disrespect, is at the heart of every line, in every bite of every morsel of every meal that is served in Emily in Paris. To see something you know is beautiful made to bow in order to enter through the narrow aperture of idiocy makes one lose one’s appetite. Sure, Paris is a city of lights, of beauty, of love and, yes, croissants. But the more you love Paris, which is to say, the more you love life, with all its complexity, nuance and agenda- and metric-defying splendour, the more you’ll find Emily in Paris unpalatable, if not downright degueulasse.

Joshua David Stein is the co-author of the forthcoming Nom Wah Tea Parlor and Il Buco Essentials: Stories & Recipes cookbooks and the memoir Notes from a Young Black Chef with Kwame Onwuachi. He is the author of the six children’s books, most recently The Invisible Alphabet, with illustrations by Ron Barrett. Follow him on Instagram at @joshuadavidstein.

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[sincognito]

Grave Heart | Prologue

Pairing: Papyrus (Undertale) x Papyrus (Underfell)

Universe: Undertale and Underfell

Warnings: None for current chapter

Overview: A small hiccup in space and time sends Boss through the multiverse and into Undertale. The world seems to be nothing short of sweet and rosy, but every rose has its thorns.**Co-written fic by Sincognito and Madmusemagister**

A/N: This is the first part of a new fic co-written by myself and @madmusemagister ! We will be taking turns writing this fic. This chapter was written by: Madmusemagister and NOT me. I have permission from the author to post their work on this account!

Read on AO3! HERE

Coming out of the forest, Boss immediately realizes something is strange. The snow is white and pristine other than footsteps, hardly a speck of dust among it. Everything feels too… cheery. He heads towards his house, but is shocked to find that someone has replaced his expert traps with puzzles! And not even well made ones! A literal child could solve these in minutes! In his disgust, he refuses to solve any of them, just jumping around them instead.

 It isn’t until he sees some weird, grinning, soft imposter that it truly sinks in that something is very wrong here.

 “Wowie! Yet another me! And this one is pointy! Hello pointy me! I like your boots!” the faker says.

 What is he playing at? Is he trying to flatter me? Why? Boss huffs at the other, but sticks his chest out anyways. “Only the finest style for someone as great and terrible as I! What’s your business with me?”

 His eyes scan over the other. Much like Boss, his spine is quite exposed from the front, but unlike Boss there’s nothing protecting the back of the spine either. Other him is also wearing a scarf, which Boss approves of if only for the sake of not being a hypocrite. However, beyond that the other’s clothes are absolutely ridiculous! That “armor” is flimsy at best and he doubts it’d offer any more protection than cardboard. And, well, the guy isn’t even wearing pants. Thankfully his weirdly round doppelganger has the decency to cover his pelvis with some kind of… bowl shaped thing, but beyond that he’s just wearing tights. Boss is pretty sure literal paper could cut those. Admittedly the other’s boots are probably a bit more functional for the slush and ice of Snowdin and the marshes of Waterfall, but they look silly!

 Then Boss’s mind stalls as he processes something. “Wait, what do you mean ‘yet another me’?”

 “Oh! Am I the first one you’ve met? Wowie! Welcome to Undertale! Nyeheheh!”

 Boss narrows his eyes and prepares several sharpened bones for a ruthless attack! “Explain, now.”

 The weird him grins, “Oh! Are we sparring? Great! You can go first!”

 Boss’s jaw drops open in sheer incomprehension. He doesn’t understand this other monster, not in the least. Something’s wrong here. He doesn’t like it. His attack stalls.

 “Hmm? Oh! Did you want me to take the first turn instead?”

 “What are you going on about!” Boss snaps, stomping his boot in the snow.

 “Sparring, I think? I’m guessing it works differently where you’re from?”

 Boss’s temper snaps. “You will explain to me what is going on this instant or I will skewer you!” He doesn’t have time for this. He has to go patrol in his world and try to keep monsters from rendering themselves extinct before they can even get the last soul. The mutts that make up the rest of Snowdin’s guard sure aren’t going to do it! Plus, without him there, his 1 HP brother might as well go around naked with “free EXP” written on every bone in his body.

 “Oh! Yes, I can do that! You see, one way or another this universe came to exist. Unfortunately, even someone as great as the Great Papyrus knows not how the universe came into existence. However, I know that from there, many offshoot timelines began to occur. Some are almost exactly the same as this world but with minor, largely inconsequential changes such as everyone having fabulous boots, and in others the similarities are purely superficial with the fundamental rules of the universe having been changed.”

 Boss glares at his apparent counterpart, but the other doesn’t flinch at all from his wrathful gaze. Boss wants to say that means he’s telling the truth, but the utter lack of reaction disturbs him more than it should. He huffs and shifts his weight to one foot, hand on his hip.

 “Alright, let’s say I believe you. What other versions of us do you know?” Maybe they’ll be more helpful than he is.

 “Well there’s Stretch, Hickory – you kind of remind me of his brother actually, but much taller and more handsome – there’s this one universe with a giant mirror, one with a line on his face, the spikier counterpart of that one, and, wait…” the other regards him for a moment, then gasps, “Are you the spiky counterpart of me? Nyeheheheh! It’s so good to finally meet you!

 “Oh, just a few ground rules, this universe is very not-murdery so please no killing! If a monster tries to fight you, make sure to wait your turn, and then spare them! Some are a bit moody, but usually they’ll get over it if you ACT a bit.

 “In this world, it’s spare and be spared!”

 Boss just stares. His mouth opens. His mouth closes. Nope, he’s done with this nonsense. Monsters who aren’t murdery? Does this squishy him even know what monsters are? They’re called monstrous for a reason! He refuses to believe that this world is really the sugar bowl this other him is making it out to be. Besides, what are all these monsters planning on doing when a human passes through? One sufficiently nasty human could clear out the Underground!

 “Okay take me back home where things make sense now.”

 “You’ll have to come with me to get Sans. The Great Papyrus is great at many things, but my brother is better at quantum physics.”

 Boss grumbles, but acquiesces and follows the other. Letting an unfamiliar monster trail him like this, especially with his spine on display, not looking around, chattering about inane things like spaghetti and game night and candy, obviously this other him is a naïve idiot. He couldn’t even scare a Whimsun! Well, maybe he could spook this world’s version, but the ones from his world would probably just eat his fingers and run off.

 With startling ease, they get to the other him’s house. It’s quite… festive. Seriously, who needs this many lights? His house is practically a beacon! Soft him fumbles through his inventory for some keys – at least they have that small precaution – and Boss glances over to the two mailboxes. One is seemingly empty, and the other is overflowing!

 “Are you ever going to answer your damn mail?” Boss snips.

 “Oh, that’s Sans’s, and I’m going to guess no.”

 “What’s he got in there?”

 “I don’t know! I’m not going to root through someone else’s mail like a savage!” Finally, Papyrus produces the key and sticks it in the lock.

 Inside is, well, just as uncanny as outside. It fills Boss with an unpleasant feeling he can’t quite place. It looks like his house down to the rock on the table and the sock with the sticky notes, but it’s also not similar in the least. It’s too bright, the color scheme is wrong, the notes are more annoying than threatening, there’s not a single hole in the place, there’s no carefully constructed cage around the rock prisoner, and it’s just wrong.

 The entire world seems to be some sanitized, sugar coated parody of his world, and he doesn’t trust it for a second. There’s no way it’s as sweet as it seems, no possible way! It must be like that spider bitch Muffet, sweet outside with a rotten core. He just has to find it, then everything will make sense again.

 “Are you alright, pointy me?”

 “I’m fine. Where the fuck is your bro?”

 “Considering that I’m here, I’m guessing that he’ll pop into his room seemingly randomly in a few seconds. I just have to open the cabinet and he’ll play his, ugh, trombone.”

 Boss doubts that’ll work, but weirdly round him does just that and on cue a weirdly round version of his brother plays a surprisingly intact trombone. Other him forgot to mention the dog though. There are now a few holes in their floor from his bone attacks.

 Other Sans comes down, surprisingly unphased by Boss’s arrival. Boss snarls at him, but he just chuckles.

 “Down Fido.”

 “I AM NO ONE’S DOG!” Boss screeches, summoning dozens of bones pointed straight at the fake brother. He wouldn’t actually go through with it, it’s his brother, even if it isn’t, but wrong Sans probably doesn’t know that.

 Then suddenly he’s wet. Other Papyrus has procured a spray bottle and is currently spraying him with water. “No! No attacking Sans! He only has one HP! Bad edgy me! Bad!”

 The attack fizzles as Boss sputters indignantly. “I AM NOT A CAT EITHER! Even if cats are obviously superior!”

 “I know, but it works with edgy Sans, so I thought it’d work with you too!”

 Boss throws his hands in the air. “I’m done! I’m just done! Do whatever the fuck you do and get me back to my world already!” He plops down on the couch and crosses his arms.

 “Language!” other Papyrus snaps.

 “Eh, not really feeling like it,” soft Sans says. The little brat dares to sit on his legs. Big. Mistake. Edge hurls the skeleton across the room, but his impromptu flight is stopped short by his counterpart turning San’s soul blue. Other Sans lands on his feet, much to Boss’s annoyance.

 Other him takes the worst Sans and they go do a thing, he doesn’t know nor care as long as it gets him home. Until then he… has nothing to do really, so he busies himself with cooking. They don’t have much variety, but they do have pasta ingredients, so he goes with that. He finishes up right as they walk in.

 “Alright, think I found what world you’re from. It’s called Underfell by the way, apparently. Dunno how these names work, but they do. Just hop in the machine,” harmless Sans says.

 “Finally!” Boss says. He stomps down and follows this weird joke that looks kind of like his brother. He’s a little surprised to see that other him isn’t here. He’s… disappointed? Tch, no, he doesn’t get disappointed. That other him is just an enigma is all. An enigma and a joke, a parody that while unnerving, also serves to be rather amusing and at least partly helpful. More than that though, he’s a puzzle. This whole world is, and while the way his world works necessitates traps, well…

 He’s always loved puzzles.

 Sans seems to read the questioning look on his face as he says, “Sent him to go get some spare parts. Didn’t want him following you back. Heh, you’re a bit rough around the edges, aren’t you?

 “Here’s some advice.” The other Sans’s eyes go completely dark, grin seeming to widen to the point of being maniacal. “Go home, never come here again, and leave my brother alone. He doesn’t deserve to get caught up in all your Fell-verse murder bullshit.”

 Boss scoffs, “I’ll do whatever the fuck I want, you little gremlin, and your brother is an adult, he can do whatever the fuck he wants. Now then, if you think I’m getting into some weird gadget, then you’re sorely mistaken.” He shoves the other in. “You first. How the fuck do you work this thing?”

 “Like hell I’m going to-”

 “Do it or I’ll dust you.”

 The Sans pauses, then hisses out, “Red button. Always the red button.”

 Boss nods and presses it. There’s a flash, and a distinct lack of dust, so he judges it, if nothing else, to be his best bet to get home. He finds himself in a room he only vaguely visits and sees the blue gremlin scrambling to put together their own version of the machine.

 “Asshole,” dislikeable Sans huffs.

 “Fix it well you hear me, or else you’re never getting home.”

 If the multiverse is really a thing, then there’s no way in this long-forsaken world he’s going to stay ignorant of it. He’s the Great and Terrible Papyrus after all, and he’ll go wherever the fuck he damn well pleases!

 But for now, he’d best inform Sans and the others that he’s back.

[alexanderwrites]

The A-Z of TMBG

Introduction

They Might Be Giants have forever been one of those bands that, when asked my opinion on, I would say “Oh, I adore them”. But similarly to my relationship with The Mountain Goats, I have gaps in my knowledge of their history that are so big that they rival the amount that I do know about them. I always list them as a favourite band, but if I turned up to one of their shows I’d be the asshole excited by every other song, then trying to work out if I knew the rest, nervously mouthing the odd lyric here or there. “Duhh muhh duhh BAG OF GROCERIES duhh duhhh muhh muhhh EXPIRATION DAAAAATE”.

This is because I have a very silly way of listening to music in which I discover a band, love a couple of their albums to death, then struggle to move on from those because those are the ones that I love so much. Most people who have good critical thinking skills would say “Gee, I loved this album so much that I should probably try another of their albums”. Not me! Figure 8 by Elliott Smith, Entroducing by DJ Shadow and This is Our Music by Galaxie 500 are some of my favourite albums of all time, and guess what? They’re pretty much the only albums i’ve listened to by those artists. Now, I have listened to quite a lot of TMBG, but I haven’t often sat down to dig into their music (or stood up! I don’t exclusively listen to music sitting down on a couch like some record producer trying to feel the vision or fall asleep). It’s time to change that, and i’m going to be going through each of their studio albums over the weeks, one by one, and giving them a bit of an appraisal, and a bit of a praise, because, as hard and objective as I wish I was, i’m going to be gushing over TMBG a lot. But if any band, or any album, deserves a hot torrent of gush, it’s this band, and this album....

#1: Untitled, or, The Pink Album, 1986

“We were the most stoppable force in rock music”

- John Flansburgh

John Flansburgh and John Linnell’s (or the Johns as everyone, and now I, call them) first album is quite a rorschach test of an album. Whatever you see in it, and whatever you want it to be, it is. Musically adventurous and avant garde? Check. Goofy and hilarious? Check. The one thing I don’t think anyone could see it as is boring. It feels like an album that will elicit strong feelings and strong opinions from its listener, primarily because it truly does not sound like anything else. While Flansburgh self-deprecatingly refers to the band during their early days as a stoppable force, their music right from the off sounds determined, self assured and insuppressible. What Flansburgh means by stoppable is that they had no record label and no publicist, and that the only people who could really support the band were the few locals who’d catch their shows in Brooklyn. It wasn’t their music that was stoppable, but their situation.

In more ways that one, the music on this album is unstoppable. In their huge bursts of energy and ideas, and in how easily listenable the album is, it is unstoppable. Once I start the opening track on this album, I cannot and do not stop until the album is over, because it’s such a damn fun and specific world to be in. You know that feeling when you’re so deeply into a TV show that when the episode finishes, no other show on the planet can hit the spot? That’s how listening to this album feels.

I’d heard it a couple of times before, but sitting down (again, I don’t just sit down to listen to music! Sometimes I even have a nice little walk!) and paying proper attention to it really opened my eyes to what an incredible debut it is. Though it’s basically an adapted version of a DIY cassette, its distinctive sound is really professional and well recorded, and the songs themselves are fully-formed statements by a band who know what the fuck they’re about. Everything Right is Wrong Again is a legitimate contender for best opener on a debut ever, and it summarises everything that the band is about. It’s a mission statement and a litmus test; a song that, based on your reaction, tells you whether or not this’ll be your new favourite band. Linnell’s distinctive nasal vocals, the prominent drums machine patterns and a huge array of synthesised instruments underneath (is that a fucking harpsichord??) all tie together to make a pop song that sounds nothing like any other pop song around at the time. The lyrics on the opening track touch on a common theme for TMBG, that things feel out of step, and that confusion and even pain are weird damn things to deal with. I mean, take a look at the lyrics. It’s pretty unusual that such a fun and bizarro song would contain lyrics as precise as “The healing doesn't stop the feeling” and “Everything right is wrong again, every movement false, every four is waltz again”. 

TMBG are demonstrating that as silly and playful as they might get, they write real songs that sometimes touch on very real ideas and feelings. And then they have songs called Toddler Hiway that describes a highway of toddlers that leads to Toys R Us. Their ability to mix the astute with the absurd is unique in that they often do it at the same time. Whereas a more traditional band might have a track alternation of serious song - silly song - serious song - silly song, this album blends the two so idiosyncratically that it creates a flavour unlike any other. All their serious songs sound silly, and all their silly songs sound serious. The album takes musical influence from all over the place which results in tracks that boil over with the enthusiasm of two very smart music-buffs who know how to use their inspirations. Number Three has a bluegrass rhythm to go with its self-referential storytelling (”I got two songs in me, and I just wrote the third”), while Alienation’s For The Rich has a country swing to complement its lamenting lyrics. And while these influences are never repeated in a straight forward manner, they also are more than parodies or pastiches of a genre. They’re influences that are put on a conveyer belt and processed through a strange and beautiful machine that mashes them up, flips them upside down and releases them as strange mirror images of themselves. What makes the difference is the skill the Johns have as songwriters, and how intelligently they use references and influences. 

And so, accordions and harpsichords don’t feel parodic, or “how weird ARE WE”, but instead complementary tools used to build very specific little worlds. It might seem strange to start the song Youth Culture Killed My Dog with a James Bond riff (fittingly, TMBG would years later write Dr Evil’s Theme for Austin Powers) but it all gives off a mood, a vibe, and sometimes a good fucking laugh. The album feels like the Johns are saying “Look, this is the music we have to make. It has to have silly skits, it has to be ridiculous, because that’s what we care about.” Or as Flansburgh says in Put Your Hands Inside the Puppet Head: “Memo to myself: do the dumb things I gotta do”. 

The album is built on smart absurdity, a kind of dadaist desire to reveal the strangeness of its characters, and of the music itself. Youth Culture Killed my Dog seems to parody the conservative’s public to youth and counter cultures:

“Bacharach and David used to write his favorite songs

Never, never, never would he worry/he'd just run and fetch the ball

But the hip hop and the white funk just blew away my puppy's mind”.

They seem to be tackling the topic of music itself, and the expectations on what music is and should be. They subvert this by making music that doesn’t sound like what traditional pop music is supposed to sound like. You could call it experimental, but the Johns seem to know exactly what they’re doing. They’re art school weirdos who mercifully don’t take themselves too seriously, and instead have a post-punk, Talking Heads-esque idea of deconstruction and why-the-hell-not attitude. And like Talking Heads, aside from all the oddness and whimsy, what TMBG sound like on this album is a really, really good alternative rock band. Their guitars sounds consistently excellent; Don’t Let’s Start in particular has a great surfer-y guitar sound in the verses that sounds like Pixies’ Here Comes Your Man (but a few years before that song was released), and She’s An Angel, which is the loveliest track on the album, has gorgeous, almost slide-like guitars giving a wonderful texture to the song. And songs like Don’t Let’s Start and (She Was A) Hotel Detective speak to the fact that as well as being a niche, cult item, the Johns create songs that are indisputable alternative classics. The songs might not be as well known as the Blue Mondays and Killing Moons of their era, but they are just as important, clever and classic.

This album makes it clear that the Johns probably won’t go on to be the biggest rock stars on the planet, but it does make it clear that they are truly worthy of their cult status and their passionate fan base, and that they have a hell of a lot in them to look forward to. It’s an album that, if you’d heard it in 1986, you would’ve rooted for it. You would’ve gone up to your friends who liked Devo and Oingo Boingo and told them to please listen to this. You would’ve attended their shows and bought cassettes and written reviews, like the one i’m inspired to write now. The album connects to me in an immediate sense, the songs instantly working their way into my ears and heart. They’re songs that i’m always happy to hear, and to instantly incorporate into my life. Songs that I want to live with. What I mean by that is, there are songs that are always swirling around in my head, so that when something even tangentially connected to them is mentioned, the songs barge their way to the front of my brain. Someone on TV a couple of days ago said “Not to put too fine a point on it”, and I instinctively said “Say i’m the only bee in your bonnet”. Because that’s who TMBG are for those who love them: a band that are constantly right there, dancing around in your head and giving you a wealth of songs, lines and tunes to enjoy. 

And as an album, there really is no better example of their talents and their personality. It’s a surprisingly cohesive set of songs, the 19 of them flying by in just 38 minutes (they do have a lot in common with punk!). It strikes a good, even balance that spreads the tentpole tracks across the two sides, and though there are shorter songs that really are goof offs, they don’t feel like filler. It’s not like they’re saying “shit, we need to throw a 25 second a-cappella about a toddler highway in there to pad the album out”, they’re just giving you sort of...bonuses? Little treats, really. The album would be full enough without them, they’re just the weirdo icing on the cake. If the singles on the album are the equivalent of a comedian doing a longer monologue, then the shorter tracks are one-liners, and having both means you’re spoiled for choice.  A lesser band trying that might not be able to hold your attention for so long, but the Johns do it effortlessly. I kind of think of them and this album as Pee-Wee Herman: Self aware, subversive, a little anarchic, but also completely warm hearted. The kind of thing that those who love it, really deeply love it.

It’s hard to imagine them breaking the mainstream, but looking at the few videos they produced from this album, they begin to make a bit more sense. Because as goofy, nerdy and joyful as they are in these videos, they’re also really fucking cool.

They look like the art-school weirdos that they are, but the kind that like to have lots of fun and make fart jokes. In the Don’t Lets Start video, Linnell is dressed sharply in black and has his hair long and floppy, and he instantly looks like a dweeby counter-culture hero. They dance like David Byrne and seem to be having the most fun of any band in any video. In the Put Your Hand Inside The Puppet Head video, they look like Tears for Fears letting loose with an accordion, which sounds like the uncoolest thing ever, but The Johns pull it off. It’s their enthusiasm and sweetness that sells it.

(She Was A) Hotel Detective has some great vintage Nick-At-Night vibes which (pardon the pun) illustrates their playful style, which is interspersed with self-mocking clips of the Johns playing, with the word “MUSIC” hanging behind them.

Please, if you haven’t seen them and if you get a few minutes, watch these videos. There are not many examples this good of such pure joy and fun. And there aren’t many bands who have music videos that feel like such an accurate extension of their ideals, and it’s in these that you can start to see how they carved out their niche. 

Seeing this play on MTV would’ve been eye and ear catching to say the least, and though it might’ve made many ask “what the fuck is this”, there had to be those people in between who this connected with. And it turned out, there are a lot of those people, and they are now the TMBG fan base, as passionate and excited today as ever. TMBG don’t necessarily speak for them, but they speak to them. The Pink Album says it loud and clear “be weird, have fun, feel things, do the dumb thing you gotta do”.

[geek-gem]

OK KO Parents Day and We Got Hacked

3:54 pm so I just watched the episodes. Also by mistake when I was washing my mouth because I sneezed earlier despite using water I heard won't work but anyway. I saw the show started earlier at 3:25 it said and I watched it at 3:27. I only missed some of the beginning yet it started with KO and his mom in the car and the title pops up.

Including today saw their were some pictures some leaked ones but I didn't wanna look at them despite some by mistake. Mainly from a guy I follow on here who I mentioned in my talk about Michael Bay and Dora movie shit. That's another topic that's weird.

So honestly I seriously enjoyed both episodes and will talk about them both. Yet I feel I won't be as detailed. Basically because my nose is well runny. Even I feel just....I don't know my hearing isn't bad but still.

But I'll talk about, "Parents Day" first and I seriously enjoyed it quite a lot. Including weeks ago I tried to not look at spoilers because I wanted to wait and support the show when it's on the air mainly.

Yet again I liked it a lot. But gonna talk about some stuff. So not really a Halloween episode yet KO like in the promos thinks Enid is trick or treating without him or Rad. But it's just a pretty narly episode with just all that spooky stuff it can still be enjoyed.

So basically the story is on a Parents Day the plaza has surprised Mr. Gar does that cool, KO is excited about this. Yet not Rad since he doesn't like it that his parents embarrass him. I remember seeing I think Rad's dad on a picture of a video on here but I didn't wanna see it to avoid spoilers. Yet of all the three's parents Enid's parents aren't there and she says their a clan of ninjas and decide to leave.

So wanting to find out KO and Rad want to know. Also this joke about Enid likes purple despite it's not a big deal but KO does. Yet they realize that Enid lied about her family. She lives in a haunted house and dresses up as a witch. With KO thinking she's trick or treating without them. I'm surprised Rad didn't make a joke or mention it's not Halloween yet or some shit. Kind of nice despite how weird the world is they still have holidays cool.

Including I was thinking after the episode I'm surprised I haven't cherished the concept and going all out despite I like this holiday where I feel I could be myself some sort of freak. Yet I'm just going by my days normally.

So as they discover and being found by Enid's mom. Including they find out her mom is a vampire and her dad is a werewolf. Also yeah I'm kind of explaining the episode. Let me say this and almost left turns out. But seriously Enid's parents are awesome. Including just how they are. Along with the episode being funny. They just seem so cool. Along with being supportive.

But turns out Enid is embarrassed of her parents and wants to be a ninja. Yet because of conflict with these two ghosts who live with them and possess Rad and KO stuff goes crazy but it's because of Enid's ninja skills and powers or stuff that helps end the problem. With Enid's mom sucking the ghosts right out of the guys and Enid's dad having to make sure she spits out the ghosts.

Because of that Enid's parents don't mind her being into that ninja stuff. Including just seriously it's very nice and cute. Then also Enid wants them to come to the next Parents Day which means she's alright with her parents now.

Also this interaction and development was gonna say I suppose but between Rad and Enid. Because they could relate to parents being embarrassing..... honestly I seem very different from others. Mainly not being embarrassed of my parents yet I can see it might be a problem for some people....I forgot if it was embarrassed. I'm just thinking her parents are so cool. Because of all that spooky stuff and other things.

Honestly I liked the episode. It's probably my favorite of the two being shown today. Including now finally seeing the episode I've tried to avoid spoilers for and waited for. It was seriously funny too including I guess when Rad was just seriously reacting to the concept of Enid's parents and other stuff. Including Enid's reactions just a lot of stuff was silly and funny.

But also glad I tried to avoid spoilers. I remember reading the guide of the episode on TV because I forgot last night and went to bed early by mistake the episode being called, "Parents Day" which I thought referred to Enid's parents but didn't think of a actual parents day yet I remember that video I decided not to watch.

Including I was surprised it wasn't like a Halloween episode featuring the holiday in the episode. Because it was promoted like that. I was excited yet it was different. But it was a lot of fun and loved the episode.

Random shit you guys might find funny but personal stuff. But isn't Enid pretty in a witches outfit. Even before the episode a bit yet seeing it more and in motion I like it. Even after wards when she wasn't dressed as a witch anymore. Personal opinions just saying.....she's cute well thought pretty is actually the word I wanna use mostly to be simple.

Now let's talk about, "We Got Hacked" and this in a way kind of teaches something and glad even before this I don't do this. DO NOT CLICK POP UPS including these weird ones I question are they doing that because of possible popularity, pop culture, and other shit.

So KO tries to use some sort of power mop but it messes up the plaza and he asks Dendy to come over. Okay just yawned yet just mentioning first after and funny scene Dendy basically saying, referencing, and revealing Mr. Gar's, Rad's, and Enid's personal problems and weaknesses yawned some time a bit ago. She tries to fix the mop. Yet KO presses a pop up despite Dendy clearly warning him and it being a virus. Along with it being silly mentioning it to trick old people.

But this virus is different, it's affecting costumers, and making them glitching basically scary looking when you think about it. Even before the episode aired. Almost left even again but this episode I tried my best to avoid spoilers too.

Also what was the case with Rad having his okay a friend of mine sent a photo. But what was with Rad getting his legs and arms broken. I thought it was a cramp however it's spelt. Yet seriously it was weird. I'm guessing it was being a parody of probably the idea when a group of survivors try to escape someone gets injured probably.

Also the joke of Rad his face going against the door lol and his face is still seen ha.

Honestly theirs this thing where KO tries to not admit he's the one who clicked the pop up screen. The episode tries to make some what a big deal out of this. Yet it ends with KO admitting it and to reboot the glitches. Yet Dendy just tells him that it was him who doomed the world and I suppose she said he should of not done that. Weird for some stupid reason was expecting this conclusion if KO admits it was his fault then the glitches away just to test him......ha I was being stupid lol.

Yet the reboot idea gives Dendy well the help stop the problem. But the hack pack is at the front of the plaza. So thinking this is the end KO thinks of this idea instead of becoming glitches the last thing they see being the glitches themselves. He wants it to be a friendly face they know and it's a adorable moment. But then they realized and Dendy says their is so many glitches their becoming slow. Even just in time when KO grabs Dendy to get the hack pack and Rad moves his arms seconds later.

Despite a dramatic well some what of a ending. Making it seem like KO is the only one who can do this it shows and I wondered too that Dendy shows up. Or just I mean this idea Dendy being that's not how you press those.

So they reboot the system and all of a sudden Mr. Gar returns. Seriously I was wondering where was he at. Honestly during episodes where the plaza or anything else is in danger in certain episodes he doesn't appear. I keep thinking if he does then he just fixes everything. Yet he could of been infected too. But the glitches could fuck up his powers and even did that for the others I hope so lol ha the appearance of a glitchy Mr. Gar ha.

Yet the ending also has this funny scene because of being touched by glitches before they we're rebooted just...ha that word lol. Because of that KO's face is glitchy and so fucked up. I was expecting a normal pixelated face but seeing it I remember I saw that image before the final shot with all of the characters. Yet seriously that part was funny and everyone's reactions. Then Mr. Gar mentions that Dendy might be able to fix it. Which ha would be reasonable because this show actually does have continuity smiled a few times okay being weird even my nose too.

But honestly I enjoyed both episode. I should see them again which means I will and helps ratings smiled a bit including need to see that first part of, "Parents Day" and just seriously it's not that bad. But my nose and I'm not really sick. I just don't feel like myself. Despite I left early for lunch even if I waited for a bus despite I could walk it was for personal reasons. Such as ticks and shit.

Seriously both episodes were very nice liked them. Wonder what the next episode or two episodes are. Got tags done and missed clicking the 2nd tag but honestly again wanna say seriously again good episodes 4:44 pm I just have Ridiculousness on on mtv1 yeah that channel looked up to right. I'm in my chair sorry.

Yet okay....meh I'm waiting for the time. But I again just me saying stuff over. Okay now is the time good episodes 4:45

Edit 6:32 it just turned to that it was 31 just the show is on ha I fixed witch to vampire because I fucked up seriously lol I even made a new post lol edit same time and ticks last time but my memory sucks ass just smiled a bit. Oh my nose but seriously my memory sucks 6:33 edit same time just why now 6:34