This might not seem like a big deal if you're not from down South, but, if you are like I am, then you'll understand that what I'm about to say actually is a big deal. Growing up, I didn't like barbecue. Not ribs, not chicken, not pulled pork--nothing.
Niggemeier, Lobo, Passig and a few other important German bloggers and journalists published their smart-ass Internet Manifesto not so long ago. They explain how things should work in the internet, in the marvelous world of journalism, and so on. In ten different languages, that is. A denotative manifesto. Thanks. Meanwhile I discovered an Kumpir place around the corner. A denotative detection too. Kumpir are those stuffed potatoes. A Turkish national dish, fast food, but above all, they’re one thing: potatoes.
Communication retardation is nothing new in our society. We’ve all stood behind someone in the check-out line at the grocery store who, for whatever reason, is updating the person on the other end about their festering herpes sores. And what kind of Frankenstein aggregate stats counter would it take to determine how many people have lost their jobs by Facebooking “doing nothing but pretending like I’m busy and CA$HING IN!” status updates while on the clock? But those are nothing compared to a new trend that’s emerging, a level of annoying cell phone behavior that has made me start passive-aggressively responding to text messages, “Who is this? I lost my phone with all my contacts.” Because everyone knows that’s code for “You’ve been deleted.”
Our Toronto intern Katie keeps blabbing on about competitive eating and how stoked she would be to try it and get recognized by the IFOCE. This week we decided to get her started by holding an impromptu time trial in the office, partially because we wanted to help her realize her dream but mostly because we were bored and wanted to see someone throw up.
Hi. I basically hate everyone in and from the UK except for the few relatives who married into my family, about three friends, and Led Zeppelin (oh well, it's true). This includes some people in the UK VICE office, and at the top of my list used to be my fellow online editor Alex Miller, killer of deer and smasher of my productive work days. You may think we're all one big lovingly dysfunctional family around here, and usually we are, but every once in a while some nasty beef emerges from the molten pit of the earth that no amount of supervisor mediation can squash. That was a joke--you really think we have supervisor mediation around here? Andy Capper, who's Alex's boss, offered to set up a boxing ring for us if I wanted to come to London. When I found out Alex was coming to the States on one of his many leaves from office (how the fuck does that guy get so many vacation days?), I challenged him to an obstacle course. We really needed to settle, for once and for all, who was better: me or him, aka the US or the UK.
Cat Kramer and Zoe Papadopoulou are artists who know some scientists, and with that combined powerhouse of knowledge they say they've come up with a way to
make clouds snow down ice cream amongst the people. Ice cream. Like, mint chocolate chip snowmen
and Neapolitan snow angels. Impossible, right? The explanation on their website has a lot to do with cloud seeding, though not with orgone, had us imagining the launch of a delicious rocket and a weatherman forcasting flurries
of Cherry Garcia. Even with our limited scientific background, that seemed
a bit implausible. We called them to figure out if they
I'll be on the road for the next month playing keys with my band The Weight, who you may remember from Practice Space on VBS. We're traveling to nearly 30 cities in 19 states and will be passing through a bunch of others. One thing you do on the road is eat at establishments both iconic and obscure, so I'm going to keep you updated about what I’m putting in my mouth.
Everyone knows that compulsive drunks swill whatever's around. For those occasions, perfume works great: it's generally free (a true alkie doesn't buy perfume, they steal it), it's less indigestible than rubbing alcohol, and they can give the impression that the addict is, in fact, a clean and well-kept person. But be assured it's not the color, the smell, or much less the cute little package that attracts the drunk, but actually the quantity of alcohol, a whopping 95 percent ethanol.
I’ve been thinking about sleaze and corruption lately. It’s hard not to. Out here in windy, sun-baked Victorville, underhanded swindles are about as common a sight as the as the tumbleweeds blowing around the Mojave Desert.
When Metallica played their five Copenhagen concerts, I didn’t go to the last show, but the third. The first night and the last night are supposed to be the best of any concert, but oh well. Everyone’s favorite drummer, Lars Ulrich, hails from those parts, so he obviously had an exclusive family and friends backstage area. That's why I went. Lars and I are blood. Kind of.