Wednesday, October 29, 2014

Do it Yourself: Jessica Lange

By: Kelly McClure

While preparing a new work notebook for my new job this morning I came across something special that I thought we could all enjoy together. About a year ago I thought it would be a good idea to memorize a few of Jessica Lange's monologues from her various seasons of American Horror Story and then perform them in front of a green screen and do something with them on the internet. You know. For fun. 

This never happened, but I did write down the first one I had planned to do, which I am now passing along to you. Here, do this. If anyone actually makes of video of themselves performing it, we'll post it up. 

For an example of how Jessica Lange sounds in this season, click HERE

Tuesday, October 28, 2014

The Total Bozo Magazine 2014-2015 NBA Preview

By: Ben Johnson

Something like this. Many times. Soon.

It’s that time of year again! The NBA basketball time! NBA teams will start playing basketball games against each other! They will keep playing basketball games for a long time! They will play 82 games! Each! Then, after playing 82 games (EACH), the eight NBA teams with the best record from each conference will play a tournament-style playoff which can include up to 105 additional games! Then at the end of that tournament the NBA teams will stop playing games all over again, and there will be a NBA champion team! That’s all starting tonight! It’s exciting.

I predict the following 30 NBA teams will play games this year:

Boston Celtics – Prediction: The Celtics will play 82 regular season NBA games.

Brooklyn Nets – Prediction: The Nets will play in 82 regular season NBA games, and maybe some playoff games too, but not definitely any set amount of playoff games. The Nets could end up playing zero playoff games, for example, or maybe even six.

New York Knicks – Prediction: The Knicks will play in 82 regular season NBA games, and maybe even some playoff games too. Stranger things have been known to happen than the New York Knicks playing a playoff game or two. Actually, it would be very strange if the Knicks only played two playoff games. Usually there are at least four playoff games per playoff series. But these are the Knicks we’re talking about here. They could play two playoff games and then decide two is all they’re gonna play, I guess.

Philadelphia 76ers – Prediction: The 76ers will play in 82 regular season NBA games, and definitely NOT any playoff games because they don’t want to do playoff games. Come to think of it, the 76ers would probably prefer not to play any regular season games either, but I predict they are still going to play 82 of them because of peer pressure from all of their basketball friends.

Toronto Raptors – Prediction: The Raptors will play 82 regular season NBA games, and probably also some playoff games since they played some playoff games last year, and they might do that again.

Chicago Bulls – Prediction: The Bulls will play in 82 regular season NBA games, plus at least four playoff games and maybe more playoff games than that, but you never know about the Chicago Bulls and what’s going to happen. We can’t know about the future and we can’t know about the Chicago Bulls either.

Cleveland Cavaliers – Prediction: The Cavaliers will play in 82 regular season NBA games, and, like, a lot of playoff games too. The Cavaliers will probably play like almost the maximum amount of playoff games one team can play, which is 28 playoff games. Hey, I just noticed: 82 regular season NBA games, and up to 28 NBA playoff games. 82 and 28. It’s like a numbers mix-up of 2’s and 8’s!

Detroit Pistons – Prediction: The Pistons will play 82 regular season NBA games, and as for playoff games go, I would be surprised but not shocked about what if The Pistons also were in some playoff games.

Indiana Pacers – Prediction: The Pacers will play 82 regular season NBA games, and sadly for them they might not get invited to play many playoff games. The Pacers used to play in lots of playoff games, but now, who knows, maybe not. The Pacers make me want to type a colon and an open parenthesis like this… 
...because that looks like a frowning, sad face, and that’s probably what The Pacers are doing with their faces right now when they think about "oh man we might not get invited to play any playoff games this year after we get done with our 82 regular season games. :( ONE MILLION."

Milwaukee Bucks – Prediction: The Bucks will play in 82 regular season NBA games. They could maybe even play games in the playoffs too! It’s within the realm of possibility! Probably not, but still.

Atlanta Hawks – Prediction: The Hawks will play 82 regular season NBA games, and maybe some playoff games too, and the whole time they are just gonna still be the Atlanta Hawks no matter what.

Charlotte Hornets – Prediction: The Hornets will play in 82 regular season NBA games and very likely a few playoff games too. They are not called the Bobcats like they were last year. This year they are called the Hornets. Be careful about getting confused. The Bobcats will play in zero NBA games this year because there are no Bobcats.

Miami Heat – Prediction: The Heat will play 82 regular season NBA games, and they will probably play in a few playoff games too, but it’s not like they are going to get all excited about it or anything, okay?

Orlando Magic – Prediction: The Magic will play in 82 regular season NBA games. Could this be the year they will also play some extra playoff games? Go out there and mix it up in some NBA playoff games? No. That will not happen.

Washington Wizards – Prediction: The Wizards will play in 82 regular season NBA games. They will play in some playoff games too, which they will enjoy because basketball games are fun!

Golden State Warriors – Prediction: The Warriors will play 82 regular season NBA games. Will they play in some playoff games too? Yes. They will.

Los Angeles Clippers – Prediction: The Clippers will play in 82 regular season NBA games and also some playoff games.

Los Angeles Lakers – Prediction: The Lakers will play in 82 regular season NBA games and also zero playoff games.

Phoenix Suns – Prediction: The Suns will play in 82 regular season NBA games. Playoff games? Maybe.

Sacramento Kings – Prediction: The Kings will play in 82 regular season NBA games. I would be very surprised if they played in any playoff games.

Dallas Mavericks – Prediction: The Mavericks will play in 82 regular season NBA games and some playoff games too. How many playoff games are the Mavericks going to play? Hey, don’t look at me. I don’t have all the answers.

Houston Rockets – Prediction: The Rockets will play 82 regular season NBA games. They will also probably play some playoff games. They are the Rockets. Please don’t make me talk about the Rockets for too long. They are not fun.

Memphis Grizzlies – Prediction: The Grizzlies will play 82 regular season NBA games and then maybe they will play some playoff games too, I guess.

New Orleans Pelicans – Prediction: The Pelicans will play in 82 regular season NBA games, and if they do play in any playoff games, that will be more fun than anything the Rockets do.

San Antonio Spurs – Prediction: The Spurs will play in 82 regular season NBA games and then they will play in a lot of playoff games, and a lot of people will talk about how they love the Spurs so much because they love basketball so much and the Spurs are good at basketball and that is important.

Denver Nuggets – Prediction: The Nuggets will play 82 regular season NBA games and I don’t think they will play in any playoff games.

Minnesota Timberwolves – Prediction: The Timberwolves will play in 82 regular season NBA games and they might not win a lot of those games but they will do a good job dunking during those games.

Oklahoma City Thunder – Prediction: The Thunder will play in 82 regular season NBA games and then they will play a whole bunch of playoff games too. So many games will happen it’s almost like “sheesh, what’s up with all these NBA games?” And the Thunder, they're going to be right there, playing in some of them, doing their best.

Portland Trailblazers – Prediction: The Trailblazers will play 82 regular season NBA games, and then some playoff games, and then after that they will rest sensibly.

Utah Jazz – Prediction: The Jazz will play in 82 regular season NBA games. An announcer will say "this is the Utah Jazz basketball team," and then the Utah Jazz will start playing in a basketball game. 82 times. That’s what is about to happen, people.


Friday, October 24, 2014

EbLOLa Strikes the World Capital of Stupid

By: Ben Johnson

Co-Bozo Kelly alerted me to the fact that there is an Ebola scare currently happening right in the middle of CMJ events in Williamsburg, Brooklyn, Dummytown, USA. She wanted me to write something about it, but I’m at a loss, because both Ebola and CMJ are set to the “off” switch in my brain where I go “oh yeah, that Idiot Thing which is vaguely menacing and which would upset me greatly if I took the time to learn about, but which regardless I will have no control over, PASS.”

I am not a hundred percent sure what CMJ actually is.

I get that it’s a music industry conference, like South By Southwest, where a bunch of bands and artists play music for the people whose job it is to decide what music to put in a Sprite commercial. I understand that the economic structure of the current “music business” is set up to cater all possible musical sounds directly to people who call themselves “reps.” And I understand, prejudicially, that these are the kind of people who would wear wingtips without socks and pay $150 for a haircut that makes them look "cool" in the way that it's technically a definition of "cool" to unflappably go on about the rest of your day without even caring that some unusual scythe accident just happened to your head. I feel as though, without knowing any of the real details of it, I understand the concept of CMJ just enough to find the whole concept repugnant, which is to say that as far as I'm concerned, I understand it totally.

What I do not understand is the name. To me the letters “CMJ” mean “Country Music Jamboree” or whatever The Nashville Network is called now on TV. I know they have an awards show, one of the many faceless Country Music Awards Shows, one of which is surely occurring at this very moment, with that one country guy from The Voice being obviously buzzed on free Bud Light and saying some kind of sub-clever double entendre and smiling shiteatingly at the camera like he invented language itself. I don’t know. I am not a fan of country music. What I am is both profoundly lazy and recovering from about a 12 year blackout, and so a great deal of my knowledge base is formed from what happened on cable TV circa 1997, which is probably wrong and outdated in a way I am okay with. I enjoy living in a world where “CMJ” means “Country Music Jamboree,” and I refuse to hear it otherwise, even though it probably means College Music Journal or Commercial Money Jams.

I have been to Williamsburg a few times. I do not understand it either. It seems like the real estate version of one of those goofy post-Nirvana A&R reps who signed Steel Pole Bath Tub to a major label deal. It's probably the same people, only now they’re paying $38,000 a month rents on a Bedford Avenue storefront, two doors down from the Old Polish Gravestone Dealership which now doubles as a smack house-slash-"flex space", for a restaurant that only sells French toast. I like Steel Pole Bath Tub and French toast as much as the next guy, but you don’t throw around Coo Coo Corporate Americabucks at either entity while saying things such as "this is the new IDEAS economy." Like I say, I’ve been to Williamsburg. It’s just a regular shitty garbage city street area that looks like Funyuns bags and fishy windowless auto body places that seem like they're full of shivering, terrified imported sex slaves. And yet: dear god, the prices. It’s like America’s dead zone where the Cool To Money Conversion Calculator app goes haywire and the result is a gleaming billboard for Cluelessness.

It is the perfect setting for CMJ, in other words, and also the perfect setting for an Ebola scare.

I also don’t understand much about Ebola. I get that it is a potentially deadly disease. It killed Kevin Spacey and it damn near killed Renee Russo, and they were going to drop a nuclear bomb on it until Cuba Gooding Jr. flew Dustin Hoffman under a bridge in a helicopter and then Dustin Hoffman told Donald Sutherland to pretend it was wind shear, and luckily they got some monkey juice from David Schwimmer’s pet. So it’s really not anything to worry about. Ha ha ha.

But seriously. People are dead. 4,881 human beings in Africa. Dead.

I just looked that up. That sucks. It sucks that 4,881 African humans are dead from Ebola almost as much as it sucks that 4,881 of the “reps” at CMJ, due to basic Western hygiene practices, will not die from Ebola. Ebola is a motherfucker like that. There should be a deadly disease which is transmitted instantaneously by socksless wingtip. Instead we get shit like this that kills Africans, who are having a rough enough time already. The whole idea of Ebola, apparently, can originate from a person eating an infected fruit bat. Think about that. You’re like “I’m so hungry I could eat a diseased fruit bat,” and then you DO and then you DIE OF EBOLA.

I could see there being a Diseased Fruit Bat Store in Williamsburg, though. That’s the kind of business that has growth potential in today's IDEAS economy. Plenty of people in Williamsburg would pay like $1,500 to directly handle a diseased fruit bat if they saw on Gothamist that Coco Gordon Moore had Instagrammed it.

Anyhow, there’s an Ebola scare in the middle of CMJ, Williamsburg, Brooklyn, Moneyshitville, USA, and it’s the reason why you can catch a DJ set by ?uestlove with only 15 people at it, and if like the rest of the “reps” that seems cool and important enough to you to pay $2,500 a month to rent a tiny apartment across from a KFC currently surrounded by crime scene tape, you are already dead and you don’t know it, so a little Ebola is not going to hurt you. It might actually improve your street cred since it's, like, big in Africa right now.

Monday, October 20, 2014

Why Did I Do This Report: Six Flags Fright Fest

By Ben Johnson

I am an adult now, so I finally understand the experiential frame of reference from which Six Flags is the worst place in the entire universe. It is all of the worst things: loud, tawdry, expensive, crowded, sentimental, conformist, consumerist, dumb, theatrical. It is a place that charges $14.99 for a gigantic ugly plastic souvenir cup that grants you access to free soda refills no human should ever need, plays “Happy” at you from a speaker hidden in a fake rock, is obviously an exasperating and demeaning place to work, forces you to make awkwardly stilted public small talk while standing in a three hour line to be placed into a giant and menacing machine that will jumble your insides and nauseate you, feeling that the awkwardly stilted public small talk of the other people surrounding you is somehow inferior to your own even though it is not, the class-warfare culture of such feelings seemingly the result of some chemical pheromone spray emanating from everywhere, and all of this being transparently and without remorse solely for the benefit of a multinational corporation with a $3.18B market cap, 12% of which may be owned by your own personal single least favorite rich person.

But also: they make it look all spooky during Halloween, and my girlfriend’s niece and nephew had passes.

The first thing about Six Flags Fright Fest is paying $25 for parking, and then parking forever away, and then walking from out of forever, like ancient nomadic beasts emerging from the primordial fog, and then getting in the wrong line, and then another wrong line, and then another longer correct line to pay an exorbitant entry fee, and then another line to prove (without an especially taxing burden) that you did not bring a gun to Six Flags. You are then inside of Six Flags, thinking “I could have just brought a gun to Six Flags.”

I kept making the joke that I was ready to leave. It was not a joke. It was one of those jokes where you say the truth in a presentational enough manner and people laugh, and then you proceed, feeling at least a little less lonely about the truth.

It became immediately clear, via the oblivious and distracted but also engaged and purposeful meandering body language of a clearly enthusiastic twelve year old, that my girlfriend’s nephew had no intention of wasting any of his precious Saturday night hanging out with my girlfriend, or my girlfriend’s niece, or my girlfriend’s mother. Or me for that matter. He had business to attend to. I was placed on Hang Out With This Kid duty, which was fine. He’s a good kid. But following a twelve year old around Six Flags is a different kind of night than the one I was expecting.

We walked around where the scary people are. What the scary people do is they look for somebody in the crowd who is not focused on “where are the scary people” or looks like they would be easily scared, and then they like walk up to them or right behind them or pop out around the corner at them and say something annoying like “hey sexy,” and if the person they say this to is either a black male or a white female aged 12-14, that person loses their shit and screams and runs away and does like an “I am so scared right now” dance. I was disappointed that they didn’t try and scare me, but I get it. It’s a numbers game. I’m 34 years old. These people know that if they want to scare me they have to show me mail from the I.R.S. that says “you missed your deadline to file Schedule C in 2012, we are proceeding with legal blah blah blah.” So they pretty much left me alone.

There was an area where you go to see scary people, and we talked to one scary person. She was somewhere in her mid twenties to late thirties and had this character shtick where she was the owner of a scary beauty shop which offered like skin-removal treatments and stuff. She had a Hillary Clinton business suit and wig and burned and scarred face makeup, sort of a horror mask for the Benghazi set. She seemed perfectly happy to talk to us for hours on end, improvising about not at all scary (to be scary you need to be specific and take your time, like “throw some acid on your face” is not scary, but “slowly puncture each of your eyeballs with a cocktail toothpick” is scary) horrific beauty treatments, in a wandering accent.

At one point she said something about using her bare hands to claw my face off and then did this weird “look at my clawlike hands” thing where she put her claw-posture hands really close to my face. Leading with the ring finger, which had an engagement ring and wedding band on it, seemed intentional. If so I don’t know what the message was. I began to feel uncomfortable with the idea that this person may have assumed that a “Hey buddy, I’m spoken for” message might have been warranted. It was very not warranted. And then I thought, “Oh God, this person is enjoying this interaction, this is fun for her, and may additionally satisfy some deep emotional longing,” and that was the most scared I was of anything all night. Theater majors are terrifying.

Then there was a vomit robot. A robot that vomits. Into a barrel marked “inedible.” It sits there until its robot vomit reservoirs are full, and then it plays vomit noises from out of some vomit noise speakers, and it vomits again. It vomits at regular intervals, presumably, all night long. Vomit Robot was my favorite thing at Six Flags, because the Vomit Robot is Six Flags incarnate in an oddly soothing way. Vomit Robot is tasteless and nauseating and fake. Vomit Robot does not hold up to scrutiny. It is a nozzle covered in face-shaped latex with a timer and a greeting card sound file mechanism. But: you know what to expect with Vomit Robot. The robot vomits, is quiet for a blessed few minutes, and then vomits again. Vomit Robot is doomed to a lifetime of repetitive vomiting, but Vomit Robot does not mind this because Vomit Robot is not an actual person vomiting, and is instead a machine perfectly designed to vomit, and cannot feel the sensation of drudgery. I wanted to hang out next to Vomit Robot until it was time to go home.

But the kid had other plans. I could tell his internal timer was exploding as I made him stand there with my phone and wait until the robot vomited to take a picture of the two of us. The Vomit Robot and I. It was time to say goodbye to the Six Flags Vomit Robot. I love you, Six Flags Vomit Robot.

Then we all ate pizza. The pizza place inside of Six Flags that we went to is one of those cinderblock dispensaries of heated cardboard cut into foodlike shapes where valiant teenaged service workers wince apologetically about their kitchen’s basic schematic inability to actually produce the required food in a sufficiently expedient manner to avoid what feels like an impending riot. There is no entrance to this pizza place other than the line. It is a mechanized factory slaughterhouse of pizza. The pizza is not good or cheap, but much more so than either of those actual pizza-based concerns, it is also so slow to arrive that the entire ritual becomes masterpiece of expectation management.

I ate an entire packet of hot pepper flakes. My girlfriend’s niece was daring her brother to do it, so I gulped the peppers down just to speed the proceedings along. It was funny, and whatever, those peppers are not that hot. But destabilizing my gut in this manner was a critical tactical error.

Next came the part of the night when the nephew wanted to go on rides. Which rides? All of them, if possible. But especially the rides with the shortest wait times. These were the carnie rides. The puke machines with names like “Cyclotron” and “Orbit” and “Reactor Core” that involve whipping you in a series of circles along multiple axes. I rode these so the nephew wouldn’t have to ride them alone. I have memories of being the only kid who wanted to go on rides. They are sad. So I rode with the kid.

I did the one that’s small circles within a larger circle, and the one that’s like an angry, aggressively misanthropic Ferris Wheel from hell. I rode on the old metal coaster from the 80’s with the weird loungey theme song, the one that rattles your head against itself while the rest of your body does loops. I would go on a ride, and the kid would say “again?” and I would not go again but the kid would. I remember being that exact kid, and having no feeling of gratitude that I didn’t have to do the first ride alone. Just, “Your loss, chump, there’s no wait!” and gleeful running towards gleeful bodily disorientation.

At one point my girlfriend caught up to us and said “you look green,” and I felt like I looked green. In fact I felt green, all the way through to my marrow. Buzzing neon Rolling Rock sign at an exurban roadside bar full of tobacco-dipping dirtbike owners flashing me mean looks green. Where is this place and how did I end up here and why am I still going and what am I still curious about this far past the end of the line green.

We rode the kiddie coaster. The Little Dipper. Formerly of Kiddieland, rescued and reconstructed and gently rebranded by Six Flags. It may be the only roller coaster in America which I am still capable of enjoying. I don’t know. I would have also rode and probably also enjoyed the larger wooden American Eagle, but the kid wanted to go on the puke machines, which he inaccurately described as “not one of those puke machines.”

Towards the end of the night there was a show and a parade comprised of all the scary people singing and dancing to scary-themed songs such as a lyrically modified “Get Ur Freak On” with lighting and costumes and production values and choreography. It is the kind of thing which is simultaneously the result of hours of hard work and a complete afterthought.

The nephew looks at the clock, turns to me, and says “Vertical Velocity probably doesn’t have a line, we can still make it if we run.” I can tell from the look in his eyes that I am about to run a mile, and then get into a machine that straps you into a dangling seat, then shoots you up towards the sky while twisting, then plummets you back down and backwards up again, and then up and then back again three or four or five or infinite times. I can tell I am going to be too worried about my hat and my glasses and my neck and my dignity during all this to actually enjoy anything that happens. I know that the nervous anticipation before this thing shoots my body into the cold October sky is an autoimmune stress response to stimuli, and I hate my stupid body for producing the enzymes which constitute any funlike sensation, and I hate Six Flags for manipulating my poor unthinking body in such a way.

And as the Vertical Velocity horrible vomit machine launched me up in a twisting vertical and my brain either starved or overdosed on oxygen, I saw stars. Actual stars, where they belong, in the sky. I was a twisting vertical space captain launching into the stars, and my only thought was “This is not a cool thing. This is not something I enjoy. Those twisting vertical space captain heroes from the TV and movies are liars. Everything is a big ugly lie and my viscera is liquefying.”

But I did not puke. Puking is for the Vomit Robot, and I am not a Vomit Robot. I am a Vomit Human Being. A willing customer of Six Flags. A shaky green ancient nomadic beast full of hot peppers and utterly drained.

On the drive home, my girlfriend's mother kept me from falling asleep at the wheel by describing a horrible speed boat accident she saw on TV. She is a wonderful woman.

An Emotional Response to Various Type of Halloween Candies

By: Kelly McClure

Halloween is more or less an encapsulation of nightmares for me now, but there is a part of me that will always consider it, abstractly, my favorite holiday second only to Christmas. The main reason for this is that, like Christmas, it encourages gluttony and the blatant demand for things. I don't know how you feel about life, but I can really stand behind a situation that encourages children (whatever, I went trick-or-treating until I was 20) to go door to door asking for people to take things from their home and deposit them into bags that you're standing there shoving into their faces.

When I was making the trick-or-treating rounds, the candy being dealt out was usually the normal, run of the mill bounty containing Reese's cups, mini Snickers, mini Kit-Kats, and mini M&M bags. Sometimes you'd hit a house that was handing out full candy bars and that would send everyone into delirium. One year my parents handed out full candy bars, but that was only because we had a surplus from Costco that had gone stale. The neighborhood kids quickly discovered that the candy had passed its prime and threw the bars against our garage door. The next morning our driveway looked like it was littered with turds. I felt really embarrassed at school that day and tried to be like "We didn't hand those out. I don't know what you're talking about."

I cannot assume what is being handed out on Halloween these days, but I suspect that most of it includes something secretly planted that intends to rape and kill you.

I came across a thing on the Internet this morning titled: "Halloween candies include urine, blood, saliva, body parts." This of course caused me to take pause. The article was found on the website for a news channel called WSAV that has the slogan: "On Your Side." Some investigating revealed that this station serves breaking news for Savannah, Hilton Head, Beaufort, Bluffton, Richmond Hill, and Statesboro. So, there it is.

Let's take a closer look at what these threatening candies are all about. Maybe we want some?

OH MY GOD! Wait, I don't think that's feces, I'm pretty sure that's just peanut butter. And those are so clearly NOT real eyeballs.

I bet this has exploded in so many backpacks. My first thought, randomly, upon seeing this picture is that If I had this as a kid I'd probably try to use it as hair gel.

Someone's Mom has these in her office job desk at this very moment. If I was the manufacturer of this product I'd make it so the raised part of the band-aid had a red candy goo inside so that when you bit it it looked like scabby band-aid blood was oozing out. 

This is definitely supposed to look like a urine sample and that's fine. What I'm really thinking about is how the pitch meeting for this product went down. "So, Larry, let me get this straight ... the kids will be drinking pee?" "YEAH! It'll look like pee!!" "Larry, let me ask you something, as a friend, what's with you and kids drinking pee? Is there someone we can call for you? My cousin Franklin had a similar problem and we got him this great therapist. Let me get you his number, hold on."

Hahahaha. Goths. You KNOW they sell these candy blood packets at Hot Topic. I remember seeing my first ever Hot Topic in a mall in California when I was in Jr. High and I actually started crying a little bit in this embarrassing "this is it!!! This is my place!!!" way.

What if every pre-packed food item looked like an ear? Like if that was just the way it always was? Instead of taco shells coming in a box, they came in an ear shaped box, because that was just the packaging norm. Think about it. 

I'm actually getting my debit card out to buy these right now because I would really love to be in some strained setting, some situation where I'm supposed to seem like a fully functional member of society, and have a vial of Candy Urine roll out of my bag. What would people say? What would they SAY??

These bloody bones look more like bloody teeth if you just look quick. Bloody teeth would have made more sense. You could have them in your mouth and have your friend pretend to punch you and then spit them out like "MY TEETH!!! MY BLOODY TEETH!!!" I've never really been a fan of hard candy.

There's a candy store in China Town here in NY that I like to go to. They have bins and bins of all different kinds of candies and the ladies who work there watch you like a hawk. I always focus primarily on the gummies, and then lightly dip into the Asian candy, especially the kind that gives no clue as to what it is because the package just has a smiling tree stump or something. Last time we went I got gummy fried eggs and they tasted like a weird butter. They were gross but I ate them anyway because I liked how chewy they were. 

All different kinds of blood. I wonder which one is the best. There's probably a candy blood that calls itself "The best candy blood in the world."

I'm sorry to be the one to say this, but they should make these personalized so you could be like "Here, sorry your Mom died. Have a candy."

These are the best kind of gummies. The thick ones.

This is a container and it's also off topic. I think WSAV forgot what their post was supposed to be about mid-way through.

Walking around with a little arm sticking out of your mouth would probably be really funny. People should suck on these during first dates. Just the whole time. 

I've had these and the chocolate is terrible. It's that dandruffy kind of chocolate. Do you know what I mean? It's like, dandruffy. 

I can't tell if these gummy skulls are filled with red goo or not. Like with most things, they'd be better if they were.

That's a happy little guy. 

These waxy things with the ooze inside always remind me of poor kids. I don't know why. 

They've got the right idea here. Ooze. It's all about ooze. Make whatever you can ooze in some way and you'll be in good shape. 

Come on, WSAV. Splash some water in your face.

Candy corn is always one of those "Ugh, Candy Corn. Whatever, I'll eat fifty handfuls of it" things.

This gigantic gummy skull is the best thing they've had yet. Even better than the candy urine. I want to get one of these and just slowly eat it on a park bench. Very casually. During like 5PM rush hour foot traffic. Or sit in front of a school and eat it while timing how long it takes the cops to come.

No. Refreshing, but no.

Friday, October 10, 2014

A Thing That Happened: Blackout

By: Kelly McClure

In casual conversation I usually start off describing Blackout as being "a haunted house type situation that includes a lot of naked wieners," but I understand how that doesn't paint the picture very well. To flesh it out a bit: Blackout is a violently sexual, immersive experience that is more like a date with a mid-range dominatrix than a walk through a haunted house. Doing away with any sort of monster gags, spooky ghosts, zombies, or whatever else standard haunted houses rely on, Blackout banks on knowing what people are afraid of MOST: Darkness, and, well, wieners. 

This year marks the fifth anniversary of Blackout, and the first for a major change in the rules. Traditionally one of the main scare tactics has been the fact that each person braving the 20-30 minute walkthrough has to do so alone, but now they're having people go through in groups of 4-6. Some of the super fans who have been going since the event's start five years ago have been expressing disappointment in the new group rule via Blackout's various social media platforms, and having gone through myself last night I have to agree with them. Feeling the sweaty, stomach clenching anxiety of having to walk through any unknown scenario by yourself is right out of the gate going to set things up to be scarier than they would if you had the option of grabbing on to your friend's, or a stranger's shirt (and last night I did both), while trying to communicate through your eyes, peeking up from the medical mask everyone is forced to wear, "What. The. Fuck?"

One of these wieners must have called in sick last night.

What Blackout does very well is craft an environment where you have very little option other than to be 50-75% more uncomfortable than you would normally be. I give that a realistic scale there because one person's take on comfort is going to differ drastically from another person's. If Connie Lou (fake name) who had just spent her afternoon sight-seeing in Times Square and sipping Pumpkin Spice Lattes at Starbucks found herself at Blackout on a whim, it's pretty safe to say that having a flimsy medical mask strapped to her face, and being lovingly embraced by a naked man covered in blood will be upsetting for her, scary even, but for someone like myself, I couldn't stifle the feeling of disappointment over the fact that this year I only saw ONE visible bloody wiener, whereas when I went two years ago, I saw at least two. I was also bummed that I didn't get singled out to be peed on in a dimly lit bathroom, or asked to suck a lady's bloody finger after she had just simulated masturbating, but not everyone can be a winner. At the end of the night I had to go home content that I had the opportunity to spit in a young man's open palm while calling him a "stupid bitch." I was asked to do this on command of course, and he was fine with it. I even went that extra step and apologized for not having a lot of spit in my mouth and only producing a small splooge of foam. Anxiety gives me cotton mouth I guess.

This lady seemed nice. 

At this point I'm sure someone, having read this far, is still thinking to themselves: "I still don't know what this is." And that's kind of the point. The best part about Blackout, as with any other "this is supposed to be scary" thing is what you do to scare yourself leading up to actually go in, and all the way through. Standing in line to go in last night I was giving fish eye to every person who walked past me, convinced that they were in on it, and about to do something to me. What that something would be, I don't know, but something. My mind even took the possibilities further thinking of how it would be so easy to be kidnapped while waiting in line at this thing because if a dark van pulled up and a person yelled "get in!" you probably would, assuming it was part of the deal. When you're expecting to be scared everything is scary, even if nothing really is. And that's fun. At one point during the night last night we, as a group, were made to put headphones on and strain to hear barely audible instructions, and then told that at the end of a countdown, we were to crawl over the back of the couch we were sitting on, and proceed into the complete blackness beyond. As the countdown reached the end and my knee hit the back of the couch, about to go over, my stomach jumped. Anything that could of happened, or did happen, after that almost doesn't matter. I was so excited.


1) The guy in our group who was asked to suck a lady's bloody masturbation finger and was like "no way," and was then made to eat some kind of weird noodle and visibly gagged.

2) Almost stepping into a HUGE pile of German Shepherd poop right after I smiled at said German Shepherd on my walk home.

3) Going to the bathroom in Blackout before our group went in and accidentally peeing on my leg because I was rushing on account of being so sure that something bad was going to happen to me in that bathroom. 

This post originally appeared at Bedford + Bowery

The Red Wolf’s Lament

By: Ben Seeder

“Dear Lydia, this is President Barack Obama” clownin’ me and the Red Wolf are high as giraffe nuts at Gold Room turnt up as fuck what’s your deal you said you were looking to turn up and now radio silence? We’ve still got a few grams but it’s mostly shake please don’t tell me you’re still at Wing Stop with Gwendolyn housing fries there’s talk of after hours in K-Town but you can’t bring Gwendolyn the Red Wolf says so I think he’s pissed. Yo, you still owe me from those Churros and shit at Pitchfork but just feed me drinks at Gold Room and it’s all good but not Gwendolyn the Red Wolf says I think his heart is broken. Can you please just ditch those dorks and come get gross?

Dude so this weekend me and the Red Wolf partied so balls I thought I was going to go blind for real this time. Especially after we ripped tubes and met up with those broke hoes at The Monty on 7th. The Red Wolf was all like “Dude, we’ve ripped so many tubes I feel like I just really need to go to church right now” and I was straight up not having it especially after New Years but we shouldn’t have packed half of those tubes with the crystals from the bottom of my grinder so I guess that’s what I deserve plus we were taking unbelievable rips and texting with these girls at Short Stop. Anyway, the Wolf is like “I’m not feeling so hot, please Seedz, I’m serious, I don’t want to keep living my life this way” and I’m like “What do you expect?  After vaping all that oil I ought to change your name to Richard Pipes right now” but yo I just heard the line at Little Joy blows so we probably won’t go there but lets figure something out, how are you?

Hey you should bring your friend, not Gwendolyn, the one who looks like Ron Karkovice that girls fucking hilarious. Yo I was at afterhours in Echo Park last night and a bunch of people were talking about how you used to work at Blockbuster but got fired for stealing copies of “Romeo is Bleeding” is that shit true?  I told everyone it wasn’t and if it was anything it would have been copies of “Corky Romano” and everyone laughed like bastards so you kind of got clowned but it’s all love. Bro last night there were these hispanic girls bringing the heat out in Westlake by the Park and it was some of the rawest shit I’ve ever seen it ended up in a glass bottle throwing fight and two of them kept shielding themselves behind this car I don’t even know if it was theirs until 5.0 showed up I think it was all over pictures of someone’s kid someone put up on Instagram or some shit.  What’s extra fucked is no one’s even cleaned up all the glass yet and there’s kids running around everywhere but I guess you just chalk it up to the Park.

Whatever though text me back Lydia, Wand is playing at The Smell next week it’s all ages so it might be clown hour but we’ll still get our faces shredded oh FYI we’re thinking of hitting up Burrito King instead of Brite Spot later Brite Spot is played, we were going to get Tamales but I forgot it’s Monday. Speaking of, Uber is 3x as much tonight for some reason I don’t know why but it’s true I promise. You should make night moves, the Red Wolf will be there I think he’s bringing some cousins from Azusa Pacific we don’t know if they’re cool but whatever let’s make night moves.

Yo, have you heard 107 opens at 3 now instead of 4 that shit is the shit but I went the other day and they didn’t open till 4:40 some shit to do with the taps. You can take the subway straight to 107 and it’s like a dollar fifty but they never check so live your dream but go during the week on weekends it’s douche and there’s always that huge line for losers. If you get on at the Westlake stop don’t let any of those shadeballs on Alvarado try to sell you any crack or Fake ID’s these dudes in the Park got Oxy but I think they might be MS-13 so whatever. Lydia what the fucks even your deal these days I feel like I never hear from you anymore but my phone’s been dead for the last week till I made some executive decisions. Oh yeah, is Gwendolyn still into the Red Wolf for real? He says it’s over but I still think he’s got mad affection and every time she gets brought up he gets all quiet and shit and lately he doesn’t even want to pre-game before Gold Room and that’s how I know it’s extra fucked. Personally, I don’t mind Gwendolyn. She’s not basic and she tells fun stories I can’t believe I made out with her one friend who looks like Ernest Borgnine at Chavo that was raw please don’t tell anyone, I’m serious.

Dude the other day on my way back to the Park the subway got straight Thunderdome and these kids were rolling blunts open and unpunished it was raw as hell but I was into it. I’m serious about 107 during the day, it’s fun but it gets raw because there’s no bouncer and free pizza. It’s crazy to think that that’s all those dudes who live at the King Eddy and crank meth with community showers and shit live off of. They push off and then pop in for the pizza saying all kinds of crazy shit, so you just smile and nod your head as long as they don’t behave like garbage. You should see some of these dudes. Como se dice “raw”?

Oh man, the old lady who lives above me has this new boyfriend and I’m pretty sure they hook up cause he’s got this new hat but anyway they both look at me like “Who are you?” but at the same time it’s like “Who are YOU?  You can’t even keep cat food out of your hair” and I’ll tell everyone. I forgot to tell you Tuesday is $2 cans at La Cita the Red Wolf and I are pre-gaming at Chavo but I think it’s artwalk that night so it might be a god damn zoo. 7th street gets thick as hell though, watch yourself when you’re walking back from The Monty, I’ll keep my phone on it should be solid some dude just sold me a new battery so I’m back in business. Dude, I know it gets raw but the other day the Park was so tight everyone in the hood was just chilling with their windows and doors open and everyone was out on their steps and it was all love in the hood. The Park is tight as hell but the worst part is sometimes you can’t even see the stars. But yo Lydia I think our Uber just pulled up hit me back and lets make night moves my phone is dying so holler ASAP.

Talk to you soon.


p.s. The Red Wolf has a Groupon for Dominos.