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The Ashcan Crew

Come for the abs, stay for the hilarious irony of it all

If there is one thing reality television does really really well, it is to feed on the insecurities of its “stars.” And the shows are actually better for it. Afterall, no one wants to watch what happens when seven level-headed people get picked to spend time together and have their lives taped, to find out what happens, when people stop being polite, and start getting real™. It’s called work, and we see it everyday.

No, we want to see seven, eight, nine, or as many people that can fit, who each have their own societal abnormalities and idiosyncrasies, totally different from one person to the next, get put together in a house so they can verbally and sometimes physically rip each others heads off. Why else would MTV’s The Real World be on it’s 400th season(disclaimer: it’s actually the 23rd, which is still pretty outstanding)? And why else would Big Brother, the most boring sounding show on paper, turn out to be so damn popular?

So MTV took a big chance when they drew up the plans for its most recent adaptation of reality, Jersey Shore. You know how every episode of every reality show has to have that one completely out to lunch, over the top, annoying as hell character? They serve the role of black sheep, and have to have certain attributes, such as: narcissistic, selfish, ignorant, sub-intelligent, loud and attention seeking all at the same time. That is what Jersey Shore is.

Every character has everyone of those characteristics, and to top it off they are all “big I” Italian. Now regularly that wouldn’t be a bad thing, as there is nothing wrong with Italians, but every one of Jersey Shore’s Italians are a walking stereotype. Like how in so many movies about New York there is that fight between the boy and the girl out on the street, and just before they make out some booming voice that sounds like a Super Mario Bros. comes out the window and yells: “Hey, shutta the fuck uppa!” Take that nameless character, give it a name, and send it Jersey Shore, because that’s who these people are. Except, they all have their own catchphrases (Literally. Just click here. It’s like playing Simon, but way more hilarious).

The racial profiling this show has managed to accomplish in just its hour long premiere (the third 30 minute show is on MTV.ca today), has been enough that Dominoes Pizza has pulled advertising from that time slot, the actual region of Jersey Shore is coming out against it , and MTV is even receiving death threats (no horses’ heads showing up in producers‘ beds have been reported yet).

The good thing, however, is that not only are the ratings good (1.3 million viewers for the premiere), but it’s some of the most entertaining TV ever, whether we’re laughing with them, or against them. Actually, it’s definitely against them. Just a look at the homepage for Jersey Shore on MTV. On each side of the viewer is a flexed bicep, and around those biceps are some of the most commonly used words or phrases on the show: “guido, pumped, pop that collar, juiced, jacked, tan, guidette, hair gel, broski.”

There are also some they forget to include though, such a Affliction t-shirts, Ed Hardy, fist pumping, and of course, the situation. No, not an actual situation, but a character on the show who not only named himself “the situation” because, as he puts it, “my abs are so ripped up it’s called the situation (see photo above),” but because he also refers to himself in the third-person.

Definitely the star of the show, he has even come out to the media defending the term guido and guidette, words that every other Italian on the face of the planet thinks are steeped in racism. Here’s what the Situation says about them though: “No. No. If you do see the show, you see it used in a loving or a good way. The older generation doesn’t understand. These days in New York and New Jersey a ‘guido’ is a good-looking Italian male that likes to have fun and a ‘guidette’ is a good-looking Italian girl.”

There should be a correction to that though. They don’t necessarily mean good looking Italian male or female, in as much as they mean an Italian male or female who is so blinded by their own disillusionment that they think they are in fact the best looking person on the planet – so much that they no longer can serve any sort of purpose on said planet other than eating three square meals of steroids a day, getting “pumped” and “juiced” at the gym, picking up juiced guys, applying hair product and fist pumping (for guys) or grinding up against guys crotches (for the ladies) “like no other.”

But back to the situation with the Situation. Just looking at him and what he goes through in two episode is enough to convince anyone that this show is worth watching. To start with, here is a guy who says things like “I check out the mirror and am like, whoo, today is gonna be a good day.” Or “you can hate on me all you want, but what can you possibly say to someone who looks like Rambo with his shirt off pretty much.”  I mean, no writer or comedian can come up with shit this funny. And the best part is, he’s not kidding.

Convinced he can have the “hottest” character on the show at any time he wants, who happens to look like a Sears catalogue model from 1994, the Situation is literally crushed beyond belief when she makes out with him, then someone else, all in one night. The Situation has spent his entire life pumping his own tires so full of air that they completely explode with the tiniest pin prick (who’s name happens to be Sammi Sweetheart, AKA, the slutty chick who made out with two of her new roommates in one night).

Anyways, the Situation spend the rest of the episode giving Sammi the finger, then moping all by himself all over the house, curled up in the fetal position at one point, in near tears at another, and watching the sunrise by himself in what is supposed to be one of the most depressing scenes, but is actually one of the best and funniest. Really, is there anything better than watching such a massive ego come tumbling down in a mess of hair gel, tanning oil and third person references? Jesse doesn’t think so. Or, I mean, I don’t think so.

The Situation is just the tip of the oiled up and ironic iceberg, as each and every character is full of their own comedic gold nuggets. Take Snooki, whose “ultimate dream is to move to Jersey, find a juiced, hot, tan guy and live my life.” Or Pauly D, who not only has a tanning bed in his place, “that’s how serious I am about being a guido,” but who also brings at least two dozen bottles of gel with him and takes 25 minutes to do his hair – “it comes out perfect every single time,” he says.

I wouldn’t want to be on the same beach, yet alone in the same country, as any one of the people on Jersey Shore, but I love watching them through the safe distance of the tv screen so much more for it.

Olivia Hussey receives a disturbing holiday greeting in "Black Christmas"

Hi, welcome to my Christmas series! It’s for people who don’t like Christmas. For twelve dreary days, I will be sharing ten of my favourite off-kilter Christmas movies, with two musical interludes. Sound like fun? Well, screw you.

The first day of Christmas: “Black Christmas”

Bob Clark’s Black Christmas (1974) is a horror classic that pioneered much of what we’ve come to expect from slasher flicks. While the film is largely forgotten (it has nowhere near the mainstream cache of John Carpenter’s later Halloween), many of its pleasures have gone on to become regularly quoted cliches. Olivia Hussey brings the same patrician delivery from her role in Romeo and Juliet to Jess, a college girl with boyfriend troubles. This time Hussey is a sorority girl running away from a perverted serial killer instead of one-half a star-crossed Shakespearian couple, but her sameish plucky girlyness serves well to outline Jess, who is not only fighting for her life but also for the right to buck society’s expectations and abort her unwanted pregnancy. Her unconventional home — an all-girls house where lewd jokes are encouraged and alchohol flows freely — becomes a threat itself, as a male power from above routinely punishes the female characters and Jess has to wonder, and quickly, whether or not to trust the men in her life, all of whom range from sketch to scary to just inept. But if you think this is a feminist fist-pump, watch out. The film is just like the killer, and it’s hard to tell where it’s coming from. The Christmas setting actually heightens the tension, the snowy campus is dark and oppressive and the holiday cheer emanating from the stupid side-characters focuses the fear in Jess’s disconcertingly large eyes. For anyone who’s ever dreaded their home over the holidays, Black Christmas is both fun and true. Be afraid and trust no one.

Merry & Messed Up: Because Christmas is for everyone, even those who hate it.

(via Nation at itsthecalm.com)

This party looks mad fun, and I love that sped-up-slow-motion effect, but I always envisioned the video for this song being a blunted beyond reality Cudder driving down a desolate, moonlit highway. Maybe that’s a little too literal for executive producer Josh Hartnett though. Yeah, THAT Josh Hartnett. I had no idea of his musical tastes, and so now, like Adrien Brody, he will be added to my list of Hollywood actor crushes.

Back in high school when Alicia Keys first came out with “Fallin’” I thought I’d never get sick of her piano-laced urban pop, but album after album she slowly dug herself into a monotonous rut by ditching rawness in pursuit of lacklustre power melodies. Her continued reliance on the “hip-hop Beethoven” shtick makes you think there’s only so much you can do with a piano and a boom bap bassline.

I continued scoffing when I heard Keys’ huge current single “Try Sleeping With A Broken Heart” from The Element of Freedom. It’s too breathy and insubstantial and, dare I say it, predictable. But when I heard “Unthinkable” my faith in Keys’ prowess was slightly renewed.

The languid production and subdued piano (because, let’s face it, we’re all a little sick of hearing it overpower her) gives the track a more sensual vibe—something that Keys’ should naturally be good at, given her husky voice. Drake’s there too, but not as a rapper. Instead he lends soft, masculine backup adding weight to the track and tempering the hard drums that crop up midway through to the end. His name adds cache, no doubt, but Drake lets Keys shine.

It ends up sounding much more contemporary than a lot of Keys’ previous work. We know she’s a talented singer-songwriter and WE KNOW she plays the piano, but there’s no need to beat us over the head with an overly ambitious (and cliched) piano melody. Keys has a lot to offer musically—much more so than most of her pop counterparts—and “Un-thinkable” shows that she’s capable of growth and sophistication. I’d love to hear it covered by an unexpected indie band. Link after the jump.

Chuck Klosterman has carved a unique niche in journalism with his naval-gazing-Gonzo style of media criticism; punctuating his idiosyncratic observational wit with self-deprecating personal anecdotes. Moreover, the former SPIN senior writer is a contrarian pop-culture consumer who enjoys Weezer (even the new stuff), NBA basketball, Mad Men, Friday Night Lights, time travel and Animal Collective. Is it any wonder I’m a fan?

Still, reading Klosterman’s latest book Eating The Dinosaur, it dawned on me that if the Minnesota native is the natural progression of Hunter S. Thompson for the Pabst-set, than what we’re really seeing here is the point of no return.

Perhaps it should have been clear when Klosterman published his first fictional short-novel last year, but it is abundantly crystal now — interjecting himself into stories is no longer sufficient when he can get away without a story entirely.

Previous anthologies by Klosterman were collections of published works — but asides from a brief (albeit ongoing) discussion with Ira Glass and Errol Morris at the start of Eating, there is not a sign of journalism in sight. Klosterman has graduated to full-on media criticism, resulting in a series of essays that will definitely entertain and satisfy his fans, but also serves to turn him into essentially a very, very talented blogger.

In context, I suppose this was always to be expected. In an era where fame and celebrity are the most common pursuits du jour, Gonzoish writing has become the de-facto prosaic style of the internet and increasingly even established media columnists.

I’m frankly unsure how I feel about this. I don’t want to discuss The Death of Journalism, but there is most certainly a lot to consider about the abundance of opinions (mostly stupid) we now have to wade through on a daily, even hourly basis. As an unabashed consumer of pop-culture it is at the very least intriguing seeing the impact and evolution traditional journalism has had on todays status quo.

Despite my mild trepidation however, it’s tough to read Klosterman and not be amazed by his conversational aptitude. He might have indirectly helped create a monster, but the dude is still capable of writing circles around the average online smart ass. It should be noted that the most under appreciated (but important) facet of extrapolating your personality from Gonzo journalism is that you’d better have an interesting personality.

It’s no surprise that despite all the snark, what makes Klosterman so unique and successful is that he’s so damn astute most of the time, even when he’s not right. His ability to express simple ideas in brilliantly concise and colloquial terms is at times mind blowing. To wit:

Mad Men’s protagonist is Don Draper, a pathological liar who charms women by grabbing their vaginas in crowded restaurants.

- Chuck Klosterman, Eating The Dinosaur

I don’t know anybody else who could have crafted that sentence, but it’s more accurate in tone and detail than any of the many lines I’ve ever read about Don Draper or the show Mad Men. Similarly, there are times during Eating The Dinosaur when you realize — like any good conversationalist — Klosterman isn’t necessarily convincing, but at the very least he’s making interesting points, causing you to think about your own opinions.

He might not be breaking any stories but if there was one person I’d ever want to be trapped in an elevator with, it most certainly would be Natalie Portman. Followed very closely by Chuck Klosterman.

Unbeknownst to us, there is something called the Canadian Blog Awards, and when we found out about them this week we thought “damn, we need to get nominated next year for these.”

Well, perhaps we should have read the categories a bit closer, because also unbeknownst to us is that we were nominated, five times: best overall blog, best blog post, best group blog, best popular culture blog, best new blog, and best blog that almost rhymes with assman (which should be a shoe in for us, although bass flan, the blog about making flan with fresh water bass, is going to be tough competition).

Anyways, now that the nominations are done it’s down to a popular vote, which is where we need you, our dear readers, to click the category links above and put a number one beside The Ashcan.

In return we will evenly divide the giant cash prize with everyone (disclaimer: there is no cash prize).

Adding more cred to the joke than the developers at Rebellion Developments likely intended is the fact that Rourke’s ditty sounds like a perfect Buck 65 song. Or is it just me? The gravelly delivery, the seen-too-many-things weariness, the parodic hyper-masculinity and the lazy way he catches the beat? All Buck. Had Rourke wanted to — instead of, you know, winning Oscars and stuff — he could have made a decent career slogging through Canada’s indie scene (especially during that phase when Buck stopped making rap music) and making weeklies music scribes lose their shit.

Hit the jump for a comparison.

(via)

Complex keeps things interesting

When I get drunk and talk about the death of magazines, every Wednesday, I’m mostly lamenting the death of the job market and the PR-approved pap that we’ve come to punch John Lahr in the face with and call profile pieces. But what can I say. I’ve written the shit myself. Mostly because I’m green, but also because I’m easy. You pick your battles so you can pick up your groceries. But the other side of the editorial/production coin is that mags nowadays, those stalwart print survivors still holding it down at your local magazine rack, aren’t just always saying something lame or late, they’re getting kind of uglier too, aren’t they?

This is not an across the board criticism, but really — aside from the consistently lively Complex (above), and I guess maybe Vanity Fair — where have all the exciting photoshoots gone? Is Nylon what we have? (And that’s not a snarky rhetorical, if I’m ignoring the obvious answers let me know.) I saw the Monnaie’s David Lachapelle exhibit earlier this year and I guess yeah, his kind of fully conceived and lushly executed celebrity snapshots have become the territory of retrospectives. “The apocalypse is sold to us on television,” said Lachapelle, and maybe that’s what’s missing — photographers as artists, as pop theorists, as pretentious blowhards, as megalomanical personalities who will sit Tupac fucking Shakur in a goddamn bubblebath, or make Courtney Love hold a Kurt Cobain lookalike in a dead Christ pose; where every inch of the frame is bursting with inspired mise-en-scene and genuine oh shit moments. Someone who doesn’t just snap shots of celebrities, but captures and even crafts pop culture.

I’m maybe asking too much. Naturally, budget slashes in the print world, in the whole world, make these shoots near impossible (we all know how liberal Annie Leibovitz was with her budgets) and these photographers too expensive. Also, the New World Order of iron-fisted PR grips the photographer’s hands as they do the writer’s, and who are they to have to fight that battle for everyone else, I guess. And maybe all the wonderful up-and-coming shutterbugs have either revolted against our tabloid culture and opted to follow around politicians or some shit, can you blame them? Or they just gave in and became full-blown papparozzos. But I can’t let everyone off the hook here though, because really, you can do it with a camera and an idea. With a face. The faces are always there. What are we to do with some of these photoshoots that take genuinely beautiful people and make them plastic and computer-generated? The non-artistic Photoshopping has got to stop, people, because if you can’t stir even a semi with your half-naked Leighton Meester photos, you’ve failed. Epic fail.

How did we let Maxim change things so thoroughly?

We can’t do much about all that up there, and perhaps it’s not even worth it to. But what we can do is call for more creativity. For more giving a shit. I don’t mean to pick on Empire here, but can we? Let’s take a look at Empire. For the mag’s 20th anniversary they got a bunch of stars to revisit their most iconic performances. Which sounds great. Awesome concept. But it’s all concept and no execution. Which I suppose is fitting for today’s film landscape, where Hollywood is all about the fucking pitch and the opening weekend numbers and damn everything else. Pitch, pitch, pitch. Films about boardgames. Photos about movies.

Here is Matt Damon as Jason Bourne. Bored ol’ Jason Bourne. Nice little plug for the magazine. Nice little fly-swatter, really.

And here’s Jack Nicholson’s most iconic movie role. You know, that one where he smiles like Jack Nicholson.

Even Morgan Freeman hates this.

I guess you don’t have to try to channel their most iconic performances, because they only have one. So fuck even painting a lightning bolt on the kid, let’s just sit them on a bench. Then again, Radcliffe does mystery, Grint does affable, and Watson does that thing you don’t like to talk about — perfect summary of the franchise. I guess.

Hey, remember that time Christian Bale glowered? That was an awesome movie. What was it called. No, the other one.

Oh, this one I actually quite like!

Hat’s off to Gibson for being apparently the only game one in town. Unless that’s Photoshop. That’s not Photoshop, is it?

All it takes is a pout?

I think you see where I’m going. And I didn’t even mention the dreary backdrops, not even once. There are more here, some of them not that bad. But none of them great. Where was I? Let’s start giving a shit again. I will with my writing — I’m all about that from this point on. But so much of our new media landscape navel-gazing already happens on the editorial side. Pretty pages are about the only thing keeping magazines vital and exciting, and a nice package that can be sold as a commodity itself might be the only thing that keeps them interesting in the future. Without the pictures, what’s the point anymore?

Like, The Game’s “Hate It Or Love It.” I remember when The Documentary came out my boyfriend at the time was so into The Game (he made me obsessed with this song for a period of time). There were so many things I used to love about “Hate It Or Love It”: 50′s verse and the back and forth between the two, Little 50′s big-ass Queens ring, the hazy West Coast look of the video itself,  a mandatory N.W.A. shoutout and the “oh yeaaaah!” Lloyd Banks reference (where’d that guy go?), Cool & Dre’s breezy beat, and name-dropping Jacob just before Game goes “see how time fly” and they flash their wrists. Sigh, simpler times.