Another description of Super Pii Pii Brothers reads “promotes good bathroom skills and allows women to experience for the first time the pleasure of urinating while standing,” and Freud is dragged on stage yet again to talk about penis envy.
The performance is to demonstrate the adroit ways they can maneuver their lower backs for the missionary position, the poor ottoman acting as supine recipient of such techniques.
Empires fall and new ones take their place. The moat around the United States, as we approach economic- and/or otherwise-demise, is rimmed with oil and guarded by an army of obese patriots. Drill, baby, drill! the 2008 Republican campaign slogan goes, unabashedly alluding to their illicit/implicit relations with oil companies.
Upon entering the MTV-subsidized unit, the two say “Damn” and “Dang,” respectively, in tribute the awesomeness of the place. Sorrentino quickly finds the hot tub, and mentions how it will be used.
To call someone a “bro” is a hyper-heterosexual form of endearment; to pronounce it bra is to increase that sentiment by two- or three-fold. That “bra” is short for brassiere has nothing do to with this venture.
It’s endearing how the detached cynicism with which hipsters confront their surroundings is tempered by a sentimentality for “old” things, namely, these circa 80’s photos—and how those compromised photos resembled the inception of photography in the 1840’s.
The aesthetics of suburban alienation in popular/alt music have long since been employed by The Smiths, Radiohead, Green Day, to just name a few—for that is what every kid wants: to feel alone (from their parents) yet somehow part of something larger (a culture). Short of a better generic phrase, “Rock & Roll” is essentially a romantic movement.
A face is a most honest thing. I’ve become accustomed to “The German”: mouth agape, the hint of a deep smile, eyes closed in pure abandonment. Happiness, or at least its notion, can be cruel.
Recently single again, I started an OkCupid account out of a mixture of hope and despair, the latter towards which I’m slowly ambling. The income array looks like a highly pixilated image zoomed in at 1400%. Squint at it long enough and it begins to resemble, well, nothing.
The attacks of September 11, 2001 are about man—though those men would argue, and others have fervently joined this argument, that it’s about God. By “man” I mean post-imperialism, terrorism, war, and our existential responsibility over our actions.