One Day In Culture

Where's B Been?

2010-06-10T13:02:00.000-07:00

Hola to everyone who at one point was reading this blog but has since stopped because I stopped writing.

These are just a few of the things I would like to say I've been doing:
A) Riding a scooter through Napa Valley.
B) Sailing off the coast of Italy.
C) Advising Lady Gaga on Catholic Guilt for her new video Alejandro.
D) Cleaning up the BP and Haliburton's gigantic mess in Louisiana.

E) Writing the next great American novel about a boy who lost his hat on the way to a 7-11.

But alas dear ODIC readers, I have been doing nothing of the sort. I've found myself, after 6 months of unemployment, back behind a bar at a local hotspot of a restaurant. This means several things:

1) I work all the fucking time. We're talking doubles that are beginning to grow into triples now that my boss and two other of my bartending colleagues have quit.
2) I'm heavily drinking again 5-6 nights a week. This is something I'm working on.
3) I've begun doing PR and Marketing work for the restaurant, which is keeping me steadily busy on my days off.
AND, LAST BUT NOT LEAST...
4) I'm chasing a massive amount of tail.

However, it is now my resolution, after months of daydreaming and an afternoon spent watching Julie and Julia that I re-commit myself to writing here semi-daily. I, Young Beezy, hereby swear in written form to begin ranting again. From women who appear naked in Playboy who are embarrassed about their "sex tape" "leaking" "on the internet," to the BP Oil Disaster and our government's Katrina-like response, to the dissolution of the Big 12 Conference and Katy Perry's ability to make me sexually aroused while still being the most annoying piece of pop bullshit in America today, nothing, and I mean NOTHING, will be spared. I'm getting older, and angrier.

So, without further ado...Tell your friends...
Like the third coming of an 80's Revival...B's Back.

Terra Verde Radio Show

2010-01-29T15:56:00.000-08:00

So for anyone who missed today's radio broadcast, here it is in full glory.

Terra Verde is a live public affairs program in Berkeley that focuses on investigating and analyzing environmental issues from a global perspective. How that figured out into today's money broadcast was based on our large financial institutions and their investment into horrible environmental practices. Adam spoke about each individual's money carbon footprint and then went on to discuss MoveYourMoney.Info and my adventures. It's highly informative and fascinating. Enjoy.

Terra Verde - January 29, 2010 at 1:00pm

Click to listen (or download)

A Surreal Life

2010-01-28T18:07:00.000-08:00

This little post is going to be a quickie, which, I'm sure you're saying to yourself...yeah, right.

But seriously. I wanted to make a formal show of my gratitude for this crazy week I've had. As of Monday when my Move Your Money blog went live, I've seen an incredible influx of support and comments about my project. I made the front page of MoveYourMoney.info, had FirstBank employees sending me personal emails, and tomorrow, the final cherry on top will be...ummm...topped.

At 2:00 pm Mountain (1:00 pm Pacific) I will be interviewed on KPFA, Berkely, California's Free Speech Radio. The show is called Terra Verde and it's host Adam — a pleasant chap with an awesome British radio voice — and I will be discussing my money adventures. Tune in at the link above if you're avoiding work on a Friday afternoon. If not, maybe I'll just blare the recording while driving around with a loudspeaker.

Thank you all so very much for your words and support. I might shed a tear, but instead I'm just going to drink some Kettle One.

Cheers,
Beeze

Moving My Money

2010-01-22T12:13:00.000-08:00

A Special Message From Our Editor In Chief —

Recently I was speaking with a friend about the subject of personal banking and we were recalling a time not too long ago when we were both in our early teens. The scene isn't exactly out of the George Bailey community banks we see above, but when we both opened our very first bank accounts (her's with her Grandmother's $20 gift, mine with my first paycheck from the first job my father gave me) there was a sense of pride and personal growth that came from having your own bank account, your own checks, your own money. It was the first step to adulthood, as important as a first kiss or getting your 1989 Dodge Daytona hatchback at 15. Even then, in the not so distant 1990s, banks stood for a promise of greater things to come — college, your first career, the down payment on a home, loans to create your own business when it had come time to leap out on your own. But times have changed in the blink of an eye. Good lord how they have changed.

Let me take you back to 2002, where I had recently been a little down on my luck. Without going into too much personal detail, I was suffering from what I'd like to call a bout of Early-Twenty-Itis. Broke, jobless and hungry, I decided that I would sell my mint-condition 1973 Conn Soprano Saxophone on the newly instituted Craigslist.com. Ebay hadn't been working for me (I was honestly worried about not getting the full value out of the instrument) so I posted the saxophone up on Craigslist. A few days later, I received an email from a man in Indonesia who would pay my asking price immediately for the sax. Perhaps a little naieve but not stupid, I told him I would wait for his check to arrive. Once it cleared my bank account, I would send the sax.

The check came. Seven days later the money was in my account. I was thrilled and went to UPS to box and ship my sax overseas. Seven days later, the money disappeared. My sax was somewhere over the ocean and I had just paid a hefty amount on my credit card with the cash. I was scared shitless. Where had that money gone and what in the hell was I going to do now?

I went to Wells Fargo, where I had been a customer since the age of 15. I tried to talk to the bankers, none of which were any help to me. Finally, after throwing what amounted to an adult temper-tantrum, a gentleman came out to explain that since I was such an outstanding Wells Fargo customer, the bank had given me their own money prior to the check actually clearing. "Checks take two weeks to clear," he told me. "We took our money back once we realized the routing number was false."

Wells Fargo stole my saxophone. No one called to tell me the routing number was fraudulent or that I should probably not go spending all that money I had deposited. They just took back their cash, regardless of what it did to me as a struggling twenty-something. There was no remorse and hardly an apology. Wells Fargo had its way with me and my saxophone, but I, like many Americans, continued to bank with them for another seven years.

We all know the story of what happened to our banking institutions during the latter half of the 2000s. The Big 6 U.S. Banks — consisting of Citigroup (NYSE: C), Bank of America (NYSE: BAC), Wells Fargo (NYSE: WFC), Wachovia (NYSE: WB) Washington Mutual (NYSE: WM) and JP Morgan Chase (NYSE: JPM) — began to fail. Big bonuses, corporate greed and irresponsible lending led to a collapse in our financial system. Bailing out the big banks was essential to saving our economy and I believe most Americans understand that. However, the bailout was supposed to increase lending so that small businesses could create jobs and so homeowners wouldn't face foreclosure. Instead of re-investing in America, the heads of the big six banks decided it would be far better to decrease lending and keep their bonuses. While people were losing their homes, the fat cats in New York were eating lobster off of strippers in private hotel rooms. They were wiping their asses with gold plated toilet paper while we were all struggling to support ourselves. They showed that they didn't give a flying diamond crusted shit about the American people, their customers, those same people whose tax dollars went to saving their institutions. So I've decided to make a change.

Based on Arianna Huffington's MoveYourMoney Movement I decided to dump Wells Fargo and move my cash to FirstBank, a Colorado Bank that has been in business since 1963 and has been rapidly growing ever since. FirstBank is now Colorado's second largest depository institution and the largest locally owned bank in the state. Since 2000, FirstBank has donated $24 million to charitable organizations throughout the area.

Moving my money would take some preparation. I knew that once I closed my Wells Fargo account, I would have no way to pay bills or use an ATM unless I had another account already open at FirstBank. I knew that a debit card would take several days to arrive and that it's arrival would certainly be delayed due to the MLK holiday that fell on the upcoming Monday. Additionally, my pending transactions at Wells Fargo would prevent me from closing my account with them immediately. I did, however, have enough money on hand from a healthy week at work to roll into FirstBank at 16th and Tremont and open up both a checking and savings account on Friday, January 15, 2010.

Walking into FirstBank felt like the first step in a bright new future, one that would enable me to not only save money, but to pay off all of my credit card debts and being to focus on my future. Upon walking in I was immediately met by my new personal banker Matt, who was excited to hear about my banking adventure. He had never heard of the MoveYourMoney Movement, but understood my frustration with the bigger institutions. "You're going to love it here at FirstBank," he told me.

I had done my research, so I had a hunch the dude was right. A new friend had met me for drinks a week prior to this blog. She's been a FirstBank employee for nine years and is currently handling mortgages for her branch. She explained to me that during 2009 she only managed two (2) foreclosures. By comparison, the state of Colorado ranked 10th in foreclosures in 2009 with a staggering 50,104 homes in some state of being foreclosed. Now, I know she's just one woman in one branch of one institution, but I'll hedge my bets with those statistics. "Some of us used to complain that FirstBank was too conservative," she told me. "We don't do that anymore."

First, Matt and I set up what FirstBank calls a Money Marketing Checking Account, which accrues interest just like a savings account. As long as I keep a minimum balance of $500, my interest rate is .10%, which isn't a lot I know, but is far better than the 0% rate that I accrued as a Wells Fargo customer for 15 years. We then set up what is known as a Time Deposit Savings Account, in which I guarantee the bank that I will keep a certain amount of money in the account for a certain amount of time (mine: $500 for 91 Days) and I accrue a certain amount of interest throughout the year. The interest rate on the account is certainly higher if you guarantee larger amounts for a longer period of time, but mine started me at a .40% interest rate, which is far better than either of my Wells Fargo or my ING Direct Savings Accounts.

Next came the bonus. Walking into FirstBank was something I needed very little goading to do, yet, Matt told me that because I was opening a checking account I would receive a brand new iPod Shuffle. "Most people come open an account just for the iPod," Matt told me. "It's awesome that you came in here on your own."

The iPod aside, what I really enjoyed about my FirstBank experience was the transparency of the whole process. Matt was open and honest with me about every aspect of my accounts and patient with my litany of questions. I wanted to make sure that FirstBank and I were a good fit together (my other option being BellCo Credit Union) and that my money was in comfortable hands. Assured that I was making the right decision, I shook Matt's hand and headed off into my day.

The process of closing my account with Wells Fargo would take nearly a week. There were pending charges to deal with, the extra charge on my checking account from a restaurant I hadn't been to since September, MLK day, working like a crazy man, etc. etc. Plus, as I previously explained, moving your money takes a little planning. My advice at this point in the journey for anyone willing to join me is to open your new account first. Your money will still be accessible should something unexpected happen.

Now, one week later, I'm standing in front of this horrifically gaudy building on Colorado Blvd. Notice the signs covering the windows to the right of this picture. Yes Wells Fargo, I know I'm walking into a Wells Fargo. You've made damn sure of that. That was the point in which I decided that Wells Fargo is gross. Like the "uncle who touches you" sort of gross.

I was prepared to hate my experience, was expecting a ton of questions as to why I was closing my account and an awkward exit as I headed to the door with all of my monetary belongings in tow. None of these things happened. No one greeted me as I walked through the door. I walked up to a pair of tellers who were gossiping about something random and asked, "Can I close my account with you?" The female teller didn't stop talking until I looked her and repeated myself. "No," the male teller with horribly bright braces explained. "I'll have to get a banker."

After a ten minute wait, the process was remarkably easy. The only real question Jon, my banker, asked me was about my job. "I used to be a bartender," he said before handing over my check. "It was fun."

I didn't expect the song, "Please Don't Go," to begin playing over the loudspeaker as I yanked my money out of their greedy little hands, but I did assume that losing a customer of 15 years would elicit some questioning. "Why have you chosen to close your account?" "What can we do to keep your business today?" "Would you like a sucker before you leave?" Something! Anything! But that's what being a Big 6 Banking customer has become over the past twenty years or so. You're no longer valued. You have become just another number among millions. A faceless name with a deposit slip and an ATM card.

Think about it. Imagine yourself walking into a restaurant only to be greeted by a gum-smacking tween-ager twirling her hair. She's talking to a "Chad" of a waiter and takes her sweet time saying hello to you. She takes you to an awkward table near the kitchen and you sit there without water for a good ten minutes. Finally you order your food, which takes way too long to come out, from a waiter with cigarette breath and then when you eat it you realize it's cold. No one asks you how your meal is and then suddenly you're presented with a check that includes mystery items that you never ordered. Would you sit there and pay for the meal, or would you ask for a manager to complain? Would you then come back repeatedly, ordering the same meal from the same waiter, or would you refuse to return to that establishment and tell all of your friends how awful it was?

We all know what we would do in any other circumstance, but for some reason we as Americans have come to allow gigantic banks to rape us with hidden fees, poor customer service and often illegal business practices. Trust me when I say that moving your money isn't the most convenient thing to do. I still have a load of work to do transferring all of my online banking accounts before I pay bills at the end of the month. Moving your money will take some planning and a whole lot of personal initiative. But wouldn't it be worth it?

The Government tells us that the banks are "Too Big to Fail." But I've come to believe that the Big 6 are simply "Too Big to Listen." The CEOs of these institutions have forgotten that we as consumers have the right to chose with whom we bank with. We don't have to keep our money in their banks. Send a message loud and clear. We do have the power to make them listen, one account at a time.

It's Been One Hairy Ass Hole of a Year

2009-12-24T08:54:00.001-08:00

We here at One Day In Culture do not believe in Christmas cards. Sure, we get them in the mail and always open them secretly hoping that one of our relatives decided to send us $5,000. They never do. Instead, what we get are those ubber-lame-tarded yearly recaps where every aunt, cousin, and second-cousin-twice-removed whom we haven't seen since July of 1994...they all want to share with the extended family how many children they've birthed, trips they took to theme parks, and the fact that little Jimmy who we all thought was mentally challenged, bless his short-changed and slightly tubby soul, finally passed remedial reading. Let us just say this. If we don't speak to one another for the other 364 days of the year, what makes you think we'll suddenly start caring for 24 hours. You're right. We don't.

That being said, we here at One Day In Culture have decided to write 2009 an electronic goodbye instead. Plus, we really don't have the money for all that Christmas postage. So in lieu of pictures of our fat little babies dressed in onesies beneath the Christmas tree, we ask that you join us in a proper ridding of the past 365 days. Here, we present to you, dear reader, the 2009 Year in Review.

Hey, 2009. Come here, we need to tell you something.

No seriously, please. Come here. It's pretty important and it can't wait until 2010. No. Seriously. Come Here.

Closer...
Closer......
A little closer...

God DAMN!
You're a gullible bastard of a year.

As we've recently pointed out in this very blog, 2009 has been awful. In many ways, we're sure that 2009 was sent here by either Satan or George W. Bush just to remind us all that even though a black man has been elected President of United States, old white dudes have done enough damage over the past three decades to fuck things up until 2020. Our ship is quickly sinking, and the catastrophe that has been the last year might be the final breech in our already flooded vessel. At the end of 2008 we were all promised change we could believe in. Well, so far the only real change we've seen is the amount of change in our checking account. And it's shrunk. Considerably.

But we're not here today to bag specifically on the American government, regardless of how much it deserves it. Our fading year of 2009 has also been an extremely entertaining and often baffling year of oddball celebrity catapults and collapses, interesting (if often less than useful) gizmos and gadgets, Octomoms, balloon boys, Gosselins, mentally and morally stunted beauty queens, misbegotten athletes, scandal-laden governors, pilfering pirates, water-born aircrafts, ponzi-scheming douche-towels, bank bailouts, Arron Spelling re-imaginings, sexy vampires, 3D movies, and of course, one disturbingly fascinating pop culture princess from New York by the name of Stefani Joanne Angelina Germanotta — you might know her by her stage name, Lady Gaga. We need to string it up, peel back it's botoxed epidermis and really see what's underneath.

We are, after all, One Day In Culture, so we've decided to have some fun at the expense of the most-fortunate. It's really the only way we can avoid being depressed after this hairy ass hole of a year we've had. So, without further ado, here without rhyme or reason, comes ODIC's list of 2009's 10 biggest goofs, gaffs, greats, gollies, gees, and guffaws — or at least those we think we can really sink our teeth into.

#10 — The Year of the Celebrity Death March
When Brittany Murphy died last week at her home in California, a friend asked us over dinner, "So, are you going to be writing anything about her on your site?" After careful consideration, we decided to avoid the topic of the 32-year-old's untimely death in the short term, focusing instead on the sheer litany of celebrity deaths during 2009. From high-profile events like Michael Jackson's funeral to the not-so-tragic natural (and less publicized) passing of Claude Levi-Strauss (the anthropologist who did not have anything to do with blue jeans), it seemed like every week there was yet another report of yet another international celebrity kicking the proverbial bucket.There isn't anything funny about the deaths of Brittany Murphy, Michael Jackson, Billy Mays, Karine Ruby, Ted Kennedy, Farrah Fawcett, Patrick Swayze, Natasha Richardson, Steve McNair, Dom DeLuise, Walter Cronkite, Henry Gibson, Bea Arthur, John Hughes, Paul Harvey, Chris Henry, Ed McMahon, Ken Ober, Captain Lou Albano or the Taco Bell Dog...no wait, that's actually a little funny. As for conservative journalist and self-proclaimed "Prince of Darkness" Robert Novak, although a brain tumor is only something we'd wish upon, say...Glenn Beck...we can't honestly say we're going to miss your enraged hatemongering. And, as for you David Carradine, well, we'd like to thank you postmortem for teaching us that autoerotic asphyxiation is an actual thing and not just the plot-line to an episode of Six Feet Under. Let's just say that accidentally hanging yourself while ejaculating is pretty low on our list of ways to leave this world and you have convinced everyone here at ODIC that the next time we decide to rub one out, we'll skip the noose and tennis-shoe string.

(Advised by legal council, the editors of ODIC have decided to omit any jokes containing "Bangkok," the city Mr. Carradine's body was found in.)

Meanwhile...as we say goodbye to celebrities (and one Spanish speaking dog) with actual talent we say hello to...

#9 — The Year of Reality Proliferation
(An Open Letter To E!: "Entertainment" Television)

Dear Mr. or Mrs. Entertainment Television,

One Day in Culture would like to thank you for being directly or indirectly involved in what has been a stupendously idiotic year filled with desperate ploys for national attention. Thanks to your network's dedication to making celebrities out of each and every asshole that lives in L.A. you have given birth to a slew of mentally unstable freakshows looking for their own meteoric rise to fame. As the saying goes, "desperate times call for desperate measures," and believe us when we say that times for some men and women in this country are indeed hopeless.

What your television network (and those copy-cat wanna-be TLC type enterprises) has accomplished by painting a surreal picture of reality through the eyes of spoiled, degenerate, talentless media whores is disrupt the balance of working people everywhere. Men and women who tug themselves out of bed each morning, send the kids off to school and then head to their 8-hour day come home every night and flip on the television, only to see dozens of channels with hundreds of reality shows featuring people being rewarded handsomely for living ridiculous lives of leisure. When a tasteless trailer trash blonde from San Diego becomes famous on your network simply for being Hugh Hefner's girlfriend, what are parents supposed to tell their children? "Yes Sarah, I know it's possible to make a lot of money by doing absolutely nothing with your life, but seriously, you should at least consider finishing high school. Once you get your diploma then you can go fill your breasts with silicone and start sleeping with Grandpa."

We know that you didn't play a role in artificially stimulating Nadya Suleman's fallopian tubes, but you and your horrible cable network should be held responsible for her vagina's production. Instead of buying new cars for the Kardashian Klan, the California court system should make your parent company pay for Maliah, McCai, Josiah, Jonah, Jeremiah, Isaiah and Noah's college educations. You and your executives should be forced to pay a percentage of Falcon Heene's family's legal expenses because lord knows it's not Falcon's fault that his mom and dad thought Wife Swap and How I Lost My Kid In The Attic were genuine ways to generate income.

We understand that not everything is your fault. You didn't create the Real Housewives franchise, My Super Sweet 16, or John and Kate, but here's what all of this trash boils down to. It's the children that are being destroyed by their parent's want for fame and fortune. Years from now, when we've all forgotten the Gosselins, the Octomoms, Anna Nichole Smith or the show Toddlers & Tiaras, those fucked up little kids caught in the middle of these reality nightmares are going to have grown into fucked up adults...with weapons. I hope you understand what you've created.

Love,
ODIC

#8 — Another Year of George Clooney
It really isn't fair. The guy is ridiculously good looking, incredibly talented, insanely polite (he's one of the United Nation's "Messengers of Peace" for god sakes) and has starred in pretty much every movie that has come out since June. Up In The Air may be one of the best movies we've seen this decade. Wes Andersen's The Fantastic Mr. Fox wouldn't have been nearly as glorious without his voice. Hell, even Michael Clayton (2007), which we mistakingly ordered from Netflix, was pretty damned good when we popped it in back in October. Like Derek Jeter, regardless of his god-like abilities, we are secretly rooting for his relationship with the mind-numbingly beautiful Elisabetta Canalis to work out. George Clooney is that guy at the party who arrives well-dressed and fashionably late while toting along his guitar. You hate him at first sight. Yet, halfway through the party he strikes up a conversation with you and you discover you're both huge fans of Raymond Carver, baseball and the movie Cashback. Then moments later he sits down, pulls out his guitar and begins strumming the chords to "Gin and Juice." You and he lead a party-wide sing-a-long. By the time the night's over you've exchanged numbers and are going to try to hit a neighborhood bar for drinks. Suddenly he's your new BFF. Your world's been rocked.

We'd also like to give Clooney bonus points for the fact that his first major motion picture role was in Attack of the Killer Tomatoes. He clawed his way to the top despite that gaff on his resume. The guy is that freaking good.

#7 — The Year's Best Wedding

Call us a bunch of ridiculously over-romantic saps. We don't care. We've seen this video over twenty times and with each viewing we're just as happy as the first time we found it. The spirit of Kevin and Jill's wedding in Saint Paul, Minnesota should remind everyone of what can happen when two people fall in love.

It also reminds us of...

#6 — The Year's Dumbest Brown
Really, dude? You didn't learn anything from watching Being Bobby Brown? Thanks to your one regretful night prior to the Grammy Awards, now we're left with only Nick Cannon to round out our category of "Dudes Who Really Want To Be Usher," and now that he's milking the Mariah Carey teet, we're never going to see either one of you again. What to do?! PS...put your shirt down, Chris. Your Cosby Sweater-covered abs aren't that impressive. Meanwhile, your ignorant ass just made Kanye look like he had a decent year. Congratulations.

Oh, and while we're here. Kanye, will you please just shut the fuck up?

#5 — The Year of the Swine
Brought to you by the makers of Purell Hand Sanitizer comes the H1N1 Virus! Honestly America, if the President of the United States has to have a press conference in order to remind citizens that washing one's hands after using a public restroom is a good idea, we're in deeper shit than any of us can imagine.

But let's be honest with ourselves. Swine Flu isn't some mystical creature that traveled from the depths of Mordor to the free world just to attack our children. We're the only ones to blame for the epidemics that surround us. It's our agricultural system that has given rise to life threatening viruses and bacteria such as E. coli, Mad Cow, salmonella, bird flu, SARS and now our new friend, the H1N1. Our fascination for fast food and our demand for cheaper meat products has destroyed the immune systems of the animals we love to eat and it is in turn beginning to destroy our own.

How does it work? Well, dear reader, we're glad you asked. Huge, corporate-run factory farms are cramped and filthy —where animals are crammed into warehouses or feedlots by the tens of thousands. It would be as if you rounded up every child in the United States and forced them to live and breathe in the dining room of a McDonalds. These close quarters lead to the rampant spread of contagious organisms and diseases, which can spread to humans who eat the flesh or eggs of infected animals. Animals are fed a steady dose of antibiotics and other drugs in an effort to keep them alive long enough to be slaughtered, which leads to the development of drug-resistant strands of the diseases which are also known as “super-bugs.” Feed given to today’s farmed animals commonly contains the blood, bone, flesh, and feces of other farmed animals, even though this practice is known to have caused mad cow disease and similar diseases. We're eating things that eat themselves...and if you think about the food chain with any logic at all, this can only cause a collapse in the system. It may seem as though we're getting cheap meat at the grocery store, but at what cost?

#4 — The Year of the Dick
Tiger. Sanford. Ensign. Berlusconi. Marrazzo. Edwards. Polanski. Mitterrand. Old dudes. Getting their bang on.

It never shocks us here at ODIC when we hear of another politician or celebrity taking full advantage of their fame and fortune for a hummer in his limo from a transvestite-resembling street walker (Hugh Grant...ahem...) named Divine Brown. However, when word spread that David Letterman was having multiple affairs with his female employees, we were a bit overwhelmed by the news. We never wanted to imagine David Letterman having sex. Suddenly, our worst fears were realized and our imaginations went there. It was like accidentally walking in on your Grandpa having sex with Courtney Love. It just wasn't right.

#3 — The Year the Hippie Died
There was a time and a place for you Mr. Hippie Pants. A time when your patchouli scented dreadlocks, your mushrooms, your Phish concerts, your stitched bell-bottom jeans and your hand-blown glass pipes reminded us all of a more innocent time when free love and peace could be batted about like a whiffle ball. But you've aged Senior Hippie. And now you're gross. And scandalous. And you wander around our cars in the parking lot of our summer concerts asking if we'd like to buy drugs with a dazed look in your eye that could either be your lack of personal hygiene or heroine. But the drugs you sell now aren't the drugs that we want dude. Our drug can now be purchased somewhat legally and chemical free in little tea houses all over the country and we predict by the year 2015 pot will be legalized across the country. Once the government gets a taste of the medical marijuana tax, progressives everywhere are going to wonder why they didn't begin taxing pot back in the 1980s. There will be "coffee" on every street corner. It'll be Amsterdam, just without all those Netherlands.

But seriously Hippie. Your days are numbered.

#2 — The Year of Getting Serious
The year 2009 was way too fucked up for funny. Thank god for humor. And the meteoric rise of Zach Galifianakis.

#1 — The Year of the Bailout
If there's one word we here at ODIC would like to ruffie, drag into a shower, slice limb from limb and then bury in the backyard, it's the word Bailout. However morbid the above image may be, we began 2009 with a struggling economy brought about by three decades of corporate corruption and good old fashioned American greed. The image of Bernie Madoff has been seared into our minds, a man who scammed $65 billion dollars out of every Tom, Dick and Granny he came into contact with, but he shouldn't stand alone as a testament to the growing divide between the make believe world of invisible cash on Wall Street and the struggling, "I can't find the loose change in my couch anymore" reality that is Main Street.

The 2008 plan was to "Bailout" America's financial institutions who had been reckless with taxpayer dollars, subprime mortgages, and risky stock investments. We were told we couldn't survive without them and that our economic stability depended on saving our financial institutions. In a press conference in February, President Obama told the American people the following:

"I intend to hold these banks fully accountable for the assistance they receive, and this time, they will have to clearly demonstrate how taxpayer dollars result in more lending for the American taxpayer. This time, CEOs won’t be able to use taxpayer money to pad their paychecks or buy fancy drapes or disappear on a private jet. Those days are over."

But padding their paychecks and buying fancy drapes for their private jets is exactly what they've been doing, all at a cost to small businesses and individuals seeking loans. The bailout money was supposed to go back into the economy, helping everyday homeowners secure affordable loans and giving small businesses the cash that they needed in order to survive the struggling economy. Well, that was the idea anyway. What has happened instead is that the big banks on Wall Street, propped up by taxpayer money, have had a record year, making record profits while returning to those same spending activities that brought our economy to the brink of disaster. In a slap in the face to taxpayers, they have also cut back on the money they are lending, even though the need to get credit flowing again was one of the main points used in selling the public the bank bailout. But since April, the Big Four banks -- JP Morgan/Chase, Citibank, Bank of America, and Wells Fargo -- all of which took billions in taxpayer money, have cut lending to businesses by $100 billion.

So what do we do about this bullshit? We are currently at the mercy of an ever-growing corporate monopoly were larger and larger business are buying up hundreds of smaller businesses. At this rate, over the course of the next decade, it isn't hard to imagine that a small handful of businesses will own a very large percentage of this country. But, you may ask, how do we help put an end to this senseless cycle of greed?

We have given up a lot for the sake of convenience and 2009 has been the exhibit year that has shown us the true costs of that convenience. We've seen what our bloated financial system really looks like behind the iron curtain and it should be enough to piss everyone who isn't a high-level executive for these banks off completely. If we, on the individual level, refuse to change our habits and behaviors, what incentives are there for large corporations to change theirs? The move you can make is simple. Show your refusal to be an unwilling and ill-treated banking customer by going to Move Your Money and finding your nearest privately owned community bank. Close your Wells Fargo, Citybank, BofA or Chase account (you won't believe how easy it'll be) and take your money to financial institutions that are still lending money to individuals and small businesses. One person won't bankrupt the system, but together we can all make a difference. Imagine if Wells Fargo lost 10% of its customers to small, independent community banks. That means they wouldn't be making billions of dollars off of ATM fees, online bill pay surcharges, ever-growing interest rates or late-payment penalties. Imagine the influx of capital that would remain on Main Street and out of the hands of Wall Street. Imagine if the money that went into buying a new corporate jet for BofA went into the hands of a small business owner in your neighborhood who could then employ the mom across the street who has been unemployed for the better part of a year. Imagine a new decade where American's began to take back their country from the hands of the few.

Due to the impending end of 2009, we know we've probably missed more than a few of your favorite moments from this past year and for that we're sorry. We're just one guy trying to write a crap ton of blog while heavily working/drinking. We promise to try harder next year, for the children. Until then, have a safe and happy New Year's Eve and try not to kiss anyone under the age of 17.

Athlete of the Decade

2009-12-16T14:14:00.000-08:00

We really weren't going to chime in.

Honest.

Weren't planning on it at all.

When the news broke over Thanksgiving weekend during the Texas-Texas A&M game we thought to ourselves, "Selves...this is fishy. How did Tiger wind up bruised and unconscious from hitting a tree in reverse? Dude had to be going like 40 out of his driveway!" It looked like a fish, smelled like a fish, talked like a fish and swam like a fish...by god, it probably wasn't a Llama. Maybe there was more to this story. Maybe he was really, really, really pissed off. Or in super trouble with someone. Or maybe his take out was ready and he and the wife hadn't eaten in three weeks. Either way, the story just didn't make any sense.

Then came the reality of it all. Tiger liked to bang porn stars. And call girls. And waitresses. And...well...pretty much anything with a working vagina within reach. The guy's life started to sound like a scene from Grand Theft Auto. It was that thought of Tiger, running through the streets of his exclusive Florida neighborhood, jumping into cars and slamming into trees, taking home hookers and then beating them with a 9-iron, that led us here at One Day In Culture to envision EA Sport's Tiger Woods 2011 in which a hole in one means a free trip to virtual hotel where Jamie Jungers is sitting on the bed, still pretending to not be an over-priced hooker. (Patent is pending on that one, so don't get any ideas EA Sports before talking to our lawyer.)

(Damn you David Letterman writers...I swear to God I came up with that first.)

And we know what's next with you Tiger, or can I please call you Mr. Woods. We know the steroid scandal is right around the corner. We know that your Canadian doctor, Dr. Anthony Galea, was arrested and charged today with importing and selling an illegal performance enhancing drug known as Actovegin (and no, that's not just the nickname for a vegan who likes to workout) which is a growth hormone extracted from Calf's blood. And we know what's next. We just learned it from reading Andre Agassi's new tell-all book Open or How I Learned To Make A Mockery Of The Sport That Made Me Famous By Writing A Book To Become More Famous. It'll come out in the coming weeks that you've been using Calf's blood to hit your drives further, to pump your fists higher, and to bang more prostitutes. And, the kicker is, the PGA is going to have known all about it. Hell, they've probably never even tested you for performance enhancing drugs. After all, you are Tiger...we mean, Mr. Woods...the guy who single handily saved the sport of Golf from the likes of Jack Nicklaus, Arnold Palmer, and this drunken gambling-addicted fat guy to the right whom we've now forgotten all about. We mean, who would want to watch those three wander around a course, teeing balls and wacking off? (Wait...switch that.) Your scandal, Tiger, we mean, Mr. Woods, is going to get much worse before you can fade away to your own personal island like Johnny Depp. TMZ will find you, no matter where you are.

But we aren't mad about all of that. Not really. You can be as scandalous and drug crazed as Jose Canseco for all we care. You can shoot yourself in the leg like Plaxico, smoke crack like Darryl Strawberry, fix yourself some gambling odds like all those NBA referees, lie and cheat on your wife like Lance Armstrong...shit...even get yourself out of a double homicide like O.J. WE SIMPLY DON'T CARE!

But today, of all days, just two weeks before the end of what could be easily argued as the worst ten years in American history, you've been dubbed by the Associated Press as the Athlete of the Decade. You, Mr. Woods, who have taken so much for granted, looked at world-wide fame and success, a beautiful wife, two lovely children, more money than you could ever spend and pissed and shit all over it all. You, Mr. Woods, who will never have to know what it feels like to lose your home, your job, your savings. You, Mr. Woods, who would have never had to face a Christmas alone, a Thanksgiving out in the cold, or the harsh reality that the new year may not bring a better day. You, Mr. Woods, who have in your possession what the other 99.9 percent of the world's population can only hope and dream of, have been named Athlete of the Decade. Well, fuck you.

It's none of our business, none of us, with what you do with your life Mr. Woods. We all make horrible mistakes that have impactful consequences on ourselves and everyone around us. But you have allowed yourself to become the emblem of what's wrong with America. Greed, excess, adultery, steroids, guns, dog fighting, drunk driving, drug-abuse, gambling...it's enough to make anyone struggling through the worst year in American history want to end it all. And here we're just talking about you athletes. You spoiled, rich, morality-lacking overgrown children. We haven't even begun to discuss Goldman Sachs, Enron, Wall-Mart, Hollywood, our agriculture system or the Federal Government. But we've named you, Mr. Woods, fucking Athlete of the Decade. Congratulations.

Speaking from the perspective of someone who will never live your blessed life, who has lost his job this year, is still single at 30 years old with a Master's who is bartending because he was never really very good at sports but always pretty decent at writing, but there aren't any goddamned jobs out there for writers because people would rather watch you play a game than read a book...well shit man. Give me your houses, your money, your wife. Give me the blessedness that is the Tiger Woods corporation and watch a man appreciate everything he has been given. Watch a man donate to charity. Watch a man stay out of the strip clubs and come home to his family. Watch a man who has so very little right now show you what living a charmed life in this day and age really means. That it should be embraced and cherished, not taken for granted. If you don't appreciate it, Mr. Athlete of the Decade, there are plenty of other people who will.

Ignorance May Be Bliss...

2009-12-01T14:29:00.000-08:00

Ok, so maybe this isn't American culture, but we at One Day In Culture feel that when facts come to light, no matter how far away it is, we should at least be spreading the information.

Please watch the below video:

For more information please visit The Human Society International

Eat This Video

2009-11-24T10:49:00.000-08:00

We admit that most of the staff here at One Day In Culture grew up loving the Thanksgiving traditions at our homes. All the hours of Turkey basting, cranberry sauce slicing, pie making and stuffing stuffing were simply the prelude to the tryptophan inducing coma on the other side of the feast. Our editor-in-chief has fond memories of fighting over who was going to eat the last of his Uncle's oyster dressing. Research Editor Tina S. was just reminding us how her best memories of childhood developed around her trips to her Grandmother's house in Boca Raton where members of her family would gather to eat, drink and be merry. "It was never in that order," she explained between forkfulls of microwaved lasagna. "Our record number of bottles of wine consumed is well over 12..."

There has been a lot of talk this year about tradition. The tried and true American ritual of family members gathering around the table to eat a 22lb turkey is under attack, perhaps this year more than ever before. The PETA ad at the top of the page is just one of the many ways animal activists and vegan enthusiasts are out to stop YOUR family tradition. Novelists like Johnathan Safran Foer and high-profile celebrities (Natalie Portman and Alec Baldwin) have joined the PETA's cause to help spread the idea that a Vegan (or at least Vegitarian) Thanksgiving holiday is a holiday worth having. The fact that NBC rejected paid advertising in order to stop animal activists from telling their Macy's Day Parade viewers the truth regarding how your 25lb Thanksgiving turkey makes its way to your table is emblematic of a very larger state of American denial. It also explains why this year in particular, PETA and other animal rights organizations are challenging tradition in an unprecedented way. They can sense cracks in our American fundamentals and are striking while the iron is hot.

But you know what? Those activists are right.

It is now well documented that there were no turkey dinners when the Pilgrims first landed at Plymouth (a quick Wikipedia check will teach that) and we should all be well beyond the notion that what transpired after the white man first arrived was harmless and that the tradition we continue to observe on the last Thursday of November is steeped in morality. It should also be noted that the gluttonous over-consumption of American poultry in this country goes way beyond the tradition of your Thanksgiving Thursday. But think about how much turkey is consumed on Thanksgiving and what Thanksgiving itself was originally supposed to be. Our holiday began as a day of giving thanks, of praising God and his bountiful blessings. The holiday was also a way to bolster American unity in the aftermath of the Civil War. What was torn apart was brought back together at the dinner table, but where the central figure of the Turkey came from, no one seems to know.

Every year the National Turkey Association presents the president with two turkeys to pardon, in a show of some sort of solidarity with the animal kingdom. The NTA will choose a two "healthy" turkeys to parade out before the media, the President will smile, pardon them, and then those turkeys will be boxed back up and shipped off to Disneyland. Meanwhile, those turkeys not pardoned will wind up on our dinner tables. Yet, its what happens before that turkey gets to our table that animal rights groups are concerned with.

We could go into excruciating detail as to the horrors within factory farms. We could explain how your 30lb Butterball is drugged, bred, and genetically mutated to grow to be so fat, that many of them can't walk properly, if at all. Because of their obesity, modern-day turkeys can't reproduce by themselves. Or how their beaks are cut off without anesthetic to stop them from pecking one another. Or how every year, 3 Million turkeys are killed in the United States, most of which will never see their first year on Earth (most factory farmed turkeys are killed by the time they are 6 months old)...or any number of other horrific facts that surround our factory farmed 35lb turkeys. But those types of stats aren't necessary because you watched the PETA video at the beginning of this piece (You did, didn't you?). The little girl told you everything you needed to know regarding the Thanksgiving Turkey industry. However, millions of people watching NBC this Thanksgiving morning won't. They'll go on believing that the turkey sitting as the centerpiece to the entire meal either lived a life of dignity, or isn't a being worth living in dignity at all. They'll go on turning a blind eye to the horrors of America's current agricultural system, which is exactly what the factory farming industry needs them to do in order to survive. And, if we as a omnivorous culture can't begin to accept the realities of where are food comes from, is there really any reason to be giving thanks?

We here at ODC don't wish to damn your holiday tradition or condemn anyone into eating Tofurkey. Remember, those holiday traditions, regardless of how fabricated, are bred within us all. We enjoy stuffing our faces just as much as the next American...shit, one of our staffers just baked a pumpkin pie while we were typing. Rather, what we hope to do is begin a call to help actively change your traditions from those of ignorance and abundance to ones of compassion and caring. The first step to changing the global epidemic of factory farming is to educate yourself and those you love to the harsh realities you support when you buy a 40lb turkey for $.69 per pound at the grocery store. That turkey was once a living, breathing animal. It is a life, no matter how cheap the pound.

For more information on where your Thanksgiving turkey comes from, visit PETA here.

The 37th Annual AMAs

2009-11-23T12:34:00.000-08:00

Every year, the American Music Awards reminds us here at One Day In Culture of some essential facts regarding American popular music that we seem to forget sometime between January and November:

A) Great performers (Jay-Z, Eminem, and especially Whitney Houston) get better with age
B) Awful performers (Adam (F)Lambert, Rhianna, Lady Gaga, and the Black Eyed Peas) will always pick the most horrible clothes - or at least their overpaid stylists will...
C) We can never remember how many children Jermaine Jackson has. However, I will now never forget Jermagesty, or Jumanji, or Jereimiahwasabullfrog...
D) And, at the AMAs, it never fails that the worst of the worst (Taylor Swift we're talking to you) will be highly rewarded. At least we have those Teen-Career-Ending 20's to look forward to (Taylor Swift's vagina, this time we're talking to you).

That being said (a big shout out to Larry David and the Curb crew for that intro), the 37th annual American Music Awards should be considered a success if for no other reason than it made this progressive-metrosexual-journalist blush on at least three separate occasions. This year's AMA's was the highest rated show since 2002, showcased not one, not two, but three legendary-comeback performances (Janet, J-Lo, and Whitney. Rhianna, we're sorry but you don't count), and a host of shameless appearances that may just set the civil rights movements of both African Americans and homosexuals back a few dozen years. Yes, most importantly, the 2009 AMA's were a highly entertaining mix of the usual attention-deprived celebrities and disheartened divas that we've come to know and love.

There is just too much to talk about for one unemployed blogger sitting at his kitchen table drinking coffee on a Monday afternoon, so we're going to have to narrow an analysis down to the bare boned essentials. By bare-boned, we do not mean Lady Gaga's ridiculous outfit, but instead mean our own little AMA awards, the ODC Golden Donkeys, given to those memorable moments that never completely leave one's brain. And now, Mr. Seacrest, the envelope please!

The Anti-Genre-Busting Award:
This award goes to Mr. American Idol, Adam Flambert, who told Entertainment Weekly's Whitney Pastorek during rehersals for Sunday night's show: "Genres are old news. Genres are a thing of the past. I don’t believe in genres." I'm sorry to say that you, Mr. Flambert are a hypocrite. Not only did his performance Sunday night — complete with mock-fellatio, pelvic thrusts, and make-out-sessions — reinforce every gay stereotype held by the religious right, it was simply a horrific display by a media-fueled wannabe whose talent has been reduced to makeup, hair gel, and homoeroticism. Perhaps the only good thing to come out of this performance was the discovery of Flambert's irrelevance. We'll see you on ABC's Dancing With the Stars. Oh, and your song? It sucks.

Runners Up: Country Music Performers Pretending to be Pop-Stars (Carrie Underwood and Keith Urban, congrats) and the Black Eyed Peas for continually referring to themselves as Hip-Hop. You're not.

The Don't-Call-It-A-Comeback Award: This is a two-way tie between Whitney Houston and Jennifer Lopez. Sure, neither of these women displayed the full-breath of talent the good lord gave them on Sunday night, but both divas made statements with their performances that included tears from some of the ODC staffers during Houston's performance and at least one areal hand pump when J-Lo asked, "Ya miss me?"

We here at ODC can't understand the backlash J-Lo's "Louboutins." She's J-Lo, why wouldn't she sing a song giving props to her favorite shoes? And what in the hell does everyone expect from America's dance-machine? The hook, "I'm throwin' on my Louboutins" will be stuck in our heads for the next month-and-a-half, she rocked her dance solo after her 40-year-old butt hit the ground, and made her way from her boxer introduction to a corset covered exit over the course of 4 minutes. It was exciting, fresh, and completely J-Lo. Quit over-expecting.

And Whitney...what can we say? We were in tears by the end of her song "I Didn't Know My Own Strength." A friend of ours said during the performance, "I just don't particularly like that she sang this song as her comeback song." We ask, "What would an international diva of Houston's proportions who lost her career to crack sing instead? 'I Will Always Love You?'" The moment was a perfect addition to television history and for that, we applaud.

Runner Up: Michael Jackson's diamond-studded glove.

The What-The-Fuck? Award: This one is gonna go to Alicia Keys, whose ally-rape choreography during her performance of "Try Sleeping with a Broken Heart" made me cringe. Yes Alicia, I know its hard to sleep with a broken heart, but try sleeping after you witness a black man dressed up like a hobo jump down off of a brick wall and attack Alicia Keys. NO ALICIA! Didn't your mom ever tell you that an alley is no place for a woman to perform?

Runners Up: Jermaine Jackson's children's names...I mean seriously, WTF? And Perez Hilton, who's ability to sing the words to "Empire State" while making me want to slap his face with Lady Gaga's balls is unprecidented. PS, whoever gave Mr. Hilton a microphone should be slapped with the rest of Gaga's manhood.

And finally, the I'm Not Buying Your BS Award goes to: Taylor Swift...your doe eyed shock at winning multiple times may be fooling 90% of the viewing audience, but not me. Deep down inside of you is a Lindsay Lohan, I just know it.

Snubbing The Shield

2009-07-16T14:58:00.000-07:00

I don't want to admit that I watch a ton of television. Growing up, that was everything we railed against as the defining moment in life when you really had lost that lovin' feeling, the point in your life's career that you had decided there just wasn't that much more to life than staring at the pixelated screen in front of your coffee table. Gone were the days of getting drunk, smoking pot and playing guitar until dawn. Gone were the walks through the neighborhood with the dog. Trips to Europe, skydiving, whitewater rafting, snowboarding, reading, writing, living, loving, life...it was gone once the television watching became a pastime. However, I have become a watcher of television.

I must say that, looking back, we were misguided. Watching television was more of an active denouncement of our parents' habits than a fear of losing touch with life itself. Hell, thinking back on all the countless hours I spent stoned out of my mind, watching quality television would have been an improvement to trying to see moving spirals in my Alice in Wonderland poster while hopped up on LSD. A good episode of The Wire tops those memoires emensely.

This brings me to today's anouncemnet of the 2009 Emmy Awards. Television has come a long way from nights spent with mom and dad watching Dynasty and Dallas. Now we have shows like Weeds and Entourage to look forward to on weekday nights. It's Always Sunny in Philly has caused me to pee a little on numerous occasions, while Rescue Me always has me dreading the end of our 60 minutes together. True Blood, Nurse Jackie, Mad Men, The Office, 30 Rock, Breaking Bad, Big Love, Damages, Six Feet Under, Eastbound and Down, Generation Kill...the list of beautiful and gut-wrenching television goes on and on.

With all the amazing television out on a seemingly endless selection of channels, I would imagine it would be hard to narrow the field down when considering shows and actors that deserve Emmy nominations. That being said, today's list of nominees was glaringly missing a final curtain call for one of the most provacative, daring, and undeniably groundbreaking pieces of programming in television history.

Season 1 of FX's The Shield premiered on March 12, 2002 and immediately changed the landscape of what basic cable could bring viewers. Sure, HBO had been breaking the mold in regards to pushing the boundaries, and Six Feet Under had just wrapped its first full season, but it wasn't until The Shield brought its gritty brand of documentary-style handheld recording, language, and graphic depictions of inner-city crime and police corruption to FX that producers, writers, and networks began to reconceptualize creative content.

Furthermore, creator/writer Shawn Ryan, series star Michael Chiklis and co-star Walton Goggins (the two men whose character relations provided the arc for the entire series) got better with age - something very few programs (I'm talking to YOU Grey's Anatomy) can hope to achieve.

The Shield ended the series this past year with its 7th Season, a beautiful and heart-breaking collection of one-hour episodes that culminated with the murder/suicide of Shane Vendrell's family (Walton Goggins) and Vic Mackey (Michael Chiklis) forsaking everything around him to keep himself out of prision. The finale was executed perfectly, with Chiklis all but guaranteeing himself a Emmy nod with his overwhelming — and completely silent — performance as the realization that his character would forever be strapped to a desk, ostracized from the police force and his wife and children as a direct result of his decisions. It was easily the most mesmerizing ten minutes of television I had ever seen. The final season of The Shield was recognized by the American Film Institue as one of the 10 best TV programs of the year along with Breaking Bad, In Treatment, John Adams, Lost, Life, Mad Men, The Office, Recount and The Wire.

Of these television shows, The Shield is the most deserved of the recognition and priase, yet is one of the most overlooked programs in television history. Rent it. Buy it. Do whatever you can to wtiness the evolution of television, the birth of Michael Chiklis the bonified dramatic star, the rebirth of Glenn Close (who, unfortunately, time had forgotten), the remarkable acting chops of Anthony Anderson as the unflinchingly cold and calculated Antwon Mitchell, the hauningly intense work of Forrest Whitaker (the role grants him tremendous respect), and the dozens of other amazingly well-written and exceptionally acted characters who piece the 7 season story together. I, for one, was sad to see it go and even sadder that one of the best series in television history was but a small and passable blip on the Academy of Television Arts and Science's radar.

Trying To Stay Day-to-Day Has Its Challenges...

2009-07-09T13:16:00.000-07:00

There are hundreds of excuses as to why I haven't been able to keep up my pledge to post daily here at One Day In Culture. I could say it's because I'm lazy, but that honestly seems like the cowardly way out...because...as all who know me know...I'm not the lazy type. I could blame it on women, which would be an excuse to write home and tell my Dad about...but things have been pretty slow in that neck of the woods and would ultimately be a lie.

Music? Nope. The recording industry has been complete shit for the past few months. When Maxwell is the best thing that comes out in a given week you know the music business is having itself quite a dry spell. (To Maxwell: No offense. But R&B just ain't what it used to be.)

Books? Nahhh...I dropped out of Book Club months ago and school doesn't start till August.
Sports? Well I did go to a baseball game on the 4th...
Movies? Not unless you count going to see Ice Age 2 in 3D as a movie, which you shouldn't.

No, I believe I can blame only one person for the recent lack in my productivity — Jimmy Fallon.

Damn you Jimmy Fallon with your blend of quirk-dry humor and impeccable hairline. You've made late night television a fun place to be again. Slow-jamming the news with a genius idea for a house band — The Roots. Playing "Lick it for Ten" where you've had everyone from Drew Barrymore to random audience members lick something completely random for $10. Every band you have on the show, Jimmy, sounds like they're owed a Grammy...including Asher Roth, whose "Be By Myself" — backed by The Roots — was one of the best live performances I've ever seen on television. You're reality television show, "7th Floor West," is hilarious, as was Beer Pong with Betty White. And Kudos to you for having Anne Hathaway on your show to play guitar...even though she was awful, she was scorching hot doing it.

I stay awak at nights thinking about how much fun it would be to host your television show. Will Farrell doing skits with you, playing Wii Tiger Woods against the real Tiger Woods, having audience members come up to play Rush Limbaugh Kareoke....It's all just so unbelieveably brilliant, unpretentious and fun. And did I mention The Roots? It is way past the time in music history when the rest of the world was introduced to not only the best band in Hip-Hop, but perhaps all of music. Their performance of "I Got Over," was indescribeable. In case you missed it:

See Jimmy! See why I stay awake watching your show? See why I'm up until 1am every night regardless of two weeks of reruns and can't get up before 10am? I blame you Jimmy Fallon, for giving us all a reason to ditch sleep in an effort to belly laugh till dawn. I want your life Jimmy Fallon...and you're remarkable hairline.

The Ink Is On My Checks, My Rolex Is The Freshest...

2009-06-30T14:42:00.001-07:00

After we watch, let us discuss:

I have a friend here in Denver who expresses his displeasure with something by decrying, "Oh my God, that just gave me a rash." And, if something like the thought of having to go to the mall to do some shopping on a Sunday afternoon gives him a rash, what we just witnessed gives me a form of diaper dermatitis, only, I don't have a diaper, and I've just crapped my pants.

Unbeknownst to most of the working world, Heidi Montag and Spencer Pratt (known in the teen-land as Speidi...now I think I might vomit) arose from the bowls of reality television in 2006 on a show I never saw called The Hills. Mrs. Montag-Pratt, unfortunately, was born in Crested Butte, Colorado in 1986. And what might even be more unfortunate than that she didn't stay where the good Lord made her. Mr. Pratt, on the other hand, was born under a bridge, a horrible experiment brought about when casting agent Matthew Steiner aspired to create a new breed of action hero by splicing the DNA found in "Marky" Mark Wahlburg's dead skin with the public hair of Ray Romano. What Mr. Steiner intended to create was a much more jovial action star, one who was free from the haunting burden behind many of Mr. Wahlburg's characters. What Mr. Steiner created, by adding too many Romano short and curlys, was a complete and utter douche bag. When these two degenerate strains on the gene pool found each other on one of TV's most idiotic moments, it was love at first spite — regardless of the detriment to society.

"Speidi" encapsulates yet another level of American cultural horror. I would assume, although I have yet to ask, that most high school students are fairly associated with this dynamic duo. The premiere of season 4 of The Hills took in 2.1 million viewers aged 12-34 and on June 2, MTV aired a very successful episode titled, "Speidi's Wedding Unveiled." The couple is tabloid royalty, and they're damned proud of it.

In an ongoing effort to enhance American culture while debunking the instant celebrity status to unabashed and untalented young men and women born with no moral compass, here is a list of 10 people (5 Montags and 5 Pratts) that would actually prove to be a benefit if the American public had ever heard of them. Print this out and spread it around, we may only hope to enlighten...

Guy Montag — The main character in Ray Bradbury's classice 1953 novel, Fahrenheit 451, Montag makes his living honorably as a fireman burning books for the government until he begins to understand his role as a thought suppressor. If American teenagers knew this Montag, that might mean that A) they were reading and B) they could understand Bradbury's commentary on the destruction of American society through television and violence.
Charles Pratt — An American entreprenuer and philanthropist, Pratt founded the Pratt Institute in Brooklyn in 1887. Among the first to understand the need for petrolium replacements for whale oil, he also was a leader in academic education and today the Pratt Institute is one of the leading arts colleges in the United States offering classes in architecture, fashion, illustration, interior design, digital arts and creatve writing.
Louis A. Montag — In 1945, this Georgian began Atlanta's first independant financial advisory firm.
Philip W. Pratt — In 1872, Pratt invented and patented the first automatic sprinkler system for fire prevention. Students everywhere who didn't study for their math exams rejoiced.
Dr. Mildred Montag — From 1943-1948, this Montag served Adelphi College as the first director of the School of Nursing. She was a visionary nurse educator whose innovative research and teaching led to a wholesale expansion of the nursing profession and brought countless benefits to the health and well-being of generations to come.
Charlie Pratt — An self-taught American Indian contemporary bronze sculptor of Cheyenne and Arapahoe descent.
Bob Montag — As a player for the Atlanta Crackers in 1954, Montag hit what he claimed was the longest home run in baseball history. It landed in a coal car passing on the railroad tracks beyond the right field fence at Ponce de Leon park. A few days later, the train had gone to Nashville, Tennessee and back. The conductor asked Montag to autograph the ball, which by that time had traveled more than 500 miles.
William Henry Pratt — You know him by his stage name, Boris Karloff. His role as The Monster in the 1931 film, Frankenstein, made Karloff (not Pratt) a household name. Karloff was also a charter member of the Screen Actors' Guild.
Jacob Sammuel Pratt, III — Egged on by a dare in 1993, this Kentucky native once fit three Wendy's Junior Bacon Cheeseburgers into his mouth at the same time, then chewed and swallowed without a beverage.
Sara Beth Montag — The most flexible girl in her high school, Sara Beth Montag sang her favorite song, Rhianna's Disturbia, in front of a crowd of 72 during last year's Houston, Texas Livestock Show and Rodeo. She won a 3rd Place trophy and a $25 gift certificate to Gabby's Ribs and BBQ's Telephone Road location.

Just Trust Me

2009-06-27T11:36:00.000-07:00

So I wasn't the first person to hear about Boulder-band 3Oh!3. By the time I arrived in the bubble town just northwest of Denver, the duo of Nathaniel Motte and Sean Foreman had been around for a few months and the buzz, albeit small, was growing. My friend dragged me to their first show at RailJam in the parking lot across the street from Half Fast Subs on Boulder's campus ghetto, the Hill. I'd imagine there were 50 or so people in the parking lot, but when 3Oh!3 came roaring out on stage in their wolf t-shirts dancing to their almost ridiculous music, the size of the audience didn't matter. Those kids exploded and I knew 3Oh!3 were going to be huge.

Now look at them. An MTV Spring Break appearance. A live performance on Jimmy Kimmel. The cover of Alternative Press (AP) not once, but twice in the past 6 months. Their single, "Don't Trust Me," is still killing it on the charts and has been remixed by Kid Cudi of "Day n' Night" fame. Word on the street (ok, so Twitter, but same thing) is that they've just recorded in the studio with Lil John. Yes, THAT Lil John. And no, the song has nothing to do with lollipops.

For those of you who know my past employment history (and we're only going back two years folks, so keep up) you've probably heard the story. In 2007 as an intern at a local magazine, I had pitched an article about 3Oh!3 to my editors, who, initially, loved the story idea. Two white boys from Boulder who are poised to be the next big thing in hip-hop/electronic music. I told my editor that I had exclusive access. I had met these dudes before (briefly, and they still couldn't pick me out of a line up) and they were from my Boulder hood. I had friends who knew friends who knew these dudes. I had dated a girl whose brother used to hang with them in High School. Sure they'd talk to me...

I was told to proceed with the story, and I did, in effect land one heck of a interview. We met in a park close to both of their houses in Boulder, Motte showing up early and Foreman rolling in a little late on his girlfriend's pink scooter. We spent the afternoon in the rain, talking shop, just a few months prior to Photofinish Records lighting their already massive fuse. I wrote what I thought to be a very good article. The editor who assigned it to me loved it. It was rewritten three times and ready to go. We had artwork. We had a publishing date in Januaray. Then a new editor strolled in December and said they story was too young. "Not our demographic," he said to us and killed the story completely.

I have always wanted to publish my 2007 article. I think it should be read by anyone who has any interest in the band and their persona. I tried in vain to pitch it to numerous publications, but unfortunately, by the time the article was blown out of the water, everyone and Helen Keller knew about these two white boys from Boulder, Colorado. "We've already got a 3Oh!3 article in the works," was my response from everyone.

So, here it is, for any 3Oh!3 fan out there who wants another article on their beloved band. But please understand, this was written in 2007, not yesterday, so if it seems a tad dated, you'll know why.

Holler 'Till You Pass Out - The Article

Redefining an Area Code - 3Oh!3 and the Creation of a Cult Phenomenon

2009-06-27T10:44:00.000-07:00

A gangly, pale-faced twenty-something paces with anticipation backstage at Denver’s Fillmore Auditorium. Between plunging his hands in and out of his pockets, 3Oh!3’s Nathaniel Motte adjusts, and then readjusts, the white cotton towel that’s wrapped around his neck. In between fidgets, he has neurotically unscrewed the caps of around twenty bottles of water, making sure each is ready for the instant he or his bandmate might need to chug some refreshment. Sean Foreman, the other half of Boulder’s emerging rap sensation, stands silently against a dimly lit hallway, watching tonight’s opener, a wanna-be female rapper named Lanz, finish up her less-than-memorable set.

3Oh!3 appear a bit nervous. The Fillmore, when sold out, fills to a standing capacity of 3,600 people, and is a daunting venue for many a national touring act. Forget, for a moment, the crystalline chandeliers that hang over the hardwood floors, making the venue itself look almost palatial. Disregard the photo-booth near the bar that is flashing visages of hip-hop legends TuPac and the Notorious BIG. Nevermind that ninety percent of the crowd is there to see Snoop Doggy Dog, tonight’s headliner. Keep in mind however, that this is the first time Motte and Foreman have ever played the Fillmore, and that their usual crowd of tattooed twenty-somethings, who normally come out in supportive droves, are nowhere to be seen. Peppered throughout the urban crowd are tiny collections of teenagers who occasionally hold up 3Oh!3’s mock gang sign (which is created by pressing together the index fingers and thumbs of both hands, creating an “O”, and then splaying one’s remaining three fingers out on both hands), but tonight those packs are far and few between.

  This isn’t the usual 3Oh!3 crowd. There are too many questioning faces and perplexed looks. Most of the Snoop obsessed audience has no idea what they’re about to experience. However, for those handful of kids who paid $35 to support their favorite local band, the opening notes of “Dance With Me” stir them into a frenzy. By the third song, 3Oh!3’s watershed anthem “Chokechain”, a mosh pit opens up on the left hand side of the stage. A moon-faced kid catches an elbow to his face and is sent sprawling. By the time security breaks up the action, Motte and Foreman look settled in and at almost at home.

BIGGER THAN BOULDER

We’ve planned to meet at Beach Park in Boulder, on the rainy Labor Day before 3Oh!3’s Fillmore performance. Motte explains that Foreman is running a bit late, but assures me that he should be here in the next few minutes. As Motte and I make small talk, Foreman rolls up on a scooter, quickly honking the horn acknowledging that he, in fact, sees us. Motte encourages him to drive up over the curb and into the park, and for a brief moment, it looks as if he may be considering it. Instead, Foreman flips a u-turn, and properly parks across the street. The look on my face must say it all: I’m a bit disappointed that he doesn’t rev that four-stroke engine, hop the curb, and start doing doughnuts. “He’d get in trouble,” Motte says in response. “It’s his girlfriend’s.”

  Over the past year, Foreman’s face has seen numerous styles of facial hair, but today he’s fully bearded, looking like the love child of Jeanine Garofalo and Grizzly Adams. Around his neck he’s wearing a compass that Motte quickly questions. “It’s so I don’t get lost,” says Foreman, which is perplexing because he’s lived in Boulder all his life. I’m about to ask what he means when Foreman holds it up just long enough for me to realize that the compass itself is broken. Like the origin of the band and it’s members, the medallion is completely tongue in cheek.

  Nathaniel Motte and Sean Foreman are obvious friends. The duo first caught wind of each other as high schoolers in Boulder where they both honed their skills in the area’s underground hip-hop scene. They didn’t actually meet until 4 years ago, when a fortunate union of fate and science found them both in a physics class at CU. They started collaborating immediately, writing songs in Foreman’s cat fur infested basement where Motte would set up his turntables and Foreman would freestyle over the eclectic beats. The two began to work together more often, coming up with “Say Dem Up” and “Neatfreak 47”, two staples of their current live act. “Nat produces all of the beats and I write the lyrics,” explains Foreman, “but it’s organic. If I don’t like something I’ll let Nat know, although, I’m usually wrong.”

  Since those basement days, the band’s genre bending sound has evolved into an almost unclassifiable fusion of rap, punk, and electronica. The music spills from a single turntable Motte sets up just offstage as the duo performs choreographed dance moves, taking up quite a bit of the sprawling Fillmore stage. Motte shakes so violently that at times he looks like an epileptic head banging at a Metallica concert. Foreman, on the other side of the stage, stops, drops to the ground, and begins to breakdance. Their energy is so infectious that by “Holler Till You Pass Out”, the band’s last song, there is a noticeable bounce to the crowd that wasn’t there before. Motte, noticing the change, jumps from the stage and stands up on the security fence, holding his microphone out to an audience that eagerly raps along. Half-an-hour ago Motte and Foreman looked intimidated by their surroundings, novices in the presence of hip-hop stardom, but as Motte hovers over the crowd they have just won over, 3Oh!3 look like rock stars.

BREAKING BIG

The Denver music scene today is reminiscent of Austin, Texas in the mid 90’s; a period that saw the emergence of the ever influential Spoon and the long overdue national recognition of the Butthole Surfers. As the self-proclaimed “Music Capital of the World” began to dry up in the early part of 2001, a result of .com millionaires buying up music venues and turning them into low overhead college bars, industry executives began looking elsewhere for new talent. Local Denver acts such as Born In The Flood, Nathan and Stephen, The Flobots, and The life there is... are beginning to turn corporate heads, but none as fast as 3Oh!3. The frenzy that surrounds their local shows is impossible to ignore. Since they first appeared in 2006, they’ve sold out the Fox Theater in Boulder the last three times they’ve headlined, and the duo now draw an average of six to seven hundred people at each venue they play. “At this point, there really is no telling how far they’ll go. They control their own destiny,” says Mike Barsch of Soda Jerk Productions, who has booked 10 shows for the band. “Personally, I think they put on one hell of a concert.”  “It’s flattering,” says Foreman of the immediate success the band has seen. “It started as a basement creation, a sort of Frankenstein-ian monster. We never had any aspirations when we made those first couple of tracks together.” 

“People give us a lot of static for having a younger fan base,” says Motte. “But these are the kids that show up and buy two t-shirts and a CD, then rip them apart going nuts, sweating, and dancing up in the front. It’s great to be supported by an audience like that, regardless of what anyone says.” 

The impact the band has had on the Colorado scene has been staggering. Sarah Finger, booking agent for The Fox recalls the band’s first gig in 2006 when, an hour before the concert the theater had only sold 6 tickets. “We were all a little worried,” says Finger. But as door time crept closer, the ticket office found themselves swarmed with kids, and suddenly more than three-hundred tickets were gone. “That big of a walk-up doesn’t happen very often,” explains Finger. “I think my mouth was wide open in astonishment the whole night.”

  The typical 3Oh!3 crowd is a difficult one to categorize, something the band is very proud of. A majority of the audience is the emo “scene kid”, clad in skin tight jeans, and hair mussed in such a way to make it look as if it didn’t take some serious time to style. Then there’s a handful of people just like me, the Boulder music aficionado, the college graduate, the guy who has never outgrown his love of hip-hop or the underground local music scene. We rally together, the scenester and myself, to pay homage to two minds who are creating a style of music that has never been heard before. Together, we bounce to Motte’s beats, and scream rap Foreman’s lyrics, trying desperately to hold onto a band we know is too important to keep secret for long.

Beat It

2009-06-25T17:41:00.000-07:00

A new acquaintance, R, asked me this morning if I had heard about the passing of Michael Jackson. Of course I had. It was bigger than Iran. But then R asked me if I was sad about the whole thing. If I was having emotional feelings toward a man I had never met. For a second, I pondered. How did I feel about the passing of the King of Pop?

"Honestly," I replied. "I didn't really think about it."

That wasn't entirely true, so first, let me apologize to R for being so short. I did think about MJ's passing. I actually thought about it a lot. But not in the way one would imagine. In all honesty, the first thing I thought about when I heard of Jackson's passing...was...my mother.

I thought back to 1982. I thought about Albuquerque, New Mexico and our little house on the hill. I thought about a power outage while watching Entertainment Tonight on our 13inch screen while eating macaroni and cheese that we cooked with our gas stove. I remember mom cranking up a battery powered tape player and popping Thriller in. "Wanna Be Startin' Somethin'" blared. We danced throughout the candlelit house, oblivious to the storm that had taken down our power lines. It is one of my fondest memories. So, R, if you asked me again if I had emotional feelings toward the King of Pop's death yesterday I suppose you could say yes. But they are not feelings of remorse or devastation. I wasn't excited about the next Michael Jackson album, nor, had he been a transformative part of my youth (a la Kurt Cobain). But he was a memory, many memories actually, of my love for my mother.

I feel for MJ. I do. I feel for many stars of both the stage and screen who for them, the burden of fame became just too much to bear. From Chris Farley and Jim Morrison, to yes, even Lindsay Lohan, the bitch that is American popular culture has no attention span. Like the burst of a handful of Pop Rocks, American fame is fleeting. It uses those in the limelight without remorse. And then, when Robert Downey, Jr. turns to the needle, or Brittany is so fucking high she's showing her vagina to the force-fed gluttonous paparazzi, we laugh. We ridicule. We despise.

The Michael Jackson I knew growing up had long-since become an American joke. A horribly in-debt, pill-popping, plastic-surgery-addled, boy-loving, son-dangling, washed-up ex musician whose last hit, 1991's "Black or White," has become a metaphor for his freakish appearance. I can't feel sorry for the passing of a man who gave so much to the world, only to have his very essence ridiculed on every news outlet. From CNN and NBC to schoolyard jokes and Saturday Night Live, the man formerly known as the King of Pop had become a side-show. He most assuredly knew what a farce his life had become. I cannot feel sorry for that man.

Instead, I believe in my heart that the Michael Jackson we knew and loved, the Michael Jackson who had our heads bopping at a year old to, "Don't Stop 'til You Get Enough," is still alive. When "Billie Jean" rocks at your 4th of July party, when "Rock With You" spins at your local bar, when "The Girl Is Mine," makes you fondly remember that first kiss in elementary school, Michael Jackson is alive and well in our hearts and in our minds.

This is the first in a (hopefully) daily effort to bring you an honest approach to Pop Culture news. The flash of E! News, the dirt-stained lapels of TMZ, the potty-mouthed hypocritical Perez Hilton...it all disgusts me. Yesterday, the passing of a legend reminded me of why I do what I do. Why I think my voice matters. It's because, once, long ago, art meant something. It wasn't manufactured and disposable. It was what connected our memories of the passing years and carries, for me, much more than the price of admission.