Somehow, it escaped my notice over the last 10 days that this April marked the 20-year anniversary of Kurt Cobain’s death. And that shit was everywhere. Basically starting last fall with the 20-year anniversary of In Utero, through the nomination and induction of the band into the Rock & Roll Hall of Fame, the performances last week with Kim Gordon, St. Vincent, Joan Jett, and Lorde, and culminating with the onslaught of internet article after internet article regarding Cobain’s legacy, I’m not sure how I missed it all. Evidently, I live in my own little bubble, oblivious to my surroundings and the outside world at large.
For years and years Adult Swim, the longtime bastion of geeks, misfits, stoners, pop culture revivalists, and the perpetually adolescent has been the haven to an array of quirky animated series, a platform for a myriad of network castoffs, nostalgia purveyors, surreal mind-fucks, and bad taste. Everything from a dead-in-the-water series that suddenly finds massive popularity (Family Guy), to anime* (Cowboy Bebop), to the comedic reinterpretations of characters from our childhood (Robot Chicken/Space Ghost Coast to Coast), to pure and warped stoner candy (Aqua Teen Hunger Force) has surfaced and thrived on this late night block of programming on the Cartoon Network. Often times it’s crudely made. It can be absurd. It can be vulgar and immature. But it’s usually pretty damn funny. People like me call it home.
She’s a wonderful musician, accomplished in violin, piano and even guitar. I’m lucky enough to have an apartment that has a turntable and a great selection of international music. I’ve added to that collection thanks to Reckless Records in Wicker Park. But Liz had a hidden little jem by one Brigitte Bardot. Yeah, that Brigette Bardot, you know…And God Created Woman. Probably every man (especially French men) in the late 50s and early 60s dreamed about her and every woman…well I can’t really speak for them. She was though, an original “supermodel.” Truly.
Despite continued attempts by those Godless, whore-mongering, smut pedlars at HBO, to debase the genre with real actors and creators with integrity who refuse to hand over their baby to some committee of bastard hacks to cack-handedly lop off the head of the Golden Goose of a good idea, and smash its egg into a potentially endless series of seasons of 20-odd advertisement peppered pieces, there are but two stories in any Crime drama, and you’re going to shut your yap, sit there and listen while Ralph Lowe spoon-feeds you the skinny, capisce?