What's On Netflix Instant 3

In addition to Netflix Instant, I am also one of those people (read: lavish, decadant, and embossed in solid gold) who has real life DVDs sent to his house, adding to his viewing feast. I'm also one of those assholes who kept the same movie out for something like four months because I lost the red envelope and somehow kept telling myself I was one day actually going to finish Never Let Me Go (Spoiler Alert: I didn't). But I've finally gotten into a good flow of actually watching the movies they send me. And I also remembered that Netflix releases all new DVDs at the same time as the stores, so I fixed up my queue (I don't even know why I thought I'd someday watch The Book of Eli), and lately I have just been kicking ass at watching movies. Seriously, I'm really good at it. I watch all the good ones. I wish I could recommend those movies to you, because everyone should get a chance to see Michael Shannon stare creepily and feel undeniable dread for two hours. But I can't recommend that movie (I highly recommend that movie. It is a masterfully made film. Also Jessica Chastain) because it's not on Netflix Instant. So instead, here are some shitty things to watch on Instant!

Half Nelson (2006) - Ryan Fleck

So, Drive (Nicholas Refn-Winding 2011) is pretty much my favorite movie in a long time. It takes the awesome 80's pink & neon style and violence of Grand Theft Auto Vice City, and combines it with a French new Wave kind of anti-hero cinema. And what do we get? We get Ryan Gosling being the cutest, most endearing, skull-stomping criminal on the planet. I could watch Drive every day if the world would let me (or I bought the DVD). Drive is not on Netflix Instant. So instead, I rewatched the movie that put Ryan Gosling on everyone's radar, and proved he wasn't just that cute prick from The Notebook (they should call that movie, "The Boring Book!" Amiright? Sorry, I never even finished it. It is really boring). Gosling stars as a young (and dreamy) crack-addicted Middle School history teacher in the inner city of New York, who's life is pretty quickly spinning out of control. Goddamnit, Baby Goose, how do you do it? How do you keep taking these parts of extremely damaged, possibly psychotic characters, and still all I want to do is be your little spoon? The movie is pretty good, but Goose is the reason it stands out in anyway. Gosling was nominated for an Oscar for this role (which is the equivalent of a fart, yes), but he really is amazing in it. Check it out if you love Ryan Gosling. If you don't love Ryan Gosling, go to the doctor as soon as you can to get your heart fixed, you goddamn robot.

Dead Man (1995) - Jim Jarmusch

Speaking of skull crushing, you have to see Dead Man. I think this Jarmusch film is a little overlooked, and that's a damn shame because it is so bizarre, funny, and surreal. It was dubbed by its creator as a "Psychedelic Western." Are you fucking kidding me? If they made that into a clothing line I would staple the entire catalogue onto my body. Johnny Depp, who is actually playing a role I like, is William Blake. No, not that William Blake, just another William Blake who, around the turn of the 20th century, finds himself in looking for a job in the ass-end of nowhere. He's wounded and framed for murder, and quickly becomes the most sought outlaw in all the land. With the help of very smart Native American, Nobody, who mistakes Depp for the real William Blake, the two go on a journey through the human mind and the meaning of life and death. Sound heavy? If I didn't do a good enough job selling the flick, that's just beacuse I'm a stupid fucking white man.

Oh, and NEIL YOUNG DOES THE WHOLE FUCKING SOUNDTRACK WHAT BETTER REASON COULD POSSIBLY EXIST TO SEE A MOVIE?

"Pulling" (2006-2009) - Sharon Horgan and Dennis Kelly

I keep saying I'm not the biggest fan of British humor and then I keep recommending that all you bastards watch it (have you seen the ever seen the show "Spaced?" I hope not, BECAUSE I HAVEN'T RECOMMENDED IT TO YOU YET). "Pulling" is...to describe it in the most unappealing way possible to ears, the British "Sex and the City." The night before her wedding, Donna breaks it off with her unimpressive fiancee. And from there she moves in with her two best friends, one is completely clueless and borderline a stalker, and the other a raging alcoholic. I know the phrase "a British Sex and the City" should never be uttered, but it's not just that. It's really raunchy and is actually more honest about modern day relationships and dating than most shows I've seen. It also has that inevitable, everything is going to go wrong vibe, which I don't normally find very funny, but works here. It's kind of like a British "Curb Your Enthusiasm." GOD, I HATE THAT SHOW TOO! WHY DO I LIKE PULLING?

Oh yeah, it's really fucking funny. And I have a strange Irish crush on Donna. I like her voice, and I like her downplayed sexuality. And I also like "The Increasingly Poor Decisions of Todd Margaret." Also, her breasts.

There's only two six-episode seasons and then a special episode concluding the series (a la the original Office series), so it's real easy to get through quickly. Which I always like.

Enjoy the flicks. Read the blog. ADHERE TO ME FOREVER!

TOO BROKE TO SEE MUSIC by AC KETTERING

TOO BROKE TO SEE MUSIC

BY AC KETTERING

FEB 19-25 : Van Halen @ United Center ?

With the money you would spend on this one concert you could see all the other shows happening in Chicago and have money for more than just PBR. In 2012 Refused and At The Drive-In have re-united to play shows so I guess I shouldn't be surprised that Van Halen is touring on a new album (A Different Kind of Truth) but who the hell is actually excited about this???

SERIOUSLY… there are some great shows happening this week.

Tonight in fact we have the haunting Zola Jesus at Lincoln Hall supported by the noise rock duo Talk Normal and Chicago's own Chris Connelly (of Revolting Cocks and Ministry). I think Talk Normal would definitely be worth seeing if you can dig the vibe at LH.

Or if your feeling nostalgic (if I was that is) you could catch the aging Promise Ring at the Metro with Joan Of Arc. If this seems like a strange pairing remember that Davey played in Cap'n Jazz. DUH. Just forget it. Wood/Water is still a decent record damn you.

Then again if you're like me and can't spare the $15 bucks to see such a high profile show there's always the donation based DIY option if you can even find the venue.

This Saturday one of my favorite local groups Wume a drums/synth duo are playing at the Dell's. Wume's spaced out jamz album Distance has been a friend to my record player for a couple months and live the drumming of April is always interesting and grooving. Keep your ear to the ground for this one.

OR Swan King & Anatomy of Habit at the Hideout (not a DIY space) would be a good one for Saturday if you can't find the Dell's or if you want to get heavy. Killer.

THIS IS A BLOG

So I'm totally kicking ass at this blog, huh? Writing it weekly, sometimes even bi-weekly (LIKE A WEEK THAT DIGS BOTH GIRL WEEKS AND GUY WEEKS), always supplying my avid (rabid?) fan base with top of the line information and insight about art, culture, and the art of culture. Yeah, I do aaaaaaaaaaaaaalllllllll that. Get the schtick I'm going for? It's funny, because it's not true. I don't do these things. I keep forgetting about this fucking blog. I don't really forget about, it's just I keep finding myself at a loss for what to talk about that isn't just me wanking off in cyber space about what Michael Shannon movie you should be watching. The answer is any, but the more helpful answer is Take Shelter (2011) because oh my god it is so good it makes me just want to take my dick out, right here in this cyber space, and just start jerkin' it. Get it all over the keyboard. I don't give a fuck. It's my blog.

This here is a picture of Snoop Dogg on The Price is Right.

I think it is awesome. "Nah my nizzle Drew Cizzle, this gangsta ain't interested in this bogus-ass Showcase. Me and my homies ain't swimmin' in no above ground pool do ya hizzle? I'ma bid on a dune buggy mothafucker! Now get me my pimp glass while I smoke a blunt and have my bitches roll this big-ass bling wheel, ya jizzle with me?"

See? This is some good blog STUFF, amiright?

Boba Fett with titties. You're welcome.

I've been on a wine kick the last few days. I find it the most romantic way to get drunk (which is ironic, considering how much I drink it by myself. BUT WHO SAID ROMANCE IS DEAD? WHO'S TO SAY I CAN'T TURN ON SOME LUTHER VANDROSS, LIGHT A FEW CANDLES, SUCKLE ON A BOTTLE OF WINE AND MAKE MYSELF FEEL JUUUUUUUUUST RIGHT), and I find myself happier and lighter than when I'm whiskey-bombed. But the best part is I can still get as trashed as I would on whiskey, but not be as out of control. Oh, I kind of forgot to mention that this is in relation to my writing. I'm obviously one of those writers (i.e. alcoholic), but I just prefer to do my work with a glass or bottle right there beside me. Psh, that's probably the reason I decided to start writing in the first place, because it's the most socially acceptable job to hold and still be constantly sauced (except for, of course, Airline Pilot and Birthday Party Clown. God, I miss clowning).

But getting back on the subject (haha, like there's one of those), red wine has been a great companion for my writing endeavors. I feel more amarous to the page as I write, the red wine helping me to relax and not overthink things. Don't get me wrong, whiskey DEFINITELY helps me to not overthink (or think at all for that matter. PEOPLE LIKE IT WHEN YOU CLOSE TALK THEIR FACES RIGHT??? RIGHT?!?!), but I can only drink so much whiskey before I'm just a wreck. Structure is lost, sentences aren'tfinished, meaning is blurred, and I start using far too much slang from the fifties (I gotta try to cool it Big Daddy, I get all cranked because my bag really razzes my berries, but I'm not made in the shade just yet, I still got some gringles in my jingles).

So to summarize, whiskey good. Red wine, also good.

This is just...this just is. I love this kid. I want to invite him over and make nachos. I also want that really uncomfortable girl to come, and sit with her back just angled to us the whole time while she makes that nervous face.

Finally, and on a serious note, there is one more thing I need to bring to the attention of the Blogosphere (Blogosphere is also the name of a new Space-Themed Cereal I'm creating and marketing. "Blast Off With a Mouthful of Blogospheres, the Only Cereal That Tastes As Good Going In As It Does Coming Out!" Or I'm maybe thinking, "Blogospheres! FUCKING EAT 'EM!"). I bring this to your attention so that you fully realize the dangers I am putting myself, and my body in. It's bad. It's real bad. Ohhhhh, but it's good.

Justin Bostian and Nicholas Mallorie Kaminsky.

Have Purchased.

TATTOO GUNS.

OOOHHHH SHIT. For those of you who know me (and for that, I am truly, deeply remorseful), you know I have a slight tattoo obsession. But not in a groovy, fully committed way that involves beautiful artistic pieces that consume generous portions of skin. I get tons of little, ridiuclous cartoonish tattoos in discreet (i.e. invisible unless nacked) places all over what I guess I call a body. I have countless tattoos (unless, that is, you learned how to count) around my legs, back, torso, shoulders, and I always want more. And more, and more, and more. And now I have a fucking tattoo gun? Jeeeeeeeeesus, my poor skin is fucked. I've already designated my right thigh as my "practice thigh." Once I get good enough (which is a relative, moot, non-term) I will venture out to other parts of my body, and Justin's body (that is what he said), and hopefully, if any of you are confident enough, ON YOU!

Free tattoos motherfuckers! Get 'em while they're hot! And by hot, I mean still relatively clean, because we are not buying new needles once we use up the ones they give us. Ha! A joke about unsanitary tattoo procedure performed by non-professionals. I think I broke new grounds of humor here tonight folks. I want to thank you as much as you want to thank me. This was a step towards something beautiful. Now who's ready to take the new convertible out for a spin? Maybe get some chimichangas and make fun of homeless people? Of course, boo, you can operate the fryalator...what else are boos for?

Another Dumb Fantasy Story: Part I "A Fancy Adventure" by Justin Bostian

A Fancy Adventure

When we first stepped into the wardrobe, I thought for certain that my three young cousins were about to drag me into some stupid kid games. I was quite happy to be as drunk as I was; my days of imagination-filled adventures are behind me, and I have long since preferred the blissful silence of inebriation to dragons or unicorns or dragon-corns or griffo-plorps. Babysitting is a tough gig and you can’t expect sobriety from a properly trained child-care professional.

I’m not one for delving into other people’s closets, but these three spunky kids pointed out the old house on the hill, screaming things like “It’s our grandfather’s mansion!” and “We should go exploring!”

They kept mentioning a wardrobe, some big old closet that their “grandfather” kept in the attic. I’m pretty sure the little bastards were lying, but I was six beers deep and, honestly, I just don’t give a shit anymore. After breaking a few windows and rooting through drawers for pills I could sell, we made our way to the attic and found the wardrobe. We pushed through the dusty coats and unidentifiable furs that were tightly packed in the antique wooden box. Peter led the way, his blonde hair and Aryan features making him the ideal lead character. The little girl followed close behind, dangling a ratty teddy bear from her tiny hands. Directly in front of me was the boy with shifty eyes who eventually turns evil but redeems himself through courageous actions or something. I think his name is George. I brought up the rear, cracking open another Modelo and cursing them beneath my breath.

“This is stupid,” I said.

“No!” yelled Little Girl, “It’s an adventure!”

I bit my tongue, half because I didn’t want to scream obscenities at a child and half to make sure I could still feel things, and the temperature in the wardrobe suddenly changed. The stuffy, dusty smell was replaced with crisp, fresh air and I could see my breath. The scratchy wool coats we waded through became pine branches, sharp and sticky with sap. That shifty little bastard George let a branch whip back and hit me in the face, and I was about to punch him in the back of his little head when a burst of sunlight temporarily blinded me.

“What the fuck,” I yelled, ignoring the innocent ears. The children were frolicking in the snow when I regained my vision, and if I wasn’t so bitter and jaded I would have marveled at the fantasy wonderland that lay before me. We were in the midst of a beautiful forest, trees stretching to the impossibly blue sky, everything covered in a fine layer of clean white snow. It was so pretty that I felt like vomiting. I mean, I did vomit, but I can probably pin that on all the Taco Bell that I slammed before my morning Four-Loko.

“Where are we?” squeaked Little Girl in a passable English accent. Peter, being the oldest and therefore noblest of the children, brushed a golden lock of hair from his forehead.

“We must have crossed into a magical world!” I rolled my eyes and threw an empty beer can at a squirrel.

“I think we should back,” sniveled George. “It’s cold and

“I agree with the weasel-faced kid. It’s cold out here and I double-parked my car.”

“But you didn’t drive,” Magical Protagonist Nazi Boy said. “You took the train t get here, right?”

I shot Mein Kampf an icy look but he was busy lobbing snowballs at his siblings.

I had to follow them through the forest, hating myself all the way. After countless stops to look at cute animals and observe beautiful vistas, we came to the end of the trees and looked out at a vast landscape, littered with fantasy stereotypes. There was a castle shining in the distance, an ominous mountain churning smog and bringing darkness into the world, and, directly next to us, a bright eyed half-goat half-man.

“Hello-o-o-o-o children! Welcome to the magical land of…”

“Hey, goat boy, shut up for a second.”

“I…oh, I didn’t see you back there, skulking in the shadows. Usually…usually only children can pass through the magic portal."

I lit a cigarette and blew smoke into his stupid goat face. “Yeah, well, I have the innocence of a child. Or maybe your time machine doesn’t work anymore. Either way, I don’t really give a shit. Where can I get something to eat around here?”

“Well,” the goat-thing said, “you could come to my little cabin, dug into the side of this beautiful grassy knoll! I’ll make elderberry pancakes and chocolate mousse! We’ll drink fizzy tea and discuss the grave political matters that plague our fair nation of..."

“Yeah right,” I said, taking a knee and placing my hand on Little Girl’s shoulder, “let’s follow a strange animal person down a hole in the ground. No horror movies start like that.”

The goat man wrinkled his nose and narrowed his eyes. “I assure you good sir, I am a noble faun. We treat our guests with respect and…”

“It’s an adventure!” the kids yelled in unison. It’s like a prolonged migraine, the joy of children, so I popped a few Xanax and we made the hike to Goatlinger’s place.

On the journey in the middle of our journey to some other journey, the fucking kids kept singing songs to the tune of our goat-guide’s fruity pipe. It took everything in me not to just drop my pants and engage in an old-fashioned pants-free goat killing session. The only thing that kept me from committing trans-species murder was the thought of eating that goat-person once we got to his place.

TO BE CONTINUED