...TV theme songs.
I love TV theme songs. I'm glad shows are starting to get their shit together and put theme songs back. They are the best part of TV shows. How are you supposed to get a show without a theme song? How are you supposed to know who all of the actors are if they are not shown in several clips, a turn-n-smile or a lovely headshot?
YOU AREN'T!!! In no particular order...the 22 best opening tv themes ever...
1. Reba. I just think Reba is really damn funny.
2. Boston Public. Thomas Newman...the T in front of the Fuller Building...Joey McIntire...say no more.
3. NYPD Blue. SO MUCH DRUMMING! SO MUCH DENNIS FRANZ (i hope we see his ass this episode!!!)
4. ER. Duh.
5. The Hogan Family. Life IS a sweet insanity, isn't it!? Oh, Sandy Duncan...
6. Perfect Strangers. EPIC!
6a) Step-by-Step. This one is a good one because it is way too long, features a number of continuity issues and is the only opening credits that I know that involves a CGI Lake Michigan that is actually the parking lot at Six Flags Magic Mountain.
7. Mary Tyler Moore. A really good show. Really classic jam.
8. Rhoda. This one is great...you don't even have to watch the show after the credits...
9. Six Feet Under. EEEE more Thomas Newman...
10. Ally McBeal. Who the hell can resist a little Vonda? Yes I do own the entire song. And Calista just isn't the same on Brothers and Sisters. Oh wait. Yes she is. EXACTLY the same.
11. The District. If an urban-set crime or education drama doesn't have a good theme, change the channel.
12. The Facts of Life. I had a crush on Nancy McKeon as a kid. Foreshadowing.
13. Room 222. Such an odd song choice...but oh, Karen Valentine. You are so lovably clutzy!
14. M*A*S*H*. How such a lovely song could be called 'Suicide is Painless' is beyond me
15. The Wonder Years. History's most perfect sitcom had to have the most perfect opening credits.
16. The Golden Girls. BEEEAAAAAAAA. BBBBBEEEEAAAAAAAA. waaaaaaa.
17. Newhart. This one has LOTS of arial shots of Vermont. So it has to be great.
18. Wait til Your Father Gets Home. Classic.
19. Hey Dude. WHY ARE THERE NO ACTUAL VIDEOS OF THIS!?
20. The Adventures of Pete & Pete. Polaris. Awesome.
21) Degrassi: The Next Generation. When you are the best show Canada has ever made...well...you just are, aren't you?
22) Skins. Brit love. Absolutely what a drug, nudity and swear-full show about British teens should have for an opening.
My life is incredibly lonely sometimes...
Monday, May 4, 2009
Thursday, April 23, 2009
like a seedling dropped from an old oak tree...your shade don't hide no sun from me
When you are 12 and your mother drives a Ford Crown Victoria (1988. Powder Blue. White Landau top. Obv) certain things are givens. Settling into the plush, navy blue velvet-like seats and intaking the acrid smell of your step-fathers cigarette smoke...it is hard not to feel a peculiar blend of immortality twisted with a somewhat suffocating fragility.
If I remember one thing from our summer vacation, 1998 (besides the gut crushing nature of those old school lap seatbelts which just got tighter and tighter every time you inhaled), it is this.
I remember finding out that..
I was emo.
Rewind, shall we. On April 28, 1998, 3 plucky young fellas from Southern California...teenagers really...released an album. It was not stupid like Blink 182...it wasn't totally pansy like Tonic (whom I love)...none of that. It was Third Eye Blind...marinated in both the summer sun and monsoon rains of Southern California, produced by three dudes who probably listened to their share of Green Day. It was a simple album of three dudes...three instruments...exceedingly intelligent wordplay...and a grating first single that made Say What? Karaoke competitors shiver at the sight of the Wheel of Death.
Yes, my friends. I am speaking of the first full length release from Eve 6. Perhaps the greatest pseudo-post-pop-punk band of the late 90s/early 00s. If that album was a record, i would have worn it out...and in fact the CD is scratched beyond listening. I had to purchase it digitally when I made my conversion to the new century in 2004 with the purchase of my first (of 7...story for another day. long and short...i'm clumsy) iPods.
So it's August of 1998. We are piled in the Crown Victoria cruising eastward to parts unknown in a stiff, driving rain. Traffic surrounds us and the collective misery of a million people stuck on the Mass Pike weighs on the car. It should be known now that I could never talk to my step-father Mike (from herewithal referred to as Mom's mistake husband) for more than 2-3 minutes, much less with his godawful driving begging for my adolescent scoffs, eye-rolls and general pissyness.
So Mom's Mistake Husband (MMB) is probably being a dick...what else is new? Lucas is asleep in his booster seat, my mom is praying that we get to scenic Cape Ann (yes we lived large) without me being throttled and Mike being a HUGE dick the entire week (Save the suspense...both failed). But EUREKA! (i have found it)! My dear blue discman...and an Eve6 record I purchased on a whim...probably at Camelot Music or RecordTown...because SHIT Inside Out is a sick jam.
Tony's rolling drums...Jon's 3 chords of magic...and then...Max. Max and his teenage-quality bass playing. Max and his altogether common yet completely unique warble...
Spare the details...this record was played nonstop for the next...year? Yea probably a year. I could blame Eve6 here and now for any attitude/perfectly legal drug "problem"/anxiety issues that would come flooding over me like the rain that week for the next several years...but no. Obviously not. Eve 6...made me a shithead. But the shithead I am today. Fact.
Why does this matter? I saw Eve 6 live last night, April 23, 2009. Next week is the 11th anniversary of the self-titled magic that is Eve 6. They sound and look the same as they did then...and we are old as we wax nostalgic about a band of 30 year olds , ourselves just 23.
They played all the jams and could not help but let the rain of nostalgia come down...wake my dreams...wash away my misery. I felt the thunder. I screamed. I let the rain fall down.
I came clean. And as I drove home last night. As I brushed my teeth, ears ringing. As I lay in bed staring at the ceiling...I remembered things I haven't remembered in years. Things I thought I had lost to holes bore in my brain from one more day of this...or two more hits of that.
Mistakes made as I cried to "Jesus Nitelite"
Events that conspired during singalongs of "Heres to the Night"
People in cars singing "Open Road Song"
If I remember one thing from our summer vacation, 1998 (besides the gut crushing nature of those old school lap seatbelts which just got tighter and tighter every time you inhaled), it is this.
I remember finding out that..
I was emo.
Rewind, shall we. On April 28, 1998, 3 plucky young fellas from Southern California...teenagers really...released an album. It was not stupid like Blink 182...it wasn't totally pansy like Tonic (whom I love)...none of that. It was Third Eye Blind...marinated in both the summer sun and monsoon rains of Southern California, produced by three dudes who probably listened to their share of Green Day. It was a simple album of three dudes...three instruments...exceedingly intelligent wordplay...and a grating first single that made Say What? Karaoke competitors shiver at the sight of the Wheel of Death.
Yes, my friends. I am speaking of the first full length release from Eve 6. Perhaps the greatest pseudo-post-pop-punk band of the late 90s/early 00s. If that album was a record, i would have worn it out...and in fact the CD is scratched beyond listening. I had to purchase it digitally when I made my conversion to the new century in 2004 with the purchase of my first (of 7...story for another day. long and short...i'm clumsy) iPods.
So it's August of 1998. We are piled in the Crown Victoria cruising eastward to parts unknown in a stiff, driving rain. Traffic surrounds us and the collective misery of a million people stuck on the Mass Pike weighs on the car. It should be known now that I could never talk to my step-father Mike (from herewithal referred to as Mom's mistake husband) for more than 2-3 minutes, much less with his godawful driving begging for my adolescent scoffs, eye-rolls and general pissyness.
So Mom's Mistake Husband (MMB) is probably being a dick...what else is new? Lucas is asleep in his booster seat, my mom is praying that we get to scenic Cape Ann (yes we lived large) without me being throttled and Mike being a HUGE dick the entire week (Save the suspense...both failed). But EUREKA! (i have found it)! My dear blue discman...and an Eve6 record I purchased on a whim...probably at Camelot Music or RecordTown...because SHIT Inside Out is a sick jam.
Tony's rolling drums...Jon's 3 chords of magic...and then...Max. Max and his teenage-quality bass playing. Max and his altogether common yet completely unique warble...
Spare the details...this record was played nonstop for the next...year? Yea probably a year. I could blame Eve6 here and now for any attitude/perfectly legal drug "problem"/anxiety issues that would come flooding over me like the rain that week for the next several years...but no. Obviously not. Eve 6...made me a shithead. But the shithead I am today. Fact.
Why does this matter? I saw Eve 6 live last night, April 23, 2009. Next week is the 11th anniversary of the self-titled magic that is Eve 6. They sound and look the same as they did then...and we are old as we wax nostalgic about a band of 30 year olds , ourselves just 23.
They played all the jams and could not help but let the rain of nostalgia come down...wake my dreams...wash away my misery. I felt the thunder. I screamed. I let the rain fall down.
I came clean. And as I drove home last night. As I brushed my teeth, ears ringing. As I lay in bed staring at the ceiling...I remembered things I haven't remembered in years. Things I thought I had lost to holes bore in my brain from one more day of this...or two more hits of that.
Mistakes made as I cried to "Jesus Nitelite"
Events that conspired during singalongs of "Heres to the Night"
People in cars singing "Open Road Song"
Tuesday, April 21, 2009
Love is a battlefield...
Fact 1: The nearest Einstein Bros. Bagels is 16 miles from my residence in the bustling metropolis of Chelmsford, MA.
Fact 2: The nearest Brueggers Bagel Bakery is <1 mile from my residence in magical Andover, MA.
Fact 3: There isn't one
Fact 4: Like pizza, good bagels in MA are not just on every street corner.
I think you can guess the conclusion to this little foray into science. I drive 32 miles round trip for bagels.
And we wonder...
Fact 2: The nearest Brueggers Bagel Bakery is <1 mile from my residence in magical Andover, MA.
Fact 3: There isn't one
Fact 4: Like pizza, good bagels in MA are not just on every street corner.
I think you can guess the conclusion to this little foray into science. I drive 32 miles round trip for bagels.
And we wonder...
i am the only son of a pastor i know who does the things i do
So I spent the first two hours of my work day in the following:
1%: My job
5%: Order blackberry. (FML)
94%: Coming to terms with being broke and trying to figure out how to not be broke and in debt without actually doing more work or getting a raise that I'm not getting until September.
The only conclusion I have come to is that...well...maybe people in their early 20s just shouldn't be allowed to have credit cards. I'm not so badly in debt (excluding car and college) that I'm really nervous, it's just a mildly concerning pinata of concern dangling above my proverbial head in my proverbial office (proverbially speaking).
Watch this:
Siiiick. Musical obsession du semaine.
I stayed up until three this morning listening to theirs and Jars of Clays new albums. Jars of Clay are a christian rock band. Not like Relient K christian...but legitimately (sometimes) Word of Christ propheting. This album...not so much. This album is about relationships. With God? Sure. But perhaps moreso with the ladies...and the world (both complicated, complicated beings). During this listen, and perhaps referencing a conversation earlier in the day, I had Pastor Melissa Scott on mute on the TV. Pastor Melissa Scott is a young girl of Italian birth who married an elder who happened to be Dr. Scott, the elder paster of the University Chapel in LA. They have a TV show which starts with her singing a song (not well) and then her talking in really complicated circles and tossing her hair over her shoulder. She is an expert linguist (but only since meeting Dr. Scott). Dr. Scott passed away from cancer a couple of years ago because, as it turns out, God's love is not a substitute for modern medicine.
The long and the short of the story is that I dozed off in the middle of watching Pastor Scott (Pastor insofar as she was ordained by her elder husband, not Paster as in M.Div) and listening to Jars of Clay.
I awoke tasting blood. But not bleeding. I can only assume this is punishment for one of my various sins of relative regularity.
In essence, I reccommend both Manchester Orchestra and Jars of Clay's new albums...they are both amazing. I do not reccommend watching Pastor Scott, although in terms of things based in religious texts on TV it's no more confusing than Kings on NBC (which I happen to like but will be cancelled).
To work!
1%: My job
5%: Order blackberry. (FML)
94%: Coming to terms with being broke and trying to figure out how to not be broke and in debt without actually doing more work or getting a raise that I'm not getting until September.
The only conclusion I have come to is that...well...maybe people in their early 20s just shouldn't be allowed to have credit cards. I'm not so badly in debt (excluding car and college) that I'm really nervous, it's just a mildly concerning pinata of concern dangling above my proverbial head in my proverbial office (proverbially speaking).
Watch this:
Siiiick. Musical obsession du semaine.
I stayed up until three this morning listening to theirs and Jars of Clays new albums. Jars of Clay are a christian rock band. Not like Relient K christian...but legitimately (sometimes) Word of Christ propheting. This album...not so much. This album is about relationships. With God? Sure. But perhaps moreso with the ladies...and the world (both complicated, complicated beings). During this listen, and perhaps referencing a conversation earlier in the day, I had Pastor Melissa Scott on mute on the TV. Pastor Melissa Scott is a young girl of Italian birth who married an elder who happened to be Dr. Scott, the elder paster of the University Chapel in LA. They have a TV show which starts with her singing a song (not well) and then her talking in really complicated circles and tossing her hair over her shoulder. She is an expert linguist (but only since meeting Dr. Scott). Dr. Scott passed away from cancer a couple of years ago because, as it turns out, God's love is not a substitute for modern medicine.
The long and the short of the story is that I dozed off in the middle of watching Pastor Scott (Pastor insofar as she was ordained by her elder husband, not Paster as in M.Div) and listening to Jars of Clay.
I awoke tasting blood. But not bleeding. I can only assume this is punishment for one of my various sins of relative regularity.
In essence, I reccommend both Manchester Orchestra and Jars of Clay's new albums...they are both amazing. I do not reccommend watching Pastor Scott, although in terms of things based in religious texts on TV it's no more confusing than Kings on NBC (which I happen to like but will be cancelled).
To work!
Monday, April 20, 2009
my teacher says to concentrate
When it first came out, I lied. I told everybody that I had seen it because...well wasn't I supposed to have seen it? T
You don't see it because...well why? And then one thing leads to another, you are sitting in a trailer in Central Florida with a bunch of people you have known for 36 hours and watching a tall, butch lady and a total d-bag in jeans, cowboy boots and a bowtie accept an award for writing it and BAM! I just felt like I had to take some kind of responsibility for it. A historic moment in filmmaking...if not Godfather historic, certainly Kramer v. Kramer historic. An achievement in cinematography, sound editing and our first look at Anne Hathaways tatas, soon to be all over Hollywood, lest we had known it.
What I am trying to get at, is that Brokeback Mountain is extremely scenic. Not sweet, sweet love in a tent with a fellow man of the cows...sheep...whatever...but scenic in a...damn I want to herd some sheep somewhere scenic. I didn't realize it was set so recently though...we were everywhere then. Even among the cowboys. This isn't like Madame Curie and Amelia Earhart risque.
Regardless, I'm content to be counted among a recipient of it's message now. It was hardly an achievement in filmmaking, but it has put something else on my list of things to do. Shepherd. A Katie Brandes and I once talked about giving it all up and shepherding together. What "it" is is dubious...I see no permanent careers...but hypothetically we are giving up dream jobs to shepherd. Maybe it is all just a David/Goliath complex manifested in a homoerotic cowboy saga.
I've missed the point entirely, haven't I? Anyway here is this...
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