Die Hardererer (Bootleg Edition) by Nicholas Chatfield-Taylor from Nicholas Chatfield-Taylor on Vimeo.
Because you never asked for it, here are Die Hard, Die Hard 2: Die Harder, Die Hard with a Vengeance, and Live Free or Die Hard edited down to only the frames containing fire.
Stephen Colbert is a decorated (cultural) war hero and champion of truthiness, having won multiple Emmy Awards, coined a Word of the Year, and had a delicious flavor of Ben & Jerry’s Ice Cream named after him. And now, the Apples in Stereo have done their part in honoring the praiseworthy Dr. Colbert (yes, it’s “Dr.” He’s been awarded an honorary doctorate from Knox College).
The creators of “a mesmerizing series of heavenly, effects-drenched, pop milkshakes” have released the song “Stephen, Stephen” and, while the good citizens of Colbert Nation think this is a fine thing, they do seem a bit chagrined.
The possibility that the song could have been named after someone or something other than Stephen sadly reminds the nation that naming things after Mr. Colbert is not yet law and, as such, is not punishable by hilarious fraternity-style water-boarding or some other form of public shaming. Continue reading
Last night’s Academy Awards were in many ways predictable, rife with the pomp, circumstance, film montages that are supposed to recall the majesty of movies, awards for mostly unsurprising recipients, and almost-funny jokes that we’ve all come to expect. On a side note, one of the evening’s sole surprises was that Hugh Jackman proved to be a very competent master of ceremonies, perhaps, precisely because he is not a comedian with neutered material suitable for prime-time broadcasting. His lack of professional hilarity made it okay to laugh at any semblance of humor, and helped to numb—though not completely alleviate—the pain of Jon Stewart not being asked to host again.
But amidst all of the evening’s self-importance and manufactured magic, something quite wonderful did happen.
Not music, but I’m posting it anyway: The New Yorker has published a “new” short story by one of the 20th century’s greatest authors, the late Italo Calvino. It’s well worth a read.
The moon is old, Qfwfq agreed, pitted with holes, worn out. Rolling naked through the skies, it erodes and loses its flesh like a bone that’s been gnawed. This is not the first time that such a thing has happened. I remember moons that were even older and more battered than this one; I’ve seen loads of these moons, seen them being born and running across the sky and dying out, one punctured by hail from shooting stars, another exploding from all its craters, and yet another oozing drops of topaz-colored sweat that evaporated immediately, then being covered by greenish clouds and reduced to a dried-up, spongy shell.