Monday, August 22, 2011

An Unapologizing Love Letter To Jed Whedon, And Some Videos Of The Day

   I am a card carrying Whedonite. Damn me, but I love everything that family has ever touched. You, my brother, may preach all you want about Dollhouse and disappointing structural whatever and so on and blah blah blah, but I think it's an exquisite masterpiece, much like a small glass sculpture made by blind cloistered nuns in the hills of Italy. Etcetera. Give me a bit of Dr. Horrible in the gym, and suddenly I'm harmonizing to Everyone's A Hero in sweatpants and ill-fitting sneakers. I challenge you to find me genius paralleled by the brief and wondrous thing that was Firefly. Joss practically gave the world Nathan Fillion, and that alone is worth a national bank holiday.
   However, dear receptive audience, I am here to talk to you today about Joss's woefully under-worshipped brother, Jed. Jed released an album a little while back. Since then, I have listened to it in its entirely easily over 20 times. I am not one to usually like a whole album from one artist- my playlist is always limited to one or two single songs from people who I generally quite like. Jed, however, well...
   If I have not yet forced my musical tastes upon you, allow me to illustrate:

   For added awesomeness, you'll find in that little video not only the Mo Tancharoen of epicness, but also a bonus Fran Kranz WITH NO SHIRT ON for a, uhm, brief moment. *cough*
   Sometimes a song from this album (The History of Forgotten Things by Jed Whedon and the Willing) will pop up on my randomized playlist, and I find myself laid low. Tonight, I switched on the fairy lights...

   ...cranked ye oldde iTunes up to maximum maximum, and popped on my "obnoxiously huge headphones", as they have been described. Usually, I would reserve the Jed Whedon for the darkened room, isolation tank-esque treatment, but tonight I felt fancy. Man, I swear, if you could see me, you'd want to hose me down with water and call a shrink. Usually, I'm terrible at smiling for extended periods of time- even if the smile is natural, my face just seems to get really tired and forget how to hold even the most basic of facial expressions without looking Bates-ish. However, give me Tricks on Me, and I'm not only smiling like the Joker, I'm crying absolute buckets. It's amazing to me that this album's effectiveness in snotting me up hasn't worn off yet, I'm so easily overplayed on even my all time favourites. The only other album that's never worn off for me is the soundtrack to Rent, but that's only because I'm a fruit.

   I swear, somehow the melodies are
addictive enough to actually get me
tangibly high, whilst the lyrics are
actual poetry. How does one man do this?

   And, because I'm that attention-
whore of note, I'm working on a
little Jed Whedon tribute thingamy
that perhaps I can post in a few days.
If nothing else, it will give me an
excuse to tweet the man.

   Now to other matters, for I see your eyelids drooping there. I was reading an article a few days ago on some of the worst movies that could easily have been awesome, and Ali G in Da House was brought up. Some of you who were as bored as I was that year might remember that movie, but for those of you who do not, I can only but apologize for having brought it to your attention. I had seen the TV sketch show that originated the characters of Ali G, Borat and Bruno, and I was probably about 13 when the movie came out. Obviously, this was a great many years before Borat was the absolute shit, and Sacha Baron Cohen was really only know for being pretty funny in an Essex accent on TV once a week. The movie wasn't exactly highest budget, and it went for really, REALLY broad laughs akin to some recently unmentionable Martin Lawrence fare.
   However, I was 13 and a veritable moron, so me and my cousin quoted the living hell out of it for months. After that, I forgot all about its existence until I read that article. As I was reading this and chuckling, thinking about how me and said cousin loved to "beatbox" as badly as Ali G and whatever his sidekick's name was did in one scene, something dawned on me.
   Oh dear god, Martin Freeman was in it.
   It's bizarre that, years after having seen or thought of a movie, you can recognize an actor retroactively. At that time, Martin Freeman's name meant nothing to me other than I might've mixed him up with his older brother Morgan. Somehow, eight years later, my brain managed to recognize an actor from an old archive in my mind that couldn't possibly have been labelled or filed properly. And the conclusion this left me with is that, ladies and lords, your Arthur Dent and mine, did this.

   I find that oddly unsettling. And yet, still hilarious. The movie may be an unarguable piece of shit, but the problem is that if you attached to something that bad when you were young enough to need nothing deeper than a few good dick and fart jokes, you will inevitably hold a spot in your heart for the damnable thing even when you ought to know better. In my heart, there are reserved spaces not only for Ali G, but also for The Master of Disguise, Hudson Hawk, and The Pest. I can only apologize for what must ultimately taint your affection towards me forever.

   In closing, I'd like to share a triumph! My weight is now down to the lowest in has been in nearly two years. I am ecstatic. I've actually seen the last milestone go past in reverse, which is quite an alien feeling to me. Again, my first instinct is to take a spoon and eat my entire tub of Mango Body Butter in one sitting, but I'll refrain. I think I've forgotten about eleven things I wanted to mention here, but they'll have to wait for supplementary posts or somesuch, as I cannot be arsed to retrieve them from behind the Ali G cabinet in the storage room of my brain.
   I'll just leave you with happiest thoughts thusly:
(Why when I search Google Images for "Fran Kranz" does it suggest "Fran Kranz Shirtless" and then return nothing of the sort when I follow its advice?)

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