by Missy
I have been a HUGE Belle and Sebastian fan since my best friend put “The State I’m In” on a mix CD we played incessantly on a cross country road trip.
When their new album, Write About Love, came out and had a song called “Suicidegirl” on it, I had a complete fan girl moment which indie rockers are supposed to be too cool for.
When I told the other girls we were all so honored that we decide we had to do something to let them know how much we loved it. Carrina, Cheri and I got together with Mike Marshall who made our other movies and created our video ode to Belle and Sebastian.
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by Nicole Powers
Arnold Schwarzenegger may have moved over to the dark side when he came out as a Republican and decided to take California, but MoveOn.org is fighting back with a little help from The Terminator. In the organization’s latest interweb broadcast, Olivia Wilde (House) travels back in time Sarah Connor-style to rally resistance against the G.O.P machine and the omnipresent Faux News Network that supports it.
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by Blogbot
It’s debatable whether Die Antwood is plain special or a bit special-ed if you catch my drift. And that’s kinda the point. It may be shit, it may be genius, it may be carefully manicured shit genius, or it may simply be genius shit. As founding member Ninja says, “Is this Die Antwoord fucking terrible, like fucking retardedly the worst thing ever or the most amazing thing in the entire universe?”
The subject of much (BoingBoing-fueled) speculation and a bizarre music vid – Enter the Ninja – which spread like Ebola over the interwebs, it’s been hard for even the most curious to decide either way. But this month the elusive Cape Town rap/rave meets “zef-so-fresh” trio (comprised of rapper Ninja, vocalist Yo-landi Vi$$er and DJ Hi-Tek) will finally drop their pants and show us what they’re made of. (For the record: District 9 director Neill Blomkamp “fucking” loves them, and Davids Lynch and Fincher are said to be fans.)
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By Edward Kelly
The Night House was not a place we had a name for. I started calling it The Night House about 30 seconds ago when I decided the place I’m about to describe needs a name, otherwise I’m going to keep calling it “the house” or “that place.” The Night House was, quite obviously, a house – technically. As a kid, I lived in a small community, a relatively idyllic suburb in upstate New York. Most of the houses in my neighborhood were less than five years old. I think the term for it is “tract housing” but that might be wrong. What it meant is that they were constantly building new houses at the end of our estate so new families could move in. And without fail we, that is my friends and I, always had a Night House — a house at the end of the estate that looked like a skeleton home, all angular wood jutting out at weird places, made even creepier at night with its ghoulish pockets of utter darkness, window holes cut out but not yet illuminated by the warm incandescence of electricity.
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by Nahp Suicide
Coca-Cola brings unexpected happiness with a vending machine that, when deployed and engaged, dispenses way more than a bottle of fun-tastic flavored corn syrup and water. After slipping in a buck, or however much it costs to sate your thirst these days, unwitting users on a college campus were deluged by Coke bottles, which they proceeded to share with their peers. Others got bouquets of flowers or balloon animals from seemingly disembodied hands, and somehow a 20-foot sub even appeared out of the 18-inch deep machine.
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