Last night Meg and I watched Tha Carter, the new documentary out about Lil Wayne.  I’m always a bit apprehensive about watching documentaries or reading books about musicians I like, ever since I read a bio about Led Zeppelin, because I’m afraid that learning about them will ruin their music for me.  When I read the Zeppelin bio, I was really disappointed to learn that they were a bunch of fucking fools, especially because I read it at a time when all I listened to was Zeppelin.  I had to remind myself, though, that they were a bunch of 20 year old guys who had been skyrocketed into unbelievable success, and that just because they were talented musicians didn’t mean they weren’t still 20 year old dudes (read: douchebags).  Anyway, this time around I wasn’t quite as nervous because, while I like some of his music, I’m not a die-hard Weezy fan.  I downloaded The Carter III when it came out and ended up deleting it from my mp3 player because I didn’t listen to it all that much.  I’m more a fan of his hits than his whole collection.  That said, I recognize that the man’s got some serious talent and this documentary only served to solidify that for me.

It also shed some light on what are some serious addiction issues.  I read online today that he and Young Money have sued the filmmakers because they claim the documentary portrays him in a negative light.  He didn’t come across as a malicious asshole, but he quite clearly has some issues – he’s addicted to cough syrup, which has caused major tension between him and his manager/dj and is reflected in a lot of his lyrics.  Then again, as I did with the Zeppelin bio, I had to remind myself that this guy is only 25 years old, and has reached an insane level of celebrity in a fairly short amount of time, something that seems, from watching the documentary, totally surreal and would have a pretty heavy effect on anyone in that position (hello, Britney Spears?).  But while he isn’t portrayed as a saint in any sense of the word – he’s fucked up all the time, he thinks child support should be abolished, his grill is a thing of nightmares – the doc paints him as more or less a regular guy who has reached a level of success that few people ever do.  And the amount of freedom that comes with that level of success doesn’t seem to effect him as negatively as it has other celebrities (or, perhaps his addiction is nothing new for someone in his position).  He does seem somewhat humble about his achievements – he’s surprised to see a guy on TV wearing a shirt that says “Greatest Rapper of All Time” with his face on it (although he later raps about how he’s the Greatest Rapper of All Time).  The most interesting for me was watching his recording process, and hearing some of the mixtapes he’s made while he’s on the road.  He’s a huge fan of the auto-tune, though, obviously, and it’s pretty clear why (his terrible singing voice is made tolerable by auto tune).  That said, he admits that its his lyrics that make him the greatest, not his singing.

All in all, I came out of the experience of watching the documentary more depressed than anything.  He is a talented guy, but it seems like it’s only a matter of time before his addiction issues get the best of him, affecting his music and his daughter (who is the epitome of adorable and can rap!).  Although it is pretty crazy that, despite being high out of his mind 24/7, he still records nearly every day, and records some amazing music.

Oh Mr. Carter, tell me where have you been.

Matt and I went to see Louis CK perform at the Walker Theatre this past Friday and there’s no other way to say it: Best Standup Ever.  We got tickets months ago (using the same gift card we used to buy tickets to the aurally-disastrous Timber Timbre/Final Fantasy show a few weeks ago).  We’ve been anticipating it ever since, as we’re both huge fans.  Friends of ours also went and my brother managed to get tickets in the fourth row by showing up to the box office a few hours before the show (son of a bitch).

Expecting there to be at least one opener, I was getting a little antsy as we waited in our seats for the show to start.  Half an hour after it was supposed to start, the lights suddenly dimmed and Louis CK walked out – which I’m sure was as much a surprise to everyone else as it was to me, as the audience immediately started laughing.  All it takes is for him to be in the same room and we’re in a fit of laughter.  He went on for about an hour and a half, with ten minutes of encore, of consistently hilarious stories and jokes that left my side aching and my face plastered with a ridiculous, goofy smile by the time the show was done.  The only downer was the dude sitting next to me: he hardly made a sound, which was super irritating because it made me hyper-aware of how much I was laughing and how I potentially sounded like a hyena.  Fucken guy.  Other than his somber ass, I had the best night.  Louis CK has some serious talent – I hadn’t heard any of the material he delivered that night before, and all of it was awesome.  He even had the audience laughing at homeless people, little kids, pedophilia, and old man genitalia.  I honestly thought to myself at a few points during the show: “I can’t believe I’m laughing at pedophilia.”

We all congregated outside after the show – Matt and I, a few of our friends, comedy friends of Matt’s that were there, my brother and his friend – and stood around giggling and smiling and repeating our favorite jokes.  I was on a crazy high.  Even though Louis CK was in the lobby signing autographs and stuff and despite my penchant for trying to get thumbs-up photos with famous people, I wanted to leave on that high, so we left.  We had a few drinks with some friends and called it a night.  Dane Cook can officially suck it.  Louis CK is the shit.

I can’t do hangovers like I could ten years ago.  Despite the fact that this admission makes me feel incredibly, boringly old, it is the harsh reality that I was faced with this morning at 8:30 a.m. as I awoke to a wave of pain and anguish after drinking my face off on a Monday night at a Busta Rhymes concert.

The ladies came over around 8:00 to pre-game (still rockin’ the pre-game like I did when I was 18, that’s for sure) and watch hilarious episodes of Cake Boss and Dating in the Dark (the amazing show where people meet and ‘date’ in complete darkness, are given the opportunity to see one another in the light, and then must decide if they want to continue seeing each other or run for their lives).  Drinking lime vodka at my place resulted in realizing around 9:45 p.m. that we hadn’t picked up our tickets from the will-call window at the MTS centre, and could very well be fucked if said window was closed.  It was closed, and we were fucked.  That is, until we sped home, printed out the confirmation email from Ticketmaster, and Meghan worked her charm on the door man (we even got to skip the line!).  Thank the sweet lord for that, because a half-cut, dolled up, super stoked Jessica who is made to lose a $50 ticket because she’s an idiot is not something you want to dance with.  She’s one mean Sally.

And she drinks beer like an Englishman

At any rate, we got in, did a celebratory shot (lemon drops!), and quickly made ourselves comfortable acting the fool, drinking too much, and dancing to various opening acts that I was pretty much unaware of and paid little attention to.  Meghan managed to catch the eye of some scrawny kid who was apparently someone important (he had a pass around his neck, that actually could have said “underage” or “needs parental supervision” for all I knew) and got us into the VIP section for a hot minute.  We watched Belly’s set from up there until we were led downstairs by said tween to the side of the stage and introduced to a man that turned out to be Spliff Star or something – at any rate, he was on stage with Busta.  Clearly, I’ve amassed an intimate knowledge of contemporary hip hop.

Busta took the stage and killed it.  It was high energy the whole way through, and the crowd was nuts.  We managed to get back upstairs (Meghan told the security guard “I’m back” and he let us up…apparently the security is easily swayed) and we watched the show from the second floor, which was an awesome view.

Someone threw their laundry-day undies onto the stage…Busta made hilarious fun of him/her.

Other than the show itself, the night is a bit of a haze of bad jokes and free shots.  I saw a bar friend there – one of those people that you only see when you’re out drinking, and are always BFFs over the course of the night, but would never consider actually hanging out with him or her while sober/on a the reg.  He provided numerous unneeded drinks and shots that I, obviously, welcomed with open arms.  Because we started the night with Cake Boss, I spent the majority of my time talking with a terrible Italian accent and doing a lot of “eeeh, oooh, eeeh” – to the point where I introduced myself as Gino to some fool on the patio that was all up in our business, and “eeeh, oooh, eeeh”-ed him out of our way.  It seemed like a good idea at the time, but this morning as I was trying to do damage control and get myself to work for a 9:00 a.m. staff meeting I thought otherwise.

So, while I didn’t get to hang out with Busta and his entourage in his giant red Flipmode bus (his bus a bus?), and while I can’t add a photo of me and Busta giving the thumbs up to my growing collection of Jess-with-Rappers photos, I had a damn fine time at a show that I almost didn’t make it in to.  Thanks, Busta, for puttin’ your show where my eyes could see.

On Friday night I invited a few friends over for drinks and apps before we all headed down to Blush to see Raekwon perform.  Mine and Meghan’s goal of getting our photo taken with every member of Wu Tang is slowly on its way to fruition.

After a few drinks (or, you know, a bottle of vodka, however you want to say it) and stuffing our faces with appetizers care of Brianne and my last minute trip to the grocery store, we headed out on foot.  There was a bit of a line up when we got there, so we missed a bit of the opening acts, although I’m not sure it really made a difference because I couldn’t even tell you who they were.  The bar was packed, so we found a spot next to the stage and waited for them to bring out the man of the hour.  It may have been because of the crowd (pushing and shoving their arms through the crowd to try and get a photo), or because of all the booze, but after about 20 minutes Meghan and I left for the patio and ended up wandering around there and behind the crowd that had formed around the stage.  It was a good show – I had fun listening – but I couldn’t even list one of Raekwon’s songs, so it wasn’t like I was singing along to all of the lyrics.  Immediately after he finished, Meghan’s sister and brother-in-law left, and only myself, Meg, and Brianne were left.  We hung around downstairs as the crowd slowly dispursed, and at some point Meghan managed to get a wrist band to go upstairs to the VIP to meet the man.  Standing at the bottom of the stairs, Meghan was about to go up and I said something to the effect of “well I need to go up there too” and the security guard blocking the stairs said, as if he could care less who went up there, “ya go ahead.”

We got upstairs and someone ushered us over to Raekwon so we could awkwardly gather around him while someone took our photo.

As you can tell, the man was sweaty.  We just sort of stood around and he asked us some questions (of which I have little to no memory) and then asked me how old I was.  Before I could respond, he said “What are you, 31?”.  Jesus Christ.  Fucking Raekwon.  I did not hide my disappointment: “What the fuck, Raekwon?! I’m 27!”  Friggin’ guy.  Anyway, so after that we went back downstairs and after scanning the remaining crowd to determine that they were all, in fact, douchebags and groupies, I made my plea to the ladies for us to leave.  Meghan wanted to dance, Brianne was content in laughing at her, but I felt the overwhelming desire to get the fuck out of there.  As we were standing there, one of Raekwon’s ‘handlers’ came up to me and said “(Muffled) wants to meet you.”  I rudely responded “What?” and he repeated himself – Raekwon wants to meet me.  I said “Oh ya, I’ve already met him” and he looked at me like I had recently had a lobotomy, and then asked if I didn’t want to go back to the hotel and party with them.  Hell no.  I pointed at Meg and Brianne and he responded “ya, bring your girls.”  I relayed this to Meghan and Bri, apparently mocking the guy while he was standing right behind me.  Meghan was all for it, so we went back upstairs.  When we got up there, Raekwon waved me over and said something to the effect of “so my friend got you to come back up here” and then proceeded to ask me questions like “do you listen to this kind of music?” and others along the theme of ‘you-are-so-white’.  I scoffed and said that we had seen GZA a few months ago and that the show was pretty good.  More photos were taken at this point, just cause we could.  Brianne told Raekwon how tiny we thought his feet looked (it’s a wonder he can hold himself upright, he has tiny ass feet!), and got a photo comparing his to her size-three feet.

At this point they were all leaving for the hotel, and I was wholly uninterested in going.  I had no intention of fucking anyone, and didn’t want to end up in a situation where that was assumed of me.  You know – getting girls to go back to your hotel with you?  That’s not an environment for an old white lady with a man at home.  Anyway, Meghan made a fairly strong argument “when are we ever going to get the chance to party with Raekwon again?!” so I turned to Brianne, the Voice of Reason (being sober and level-headed), for her thoughts.  “We should probably go with them.”  So it was settled.  While Meghan and Brianne were getting their jackets, I was waiting in the VIP doorway, chatting away with the Wu Tang alum, while the rest of the entourage and the chicks they had convinced to have sex with them were all piling into the limo that was waiting out front.  In a moment of complete embarrassment (only in retrospect, though), I yelled down the hall to Meghan and Brianne as they came with their jackets “yah, just talking to Raekwon, no big deal, whatever, just hanging out with Raekwon.”  I thought I was being funny at the time, but thinking back I must have looked like a fucking jackass.  Whatever.

So we got into a shiny black limo and made our way to the Fairmont (one of Winnipeg’s few fancy hotels).  The first room we went into was just two beds and a tv (what you would expect of a hotel room), so we left there and went with the DJ and promoter to another room that had a couch, desk, and murphy bed (which we immediately pulled out and laughed at).  The next few hours were spent smoking the DJ’s weed, laughing about pretty much everything, and essentially just hanging out on the couch.  It was awesome.  Plus that DJ’s weed was really good.  Brianne had mentioned early in the night that she used to live in England, so the running joke was to call eachother “bloody wankas” and “cunts” – the best moment being when Brianne was explaining the British use of the word “cunt” and one of the guys in the entourage walked in asking for a condom (“I’mma bust in her face” – real classy, you fucking jackass).  He was a huge douche, so Bri didn’t miss a beat, pointed to him and said “this guy right here, he’s a classic cunt.”  Awesome.

We left when the guy whose room we were in wanted to go to bed, and instead of going to another room, we went downstairs so Meghan could have a smoke.  We decided at that point just to leave (I was convinced they’d hardly notice we had left).  While we were standing outside trying to figure out what to do (or trying to convince Meghan it was time to go, being that it was 4:00 am), a dude in a suit came up and asked for a smoke and started talking to us.  He was a weird guy, and kind of a dick, first lying about his father being dead to garner sympathy, I guess, and then writing down what we were saying on a little notepad he had.  He was a tool.

We left in a cab and headed back to my place.  I fell asleep around 5:00 am, only to be woken up four hours later by my brother who was to drive us to the lake Saturday morning.  Needless to say, I had a rough Saturday.

All in all, though, an amazing night.  I haven’t laughed that much or mocked that mercilessly in ages.  The next show that’s coming to Winnipeg is Busta Rhymes, and you better believe I’m going to groupie it up for that shit and add another celebrity photo to my collection.

I’m not usually inclined to post stuff like this, but I found this speech so charming and funny that I had to share.  It’s 14 minutes long, but worth it.

John Hodgman Roasts Obama at the Radio & TV Correspondents’ Dinner:

On Sunday night I made sure Matt and I were home in time to watch the hour and a half documentary on MTV, Britney: For the Record.  I am (shamefully) fascinated by her, the obsession with her, and the whole enterprise of “Britney.” I may even have a few of her songs on my gym playlist.  Maybe.

The “documentary” was interesting, and I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t glued to the television for that hour and a half, but it didn’t really do much more than reiterate that this is a woman who is suffering from mental health issues, has no control over her life, and hasn’t been given the skills necessary to take care of herself.  It was sad, mostly, and I honestly felt for her – shots of the paparazzi blocking her from getting into buildings were truly scary to me.  She seemed at once more intelligent and more incoherent than I thought she was.  The documentary went from tragic moments (“I’m sad”) to moments that illustrated her childishness (her handlers and assistants providing her with toys to keep her busy while on set).  She seems like a child in a woman’s body, which is both pathetic and tragic, it seems.  Surrounded by people who are seemingly only there to keep her occupied (the keys dangling in front of the baby?), she can’t even express herself in such a way that people will take her seriously (“I’m horribly angry” she says, as her handlers laugh off-camera).  But I was still constantly reminded that this is her management’s attempt at repackaging her image for her upcoming CD release (which, I believe, was released the day after the documentary aired), so it is difficult to pour out the sympathy as a result of a marketing scheme that is attempting to evoke precisely those feelings from its audience.

I’ve read reviews of this documentary that are much more eloquent or thoughtful than I could muster right now (see fourfour’s review, for example).  But that I find the gong show surrounding this woman so incredibly fascinating (not so much Spears herself, but her enterprise) is telling of the presence semi-talented, semi-intelligent celebrities have in our lives, and how much more this presence will expand and morph and mutate over the coming decades.

At any rate, the documentary provided me with that celeb-trash fix that cable is really only good for.  And despite its shortcomings (and there were many), her camp made the right decision, CD-sales-wise, in putting this on MTV.  Because here I am talking about it, just like everybody else, and her CD will sell a ton.

Last night I had a dream that I was telling someone about a celebrity trash story I had read online.

This is definitely a sign that I need to chill the fuck out with the celeb-goss.  Dreaming about relaying stories about borderline celebrities that I’ve read online is a sad, sad sign of my messed up priorities.

What in the sweet name of everything that is holy is this thing right here?

I think if I stare at that for too long, I’m going to turn to stone.

I’m not one to continually and maliciously insult and denigrate people, celebrities or not, (well, sometimes), but honestly…what happened here? Was he part of some terrible science experiment? Doesn’t he have family and loved ones that can help to curb this type of horific disaster before it gets out of hand? Well, clearly he doesn’t. It appears I have just answered my own question.

On a less disturbing note, I didn’t end up going to the U of W on Wednesday with Dad afterall – he had heard from a prof that morning that the place was a virtual ghost town, so we decided it wasn’t worth it. In addition to the fact that most classes were cancelled, there were apparently huge lineups to get in as security was asking people to show ID. It sounded like a pain in the ass so we went to the U of M instead to deliver catalogues. I saw Gosia in the Sociology Department while I was there, along with Mary Anne, who was hilarious as usual. She is the only prof that I am both happy to see and slightly terrified of, all at the same time. TAing for her intro class was something else – those students must’ve had some serious boops* (or should I say noops?) the night before her tests.

Last night I went for dinner to Kristina’s on Corydon with Gosia and Jodi – Michelle had to work, but we got to hang out with her a bit because she was our server. It was good to get together with them again – I think we’re going to to another ‘thesis’ night (ie: watching movies and eat spinach dip in our sweats) in the tradition of the movie night we had when I had to watch those four films for my honours thesis (that we didn’t end up watching anyway). Come to think of it, I only watched one of those thesis films once and was able to write an analysis of it. Good god. A real masterpiece, that was. A true work of art.

Tonight it the corn maze extravaganza. Winnipeg has two different corn field mazes and we’re going to “A Maze In Corn” (oh wow, what a cute pun) tonight to drag our inebriated asses around a corn field and take pictures while trying not to slip and fall in the mud. I think there will be about 10 people going, and afterwards we’ll likely have everyone back at our place. I like having people over and I enjoy hosting, but I always feel nervous because I’m afraid I don’t have enough chips or juice to serve people. Like, last Friday at Jess’s place was pretty fun, BUT THERE WERE NO PEANUTS, FOR SHAME! As ridiculous as it sounds (and as lame as a concern about “chips and juice” makes my parties seem), this is a real problem for me, it seems, although I rarely go to the great lengths that some people do and actually make anything. So I bought crystal light and rice chips this morning. Oh god I hope that’s enough. I’m banking on the beer to take care of any insufficiencies in the party favours department.

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*Boops, aka bear poops or, alternatively, beer poops, usually occur after a night of heavy drinking. The term can also be used to refer generally to a bad case of the mud butt. Noops refers to the nervous poops, which one would acquire in anticipation of a particularly nerve-wracking event. Other configurations of the term include: shoops (shotgun poops), coops (candy poops), and the boop shoopin’ boogie (self-explanatory).

Today is Wednesday, which means that I only work a half-day at my new job (at Fernwood Publishing), and the rest of the day is reserved for thesis/course work. I’ve yet to finish my final paper for my directed study, so I worked on that for a bit. I have 10 pages of what appears to me to be recounted drivel. I’ve been working with the same issues and theories for so long that I have a hard time getting everything to flow properly. Fortunately I have an editor who gives it to me straight (and who also gave birth to me…), so the paper is sitting in her inbox right now awaiting a crushing-by-trackchanges.

In the meantime I started to fill out one of the scholarship applications that I had planned on applying for – they’re based on academic achievement and financial need. In filling out the financial need section, I realized that I will be taking in well above what I’ll need to to cover my anticipated expenses this year. This is the first time in my life that I can expect a fairly comfortable year, financially speaking, without owing either my parents or the bank a steaming pantload of money. Fucken eh.

Needless to say, I have the overwhelming urge to go shopping.

Part of my brand new I’m-not-eating-ketchup-sandwiches-for-dinner life is an increased attendance at live music shows. Meghan and I are going to see Kanye West (with Fabulous and T.I. – who, to be honest, I assumed was a model, not a rapper) in October. She’s actually selling me her second ticket for leaps and bounds less than what it cost her ($120? Fuck no!), so that I can go. I don’t actually own any Kanye CDs, nor have I downloaded any, but I guess I’m going to have to pump up my inner groupie and learn how to properly ‘walk it out’ so I fit in with Meg and all the other screaming girls in matchstick heels.

One thing I like about Kanye is his stance on homophobia in the hip hop industry – apparently he’s been ‘accused’ (criminal!) of being gay based on his high-maintenance appearance, but he argues that he shouldn’t have to prove that he isn’t gay just because he doesn’t spout homophobia in his music (or because he wears pink dress shirts). That said, he’s no activist. And he’s actually a bit of a fucking suck. It makes no sense to me to be so uptight about the damn MTV VMAs, when they’re just a bunch of pointless awards given out by old white men who likely listen to Barry Manilow. And it’s for videos. Videos, man. It’s pointless.

Matt and I don’t have cable anymore (we relished in the fact that the previous tenant didn’t shut off her service, thank fuck, until Shaw came to install internet, which turned out to be so slow that we can barely load a page in three minutes), so I didn’t get to watch the VMAs. I wanted to see Britney Spears’ performance. Not because I’m necessarily a fan of her music (although I’ll admit that I liked Toxic, but who didn’t? She didn’t even write the damn song, so whatever), but because I’m fascinated by Britney-the-Trainwreck. She’s like a car crash. I enjoy watching her fail, miserably. Does that make me a terrible person? Probably. But I’m banking on the fact that by not killing spiders and instead releasing them onto our back porch, it’ll all even out in the end.