Dan Dan’s Dirty Little Guilty Pleasure Video Corner, Season 1 Episode 1

Today we’re launching a new feature called Dan Dan’s Dirty Little Guilty Pleasure Video Corner. In DDDLGPVC, drummer Danny Allen will tip you off to an important guilty internet video pleasure. Next, you go watch the video. Finally, when you’re finished watching, you scream “THANK YOU!!!”

For this very special debut, Danny offers a two part series, to be viewed in order.

The first video.
The second one.

Honestly, good luck!

Free show next week! Well, unless you have to pay to travel to NYC.

It’s true, we’re playing a free show next Thursday, 7 March, at the Gap store in Herald Square, which is where Broadway crosses through 6th Avenue in Manhattan and creates a kinda-sorta “square” — really just a mega-intersection. What’s going to happen is that they’re going to close the store from 6 to 8 pm, allowing only those who have RSVP’ed to come in. Once inside, you will be treated to a 45-minute set by us, plus probably some DJing by someone, and there is apparently a bar. Presumably there will be clothes all over the place, too, so you can look at those during idle moments. All in all, not a bad way to spend an early Thursday evening.

RSVP here.

How you know we're not making this whole thing up: they made a flyer.

How to Prepare Your Horse for the Big Show Under Adverse Conditions

Amie asks:

Hello loyal advice men!
So, i have a show with my horse Guinness tomorrow. However, i have a few little problems; 1) I shall be very drunk the night before so will almost definitely have a big hangover as proof of a good night. 2) I live in England therefore, the judges will be well…. boring, snooty and a little stiff. 3) i have an actual live horse to make presentable. Having read your ‘Equine upholstery’ article it was completely obvious you guys are more than qualified to answer my questions! So how do i look spritely with only 4 hours sleep? How do i communicate with this alien species of posh judges? And finally how the hell do i prepare my horse?!
Thanks! I have faith in you mighty scientists!

Hi, Amie. Good, tough questions all. You’re right, though, we’re more than qualified to answer them—so much so that this is kind of a waste of our time. We should be solving mazes in our X-Men activity book or something. Ah, well, we’ve started now; momentum will carry us through.

Let’s start with your first problem, which you mention right out of the gate (HA!): your horse’s name, Guiness. Totally inappropriate. A mistake. A world-class whoopsie-daisy. A flabbergasting fuckup. You might as well make him wear ski boots during the competition, with an anvil strapped to his head. You’ve destroyed your animal’s capacity to perform. Rename him immediately, something dignified and befitting a horse. (A couple of suggestions: Gag Reflex, Onomatopoeia.)

Once you’ve renamed your large-nostrilled friend “Botox” or “Supercalifragilisticexpialidocious,” you’re ready to go out there and donkey-kick some ass (HOHO!). But you’re right, you’ll need to look good doing it or the judges will dock you based purely on repulsion. Four hours sleep, you say? It’s certainly not ideal, but you can make it work. Here’s how you cover up the deleterious effects:

  1. Wear a mask. Choose something you’re comfortable in; we recommend against iron, although Iron Man is a great option. Great! Iron Man’s a winner, and wearing his mask says to the judges, “Guess what? I’m a winner, too. My heart was torn out of my body by the Taliban, I was imprisoned in a cave in Afghanistan, and using only rocks and worms I was able to create a nuclear heart for myself, whereupon my captors elected me their parliamentary representative.” In fact, something like that might be worth saying out loud just before you take the field.

That brings us to your question about communicating with the “posh,” “snooty” judges. In short, it’s all about film. Film is the universal language; it is what unites us as a species; it is why, since the advent of moving pictures near the end of the 19th century, there haven’t been any very bad wars. So, beginning with your explanation of your Iron Man mask, make sure that anything you say involves a movie analogy.

  • “Now I’ll perform with my horse, like The Black Stallion.”
  • “We worked really hard on this next move, like Seabiscuit.”
  • “Thank you, judges, for your consideration. War Horse.”

It’s about subtly weaving the magic of film into everything you say. You’ll enchant the judges, and they won’t even realize how you’ve done it—they’ll assume it has something to do with your actual performance, which, let’s face it, is going to be a ten-foot pile of shit!

You also ask how best to prepare your horse. Really, he needs a lot of the same things you do to get ready for a big day: plenty of rest; a nice steak dinner the night before, plus some steak, eggs, and bacon for breakfast, with maybe a nice mimosa; a puff or two from the bong to control his nerves; a decent helping of Aderall to get him focused right before the show; and a flashy decorative blanket to wear, so he knows he’s looking his best. Other than these basic considerations, there’s nothing you can do to force a good performance. Maybe, morning-of, put his head in a vice and make him watch the first season of Friday Night Lights? Right after breakfast? Could inspire him.

The main thing, Amie, is to have a good time. Botox will sense your mood and feed off of it, so make sure you’re relaxed and upbeat; make plenty of reassuring eye contact with him through your Iron Man mask. Remember, there’s no “magic bullet” here—regular bullets work fine on horses!

Rooney Mara’s Mysterious Ways

“PALE FIRE: ROONEY MARA’S MYSTERIOUS WAYS AND RED-HOT CAREER”
–Vogue, February 2013

Rooney Mara woke, as ever, precisely at dawn. She peeled herself from the metal sleeping surface; her thermal silhouette, lying invisibly where she had lain, began to fade in the morning cold.

“Eggs. Two. Fried. Toast. Coffee,” she said aloud, stepping into the dark kitchen. But there were no sophisticated appliances capable of voice recognition, and nothing happened.

Rooney Mara walked onto a balcony through a door left open during the night. She looked out at a glittering section of a town whose name she had never bothered to learn (it was Los Angeles) and began gently to sway, her bare heels sounding like tape peeled from its roll as they lifted away from sturdy redwood planks filmed with day-old grape jelly.

Later, stacking empty thread spools to make a spire, Rooney Mara pricked her finger on a sewing needle wedged secretly in one spool’s cleft and cursed.

“Gadgets!”

She held the stung finger close to her face and waited, with an expiring frown, for a pinhead of blood that did not appear.

The tires on Rooney Mara’s car shuddered and moaned ghostily as, at 10 a.m. exactly, she careened into the drive-through of the In-N-Out Burger nearest to her home. To a sign displaying the menu and embedded with a microphone and speaker she said, “Hi, can I get a ha-haaaa? Can I get a haa-haa-haaaaa?” Her voice was flat and mirthless.

“Did you give me a ha-haaaaa?” She drew out the last syllable until eventually it grew quiet as she ran out of breath.

“Did you give me a haa…,” but she hadn’t paused long enough to breathe, and this time “ha” was whispered.

“Ma’am?” said a voice projected from the speaker.

“Can I know about your haaaaaaaa…” This time she’d gotten a good breath and the question carried on for nearly a minute before her diaphragm shuddered and quit.

Inside, a manager said, “That’s Rooney Mara.”

“The actor?” asked the teenager taking orders.

“Yeah. Just fill a bag with crumbled up tray sheets and scoop some fries on top. She barely looks,” said the manager.

“What do you mean?”

“You’ll see.”

So the younger man filled a large bag with balled tray covers, then carefully arranged two scoops of fries so they covered the paper. “That’s three eighteen at the window,” he said into his microphone.

Hearing this from the outdoor speaker, Rooney Mara drove forward and stopped parallel to the window. A boy she thought was about her age stood inside looking at her.

“Hi, uh, three eighteen,” he said.

She reached both hands through her car window and held them out in expectation.

“Three eighteen?” said the teenager.

Rooney Mara’s arms straightened painfully, and her fingers stretched at odd angles. She showed all of her teeth.

The teenager nervously reached the bagful of paper and fries toward Rooney Mara, and slowly her arms closed around it, no quicker but with no less intention than the pedals of a flower hinging inward at sundown.

The tires tut-tutted as Rooney Mara accelerated out into mid-morning traffic, fries and balled paper spilling from the bag left slumped among inky motor oil stains on the drive-through’s newspaper-gray pavement.

Once, in a Vermont ski lodge when Rooney Mara was 11, she watched flames lap thirstily at stones in a giant fireplace while her parents drank wine and talked about whether to brave the evening snowfall or order pizza. Mrs. Mara screamed and Mr. Mara shouted “God!” when they noticed, almost simultaneously, that Rooney Mara had immersed both of her arms up to the elbows in the roaring fire. A doctor’s dinner was interrupted by the hotel’s urgent call, and he chided the parents for exaggerating when he found nothing, absolutely nothing, wrong with the girl’s arms.

Once, when Rooney Mara was on a roller coaster, she became scared, her grip tightening on the leg of the boy next to her. The boy’s leg was beginning to hurt a great deal when all life suddenly drained from the cars, bringing them to a stop near the middle of a steep decline.

“Better,” Rooney Mara exhaled, and released her grip.

Once, Rooney Mara told her mother that she was finished riding the pony her parents had rented for her birthday party. Mrs. Mara told her to stay in the saddle while her father reloaded the camera. The pony’s legs wobbled and folded underneath him, and his belly slapped the grass, his pupils shrinking to dots. Rooney Mara slid off the carcass and walked across the lawn toward a group of her friends who were getting their faces painted to look like mice.

 

7 Need-to-Know Facts About Star Wars

A new Star Wars trilogy is over the horizon! Here are seven stellar bits of trivia concerning the first six films. Guaranteed to impress even your nerdiest friends!

  1. The gold-colored character C3PO, who appears in all six Star Wars films, is, in fact, made of metal! He is a robot.
  2. The clone warriors of Episodes I, II, & III, though they look identical to Storm Troopers, are good guys!
  3. Chewbacca, Han Solo’s wookie assistant, is always just saying “Chewbacca!” in wookie language when he talks.
  4. The Ewoks, who appear in Episode VI, were played by trained dogs! After the movie’s completion, each of the actors had to keep one!
  5. During the filming of Episode II, a wild pig got onto the Millenium Falcon set and George Lucas shot it!
  6. In order to film the underwater scenes in Phantom Menace, the actor who played Jar-Jar Binks had to learn to actually breath underwater!
  7. In Episode III, Revenge of the Sith, you can see a weird little thing that wasn’t supposed to be there. George Lucas was reportedly so angry about this, he divorced his wife.