Thursday, October 30, 2014

This Tree Bears Deadly Fruit

Things don’t tomorrow travel from my Tumblr to this blog, but I am making an exception for this. Can we talk about the loaded symbolism of this comic book cover for a moment?


On second thought... let’s not.

DC’s Unexpected, May 1972. Cover art by Nick Cardy. Originally posted by Rainy Day Recess.

Also, while on the subject, Unexpected, December 1867. Cover art by Jack Sparling.


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A Scary Horror Movie Scene in Which Nothing Explicitly Scary Happens

If pressed to name the scariest movie scene I’ve ever seen, I’d probably go with one in Lost Highway that introduces Robert Blake’s menacingly grinning character. Lost Highway isn’t technically a horror film, but David Lynch delves into the mystical, otherworldly, soul-shattering stuff often enough that it doesn’t need to be. It’s scary just as a neo-noir art film.

Dario Argento’s 1980 film Inferno features a completely G-rated scene that has always unnerved me and that I would like to offer for your consideration.

Give it a spin. It’s fairly brief.



Some context: Inferno is Argento’s sequel to Suspiria, which pits an American ballerina against a coven of German witches hiding in a dance academy. Much of Inferno concerns American music student Mark Elliot leaving Rome for New York to help his sister, who believes her apartment building may home to a second cluster of witches. The above scene takes place early in the film, before he arrives in New York.

Inferno is not as visually spectacular as Suspiria — and if you don’t know how beautiful the latter movie is, please have a look at this post, which offers a few dozen stills of the movie in all its color-saturated glory — but it has some good scary moments. The classroom scene, however, is the one that has stuck with me most, and for just one reason: It is the movie scene that best re-creates what it’s like to have a dream, at least for the kinds of dreams I have.

I have nightmares every now and then, but more often than not, I have these less outwardly scary dreams in which I’m trapped in a familiar setting where events are unfolding in an unrealistic manner that causes me gradual, increasing concern. The Inferno scene has Mark in an innocuous enough environment, a college lecture hall, but as he listens to the music, it becomes increasingly apparent that something is wrong.


Sunday, October 26, 2014

Graveyard Hyperbole

You might suspect a little hyperbole when reading the marker for Mickey Rooney’s resting place in the walls of the new Hollywood Forever mausoleum.


However, just a few slots about Rooney on the mausoleum totem pole-o’-eternal peace is another man, whose chief claim to fame seems to be coin-collecting and whose marker is the ballsiest in the entire graveyard.


It’s hard to read, stretching toward the heavens and above everyone else’s graves, so here’s a close-up look at that text.



Yep, “The Greatest Man the World has been blessed with.” Suck on that, everyone else in Hollywood Forever and also Mickey Rooney. For what it’s worth, it has prompted me to remember this guy... if only for his epitaph.

Saturday, October 25, 2014

Appropriate Appositions for Meghan Trainor

Apposition: a grammatical construction in which two elements, normally noun phrases, are placed side by side, with one element serving to identify the other in a different way.


Examples:

Meghan Trainor, that girl you remember from your freshman year English class

Meghan Trainor, your old babysitter

Meghan Trainor, your older brother’s date for junior prom, if you’re remembering correctly

Meghan Trainor, manga enthusiast

Meghan Trainor, someone who subleased from your friend Casey

Meghan Trainor, owner of an excitable dog named Peaches

Meghan Trainor, that girl who did a weird version of “Janie’s Got a Gun” at your middle school talent show

Meghan Trainor, assistant manager

Meghan Trainor, the person from whom you bought a used box spring back in 2006

Meghan Trainor, someone who maybe added the “h” to her first name in a hesitant attempt at a show business name

Meghan Trainor, mother of four

Meghan Trainor, the assistant pastry engineer at that bakery that was opened up a few years back by your mom’s friend, Mrs. Rosen

Meghan Trainor, the one who was trying to start a dace party at the bar last night

Meghan Trainor, fanfictioneer

Meghan Trainor, barrista

Meghan Trainor, barrista

Meghan Trainor, barrista

Friday, October 24, 2014

Why Sexy Is Stupid

Maybe you’ve done that exercise where you write or say the same word over and over, around a hundred times or so, until you start to find the word strange. It’s kind of like stumbling over the oddness of words like judicial or comfortable while stoned, only you can do this entirely sober. You’re actually inducing jamais vu, déjà vu’s contrarian stepsister. Whereas déjà vu has you imagining that an unfamiliar thing is familiar, jamais vu tricks you into finding the peculiar in something you’re certain you have experienced before.

I experienced this world recently when I had to complete a writing assignment that had me using and re-using the word sexy. In doing so, I realized two things: for one, I don’t use the word sexy very often, and for another, I hate it.

Not to jump back to getting stoned and talking about words, but have you ever noticed what a weird, stupid word sexy is? It’s just the word sex — you know, doin’ it — plus the adjective suffix -y, meaning “related to” or “associated with” or something thereabouts. So at least etymologically, the word sexy just means sex-ish or sex-related. In practice, this makes the word sound rather odd.

For example:


“Hey, what did you think of Sofia Vergara’s dress at the Golden Globes?”

“IT WAS SEXISH. IT WAS RED AND HAD PLACES FOR HER SEX CHARACTERISTICS, SO IT MADE ME THINK OF SEX. I LIKE SOFIA VERGARA’S SEXLIKE COPULATION GARMENT.”

See how that’s weird? Do you agree with me that it’s odd how this clunky, obvious word won out when English had a wide variety of more poetic words to describe the sexually appealing? (Among them: sultry, fetching, seductive, flashy, dazzling, sensuous, dishy, alluring, beguiling, bewitching, intoxicating, enrapturing, enchanting, charming and foxy. I’m leaving off toothsome no matter what the Merriam-Webster thesaurus says.)

In practice, we use sexy to mean more often “sexually attractive” than “sex-related” or “sex-adjacent,” but even that seems strange to me. In the United States, we have so many hang-ups with sex that we feel awkward saying the word, hence the gradual replacement of sex in the “male or female” sense with the grammatically rooted (and therefore decidedly unsexy) gender. Now we talk about people having gender rather than having sex, just so we don’t make anyone feel uncomfortable by reminding them of the primary process of human reproductive and nighttime-enjoyment. And yet sexy has nonetheless become our go-to for describing visual appeal that it’s even crossed over to a generic sense of “is a thing that is good,” as in “a sexy idea” or “this season’s sexiest new car.” To me, this is baffling.

According to Etymonline, sexy has been in use since 1905 and was first documented as meaning “sexually attractive” in 1923 — in reference to Rudolph Valentino.

For example:


“Well, hey there, Mabel. Did you get an eyeful of Valentino on the beach?”

“I’ll say, Ida. That Rudy’s so swell he makes me think about sex. He’s got it, and by ‘it’ I sure mean sex-relatedness. I could see his sex-parts in those trunks, and I enjoyed that, because of the sex. Peckers!”

Etymonline also notes, however, that in this sense sexy replaced the now-discarded word sexful, which is just the most awful thing ever.

For example:

“I am full of sex. I need to let some out. Interested?”

So yes, there are worse alternatives to sexy.

Wednesday, October 22, 2014

Facial Hair Dysmorphia

My name is Drew, and I feel insecure about my facial hair.


Let me describe for you a cycle that’s been going on for most of my post-pubescent life. Facial hair grows in, and stubble approaches beard status. About a week in, however, I begin to notice imperfections. “Oh, these few hairs don’t lie flat, and it looks patchy over yonder, and hey — have these two sides always been so asymmetrical?” I trim in an attempt to even it out. This maybe lasts a day or so, because when I’m next standing in front of the bathroom mirror, I realize that my attempts to fix the problem only made it worse. Of course, this only prompts me to try again to fix it, and in the end I end up buzzing it all away, back down to stubble, whereupon the cycle begins again.

(And no, clean-shaven is not an option for me. When I shave it off, I think I look like a kid play-acting as a grown-up. It creeps me out.)

Based on that description, you might think I’m critical of facial hair in general, but here’s the thing: I can’t remember the last time I saw some else’s stubble, beard, near-beard or whatever and had anything other than a positive reaction to it. Goatees excepted, I think facial hair better looks better than no facial hair, and I give everyone else a pass that I don’t give myself. At 32 years old, I’m basically good with the way I look and the way my body goes about its processes, but this one in particular I cannot accept. That’s maybe just how most people operate, saving their harshest judgment for themselves, but I’ve gradually become aware of the fact that I focus this harshness specifically on my facial hair.

Tuesday, October 21, 2014

With “It” Being Gray Skin and Vision-Obscuring Hair

Gwen Stefani has a new album coming out. This is news that some people will receive enthusiastically, I’d guess. Available data sets lead me to believe it will not significantly affect my life, but I can offer you the following side-by-side.


Am I the only one to see this? It’s the first thing I thought of. And as I keep seeing Stefani’s album cover on social media, it continues to be my only reaction to it.

Monday, October 20, 2014

The Foul Horror of the Zombie Sandy Duncan

Presented below is the middle third of the Hogan Family episode “Nightmare on Oak Street,” which horrified me and other unknowing youths who had tuned in expecting to see anything other than the zombie Sandy Duncan.


Yes, Jason Bateman also becomes a zombie, but that’s not what lingered with me: It’s the shot of Sandy Duncan’s ghoul face when she lowers the newspaper.


Looking at it now, it’s hardly scarier than any background alien on Star Trek: The Next Generation, or that show that I resented because it meant the end of weekday cartoons and therefore refused to watch. But at the time this episode aired, I was five years old and had never seen anything actually scary. Zombie Sandy Duncan was, at the time, the scariest thing I’d ever seen, and her horrible face became the thing I would absolutely try not to think about when I was in bed, in the dark, all alone. But I would. To this day, I’ve never been able to hear Sandy Duncan’s name without immediately jumping to this mental image.

All this got dredged up for a piece I did for People on the inexplicably scary episodes that classic sitcoms would sometimes do. As an adult, I get it: Writers like to experiment, to meddle in other genres. But I can still remember the stress of being a child, watching Hogan’s Family and wondering why it wasn’t the experience I wanted. I wonder if current family sitcoms are screwing with kids’ heads in a similar fashion.

And then there’s an awkwardness. This episode aired on November 23, 1987. On September 21, 1987, the show introduced Sandy Duncan’s character, who moved in to care for the boys after their mom, Valerie Harper’s character, died in a car accident. That’s what motivated the name change from Valerie to The Hogan Family. Even considering the behind-the-scenes scuffle that prompted Harper to leave a show that was literally named after her, doesn’t it seem odd that they’d follow up the mom’s death so soon after with an episode with walking corpses?

In conclusion and in summary, the theme song to this show is awesome and I never get tired of it and it pops into my head probably once a week, completely unprovoked and I just today found it that it was sung by Roberta Flack.


And to that point, I add only this: the image of “dippity-dooed” serial killer Blair, from the equally confounding slasher movie episode of The Facts of Life.

facts of life slasher movie blair serial killer

Just in case you never revisited it after its original broadcast and need assurance that yes, this is another strange thing that actually happened, and no, you did not make this up.

Thursday, October 16, 2014

Pinker Than Shepherd’s Delight

I’d barely been speeding. Here is a selection from the conversation that I had with the CHP officer who pulled me over.
Officer: So what were you listening to?

Me: I… excuse me?

Officer: When you sped past, you looked like you were listening to your jam. I was wondering what that jam was.

Me: Oh, it was just some dumb song.

Officer: Whose song was it?

Me: It… was a band that calls itself Marina and the Diamonds.

Officer: They sound pretty hardcore.

Me: They’re really not. Just a dumb pop band.

Officer: What was the song called?

Me: “Froot.” It was called “Froot.”

Officer: So if I were to look up Marina and the Diamonds and this song “Froot,” I would be able to listen to whatever you were listening to.

Me: Yes. But it’s not “Fruit.” It’s “Froot.” F-R-O-O-T.

Officer: That’s not how you spell “fruit.”

Me: Yeah, but that’s how she spells it.

Officer: She being Marina?

Me: Yes, sir.
In the end, I was allowed to proceed without a ticket, since my unblemished record and immaculately clean car made me seem like the kind of guy who only needs a warning to correct his bad behavior. Or maybe he just pitied me. Or maybe I just seemed especially harmless.

This, by the way, is the song that led me into a criminal lifestyle. It looks like Pac-Man at a gay rave.



Yes, I did learn all the lyrics. No, that will not get me anywhere. But hey — no ticket.

Previous stories which I allege to be funny:

Tuesday, October 14, 2014

Let’s Go Ride a Bike

Hey. I’ve made a new mix of the music I’m listening to this month. Album art below. It’s mostly newer stuff. I hope you enjoy.


If you’d like to listen or download — just right-click any song you like to save — you’ll need the password. I’m happy to give it. Just email me or tweet me or whatever and I’ll hook you up.

And here’s the September mix, in case you want to further take in my own personal soundtrack. The same password will get you into both.

Monday, October 13, 2014

My Murder, She Wrote Conspiracy Theory [Developing]

Without realizing it, I started powering through Netflix’s entire series run of Murder, She Wrote in conjunction with the series’ thirtieth anniversary. I watch an episode or two whenever I have work that doesn’t require too much attention, and as I move ahead through the series, I’ve begun to develop a theory that, much like the theories of evolution or gravity, is impossible for any rational mind to dispute. And no, this is nothing as simple as the trite “What if Jessica Fletcher is actually the killer?” theory. No, this is much deeper than that.


Jessica Fletcher has a seemingly inexhaustible supply of nieces and nephews, all spread across the country and working in every industry imaginable.


Each of these young relatives are, per Jessica Fletcher, incapable of murder but nonetheless associated with murders.


It’s possible that each of these supposed nieces and nephews are actually just Jessica Fletcher’s murder operatives that she's manipulating under the guise of being their kindly, childless aunt.


She used to be an English teacher — so better to brainwash young people into becoming murder drones, obviously.


Jessica Fletcher’s brothers and sisters are seen rarely. I assume she has killed them all in order to raise their children as her murder drones.


People probably suspect Jessica Fletcher of being a murderous mastermind, but they still invite her places because they’re scared of angering her.

Saturday, October 11, 2014

The Time I Hit a Cat in the Butt With an Orange

I recently finished building a raised wooden planter, and the kale and other leafy greens are just beginning to sprout. To me, it represents the promise of fresh vegetables during the winter months. To the neighborhood stray cats, however, it’s simply fresh, soft dirt that’s not yet cluttered by plants. In other words, it’s a free shitter that I made just for them.

artisanal cat toilet, made from reclaimed wood
I’m trying various deterrents, but the bolder cats don’t care. And while I was in the yard yesterday afternoon, I saw one pawing at the dirt. This rotten dick of cat, who’s the color of rainclouds and who saunters around like a goddamn mafia don, I knew he was not digging for treasure. I yelled at him, but that only prompted him to raise his tail and squat while looking directly at me. Enraged by this willful act of defiance, I did the only thing I could think to do: I grabbed a mostly decomposed orange that had fallen into the yard and slung it in the cat’s general direction.

To cat-lovers, this probably makes me sound like some sort of feline-stomping monster, but I swear to you that my only goal was to hit the wall nearby and scare the intruder away. This did not happen. For one, I have terrible aim. And for another, the cat saw the citric missile coming and turned around to run away. In doing so, he aligned his little kitty asshole right into the orange’s path, and with a spectacular splatter in impacted right on target — squarely onto his asterisk.

He flipped onto his back and then just lied there, with a “what the fuck?” expression on his face in place of the usual “fuck you” one. I felt weirdly embarrassed. Later, I saw him cleaning pulp off his feline... person.

I’d just like to acknowledge that mistakes were made all around.

It’s neither here nor there, but I’d also acknowledge that I built the planter with my own two man-hands. Well, and a saw. And nails. If you have to pick between the two feats, please only credit me for making the planter.

Friday, October 10, 2014

Melanie Griffith Had a Lion

A 1971 photo essay documented Melanie Griffith’s life at home with her unusual pet: Neil, an African lion that Griffith’s family adopted from famed Satanist Anton Lavey. The pictures went viral today, and while my first reaction was to give Melanie Griffith a hug — “Oh, you never had a chance at being normal, did you?” — my second reaction was to improve upon a photo of the family maid attempting to do her job around this considerable obstacle of an animal.


You’re welcome, internet!

“Here, look at this image,” previously:

Thursday, October 09, 2014

The Purported Plagiarism of Bobby Orlando (A Dance Party)

Let me tell you about Bobby Orlando.


In short, he helped shape the music of the ’80s. Orlando is one of the guys credited with inventing the evocatively named “Hi-NRG” sound that helped the dance beats of the ’70s bleed into the synth we associate with the ’80s. Though American, Bobby Orlando’s take on dance music influenced the Euro disco and italo disco genres with which I’m so fascinated. More than a few write-ups on the guy accuse him of some pretty nasty homophobia, and that’s especially interesting because a lot of the music he made got major play in gay clubs. He also worked with Pet Shop Boys and Divine, however, and a schmoe like me who’s just reading second-hand reports about him can’t weigh in on this apparently contradiction one way or the other. However, there are other online rumblings about vague misdeeds too — like this one, claiming to be from singer Roni Griffith herself — and one of the most frequent allegations is plagiarism.

I found out about this earlier this summer when I posted about the odd similarity between Roni Griffith’s “Desire” and The Flirts’ “Passion.” The latter nearly sounds like a cover of the former, but it’s just different enough that “rip-off” seems like a more appropriate term.


However, given that Orlando masterminded both songs as well as both artists, it gets trickier. Did he plagiarize himself? Or was Griffith’s version simply a beta version of the song he finalized a year later?

One reader left a comment on that post that put the similarity in a larger perspective.
Bobby Orlando was notorious for actively working to mimic songs that were hits; Divine's "Love Reaction" is basically just "Blue Monday" redux; The Flirts "On the Beach" sounds like Soft Cell/B-52's collaboration that never was. So there's something strangely reassuring that he would cannibalize his own hits, as well.
And this prompted me to look around online and try to find every instance I could find of someone claiming that a Bobby Orlando creation ripped off some other song. All the results are below, but do take this all the salt you feel appropriate. I’ve been writing online long enough to know that I don’t understand music well enough on a technical level to say “Hey! This ripped off that!” with any authority. This is just what other people online have put together, and I thought they made for interesting side-by-sides. (Special thanks to My Year of Mixtapes for posting the biggest list.)

New Order’s “Blue Monday” (1983) and Divine’s “Love Reaction” (1983)


I’m actually not sure if 1983 is the right year for the Divine track. The version posted above is a re-working of the song. I think this is the original. Regardless, New Order responded to the Divine song live in concert.

The B-52s’ “Private Idaho” (1980) and Barbie and the Kens’ “Just a Gigolo” (1981)


The B-52s’ “Rock Lobster” (1978) and The Flirts’ “On the Beach” (1983)


Blondie’s “Call Me” (1980) and Roni Griffith’s “Hot Lover” (1981)


Wednesday, October 08, 2014

A Conversation With Online Advertising About My Recent Underwear Purchase

Me: I have purchased underwear online.

Online advertising: HEY DO YOU WANT TO BUY UNDERWEAR

Me: Hmm? Oh, no. I already did.

Online advertising: HEY DO YOU WANT TO BUY UNDERWEAR

Me: No, I bought a sufficient amount.

Online advertising: HEY BUT UNDERWEAR

Me: Right. I actually use the internet for purposes other than underwear-purchasing.

Online advertising: HEY

Me: Yes? What?

Online advertising: LOOK HERE IS THE UNDERWEAR YOU WERE LOOKING AT

Me: Thanks. I know. I don’t need to see it again until it arrives in the mail.

Online advertising: THEY COME IN COLORS TOO

Me: You know, I’m actually typing in a sort of public space right now…

Tuesday, October 07, 2014

Turning My Friends Into GIFs, Part Two

Last week, I made a gif of my friend Kristen licking her finger ostentatiously. In following this up with Kristen, I told her that if it would make her feel any better, I’d also make gifs of other friends. Lo and behold, guess what came across my desk today? A video of my friend Jill (of Jill fame), terrified and shaking, skydiving — submitted by a source who chose to remain anonymous.

Here are the goods.




I should say right now that though I’ve been bungee jumping, I would never go skydiving. So laugh though we might at Jill’s bowel-rumbling terror, she’s doing something that I and many others lack the courage to do. I only possess the courage, it seems, to turn my friends’ feats into gifs in hopes that they’ll find it funny. May future generations use them on Tumblr to represent whatever dreaded thing people need to symbolize with an animated gif.

For the record, here is Jill more how we all remember her: giving a thumbs up to the world in the face of certain doom.


So... who else has a video out there?

Monday, October 06, 2014

Questions I Have About These New Episodes of Twin Peaks

So this, obviously, is something I never thought would happen, even after season four of Arrested Development and the Veronica Mars movie. It was too far off, too locked into its cult classic status. But no, despite all that, this is happening again. There are new episodes of Twin Peaks coming in 2016.


I have some questions, however.

Would Laura be 25 years older? Despite, you know, being dead?

Would Cooper be 25 years older, despite not existing on our plane of reality all this time?

Isn’t nice how Kyle MacLachlan aged more gracefully than the Twin Peaks makeup artists guessed he would?



Will it be Twin Peaks: The Next Generation?

Can James have married Donna? Could Shelley have married Bobby? Could Audrey have married Johnny Justice Wheeler? And could their kids all be attending high school together?

Or has “Bad Cooper” killed off everyone in Twin Peaks by now? Can the establishing shot be the the town’s population, considerably lowered in the past twenty-five years?

So… no BOB, right? Since Frank Silva died in 1995?

And no Mrs. Tremond, since Frances Bay died in 2011?

And no Pete Martell?

Could the show guest-star Zooey Deschnael and Rashida Jones, since by virtue of being the daughters of Eileen Hayward and Norma Jennings, they’re Twin Peaks legacies?

If the show revisits the doomed soul of Josie Packard, must it keep the same early-90s CGI?


Or could Joan Chen instead play the much-discussed Judy?

Will Molly Shannon reprise her role as Judy the foster care lady?

Molly Shannon Twin Peaks

Can Catherine Martell please be having as much sex as ever?

Would Donna be back?

Would the show have to explain how Donna moved to Hollywood and that’s why she looks like this now?


I tried and failed to find out what James Marshall looks like now. And it’s neither here nor there, but hey, look what a baby-faced James Marshall looked like in a 1985 episode of Murder, She Wrote.

James Marshall Murder She Wrote

Can Annie Blackburn still have her radically 90s moussed-to-all-hell curls?


How weird will it be for people like me — who only experienced Twin Peaks’ original TV run through on-air promos for a show I wasn’t allowed to watch and who has only known the show as a canceled cult classic — to watch a brand-new episode?

I will update this the moment anything Twin Peaks-related crosses my mind. And forgive me, but I have devoted a lot of my mental energies in the past decade to Twin Peaks. This news put them into hyperdrive.

Friday, October 03, 2014

Things I Found Buried in My Yard

The house was built in 1942. Apparently no one picked up after themselves beween then and 2014. So far I have found…

so much broken glass, so many rusted nails

a mystery marble

a detached rosary crucifix

another mystery marble

piuma wines
a screw-off top to a wine brand that could date back to 1939

the corpse of motherfucking groot
So tell me, super sleuths: What cautionary tale are the ghosts in my yard trying to tell me? What story do these clues tell you?

Thursday, October 02, 2014

Revenge of the Creature from the San Andreas Fault

So here’s a weird thing that happened. Yesterday’s post concerned my friend Kristen, who back in college starred in a photo shoot I did for a class project in which I tried to re-create a film press packet. I chose to make a bad slasher movie, which I titled Creature from the San Andreas Fault. In yesterday’s post, I used one of those photos.

star vivian lynn pfefferman, unaware of approaching doom
Weirdly, hours before, someone on Twitter used a different one of those photos. I just found out late tonight.

For the project, we purposefully tried to imitate Scream. Here’s the original image we used as inspiration.


It’s little more than a weird coincidence, but it is a surprising one considering how I and everyone else in the online world forgot about these photos until now. However, it did remind me of this project that I did more than a decade ago...

Wednesday, October 01, 2014

How to Lick Your Finger

Earlier this week, I received a visit from my friend and former roommate Kristen. During the visit she informed me that there exists online a video of her principally making an ice bath — as in the ones used for culinary purposes — but which notably concludes with her licking a dollop of tasty, cool dessert off her finger.

I don’t know why she told me this.

I have self-restraint problems.

Here, then, is the obvious evolution of this moment, in the highest form that exists online.

finger licking

I… couldn’t help myself.

I feel bad now. Here, look at my favorite photo of Kristen.


Am I still a bitch?

From Quentin Tarantino to Jayne Mansfield in Three Songs

You probably remember the 5.6.7.8’s from the finale of Kill Bill: Vol. One. They’re the all-girl rockers covering “Woo Hoo” and “I’m Blue” onstage before everyone starts losing limbs. You may also know them as the band that all those Vonage ads made you start hating, but they seem to have stopped, and thank god for that.


But they have this other, better song called “I Walk Like Jayne Mansfield.” It’s an original, and even if I shuffled “Woo Hoo” off my iTunes — again, because Vonage — this one remained.


Just recently, I found what, precisely, the 5.6.7.8’s were playing off with that track: Mansfield’s side career as a singer and, in particular, the 1965 track “Suey.”


She’s not singing, exactly. She’s sing-talking. If you wanted to get weird about it, you could say that what she’s doing is kinda-sorta a progenitor to rap. Though she certainly wasn’t the only one to do it, she is sing-talking over a beat, and what else is rap, really?

By the way, that’s Jimi Hendrix on lead guitar.