Kids may not be creative but they are cruel...

Entertain/distract yourself further when you watch Master Chef by considering this: Lloyd Grosman was teased at school enough for being called Lloyd, let alone the playground implications of his surname and extra ammo was provided by his stupid fake accent. What really got the kids bitching up an omelette was the fact that up close his balding (from 7, he used to wear a wig of dreadlocks, in tribute to his 87 generations of bald dutch ancestry) head is covered with a fine membrane and can be cracked like an egg. Indeed, a yoke like substance even trickles from the wound. That's why he still gets upset if people in the street yell:

"Oi four-eyed, spazzy voiced girls name, we can see your crack and it smells eggy. Gross-man! Master-chef this you toilet!"

Works every time. Cries like a girl. The wus.

(pronounced in perfect r.p.) "Get your kronk on my homie" http://stuffwhitepeoplelike.com/full-list-of-stuff-white-people-like/

Feel free to peruse the above list of topics from stuffwhitepeople.com. Feeling a little hurt? I hope not. If so, you're missing the point young hipster.
I never said any of those things were wrong (95% apply to me), the whole site was forwarded to me by Tim Walker at the Independent last year when he was doing a profile on the new young liberal male who supposedly values a lifestyle over money and has a specifically evolved set of supposed 'individual' traits. He realised like these guys, like everyone walking around East London and matching parts of new york, San Francisco, Seattle and protesting their 'originality' a bit too much; that they had in fact very uniform traits/styles. I'm there: If you'd read half way down the list you'd have seen that white people claiming to like plays:

"It is not known if white people actually enjoy plays or if they are just victims of massive peer pressure from the 45% of white people who have acted in a play at some point in their life."

and 'old skool' hip hop:

"Apparently, once a music has lost its relevance with its intended audience, it becomes MORE relevant to white people. They will quickly tell you about how they don’t listen to “Commercial Hip Hop” (aka music that black people actually enjoy), and that they much prefer “Classic Hip Hop.”

...Is in all in there too. It makes me laugh because most of this gentle ribbing highlights how often when conscientious people, perhaps a little like us are thinking/trying to stress their originality over others, they are actually doing the exact reverse. And in some areas, like extreme liberal guilt prompting absurdly shallow protestations of interest in other cultures, impressing music taste on others, going to cultural events you don't REALLY like and being convinced to pay 50% mark ups on food produced by same corporations because it makes us feel better about ourselves (i.e. superior to those paying for non-organic options) - ripe for parody.

That said, I don't think most of it is cynical, rather if anything its pointing out cynicism. It's not as if there isn't something self congratulatory and comforting about these observations in themselves. The guy who's writing it isn't some right wing stiff but rather a complete liberal, apologizing, terrified 'white folk' like us. Lets be honest, we all know that we have no good reason to buy Apple-Mac products over less expensive PC products but we're happy to do so! When whole of Shoreditch is teetering on self parody, how can it not be a good thing to step back and laugh at this stuff we pressure/cocoon ourselves with. I'm off to awkwardly sit and laugh at the "Royal Tenenbaums" with my platonic female friend now....

Dirty Shorts from '08

Our hill-billy entry for the Smoke and Mirrors 48 hour Film Challenge from October 2008. You're given the theme on Friday night and you turn in a completed film on the Sunday. Does it show, you decide...

Still Coming Soon, maybe.....

Rasslin'

The Wrestler (dir. Darren Aronofsky). 2008. US. – OUT NOW.

REVIEW

There are a number of inspired moments in Darren Aronofsky’s latest film ‘The Wrestler’ that see the line so blurred between that of the broken show-man and fighter in the script and Mickey Rourke’s own tortured journey from stardom to ruin, that the film feels like a beautifully shot ‘MTV: Diary Of’. Yet this is no vanity project for Rourke, far from it. Rumours of on set spats between the director and the star can be believed when you see the physical and emotional limits to which this film pushes Rourke’s performance as the gentle giant wrestler, Randy ‘The Ram’ Robertson. Yet, in many ways this tension between Rourke’s depiction of a man who is just looking for a good time but is in denial about the bed he has made for himself and the rapidly closing in world Aronofsky has created around him, is the key to the films success.
Many anticipate that this poignant warts and all tour de force from Rourke will win him his first Oscar and, like Daniel Days Lewis’ winning turn last year in ‘There Will Be Blood’, it’s a film thats success is hinged on this central performance. Also like PT Anderson’s movie, that performance is never bigger than the canvas against which it’s set. Ram is very much a product of his environment, a victim of it even.
Aronofsky’s unremitting gaze complete with long takes, the camera often lingering at a distance, is matched with the gruesome detail in which we see Ram nurse his injuries. It all combines to give these larger than life characters room to breathe and the audience a chance to smell the sickening mixture of blood and desperation long after the ringside screams have died down. The raw and beautifully underplayed performance from Rourke is also complemented and facilitated by stellar turns from Marisa Tomei and Rachael Evan Wood as the women in his life who are trying to love him. There are some who will see the poster for The Wrestler and watch this movie for an 80s themed nostalgia trip into the glory days of Prime-time wrestling and hair metal, and you have a feeling that had he told his own story, the Ram would’ve liked it that way and so perhaps would Rourke. Aronofsky though, had other plans; this is no Rocky Balboa underdog tale but rather a gruelling examination of one man’s pride, confusion and despite his best efforts, ultimate fall in the fight to hold on to who he is and who he once was, now he’s at the end of his life. The wrestling might be fake, but the hurt is very real.

TA