Oh John Carroll

Month: November 2013

Can’t remember the last time I watched a music video and instantly had to replay it once it was over. You’ve probably seen this by now, but if you haven’t, correct that immediately!

Brian Phillips wrote a great piece about Richie Incognito and Jonathan Martin:

The plague of NFL suicides might by itself hint at the severity of the desperation many players seem to find below the surface of America’s favorite TV show. And that might, in turn, argue in favor of extending some basic benefit-of-the-doubt compassion toward a young player who says he’s struggling. But let’s say you don’t see it that way. You need more convincing, maybe because you’re a man and you know that compassion is a lie invented to keep you from owning a Hummer. Fine. Let’s squeeze into our thinking caps and keep going.

The New Yorker‘s Emily Nussbaum wrote a great piece about the underrated It’s Always Sunny In Philadelphia:

“Always Sunny” isn’t always so self-referential: while it cannibalizes genres, it doesn’t have the abstraction of, say, NBC’s “Community.” But there was something cathartic about seeing the show address, with pride and self-loathing, its own unwillingness to be easily loved. It’s not as if dark shows can’t be popular: “Seinfeld” was a hit, after all. Yet, as impressive as “Seinfeld” was, it had no muck in it. It was icy and calculated, with its anger banked. In part, this was because of who the members of the “Seinfeld” gang were: educated Manhattanites with safety nets. In contrast, the “Always Sunny” characters are gutter punks—mostly Irish-Catholic drunks, although the twins grew up rich, with a Nazi grandfather—with no skills, intractable addictions, terrible families, and little capacity to get anywhere except the Jersey Shore, where they end up fighting over a “rum ham.” They’re not fun drunks: they’re scary, sad ones.

Tim Kreider has an excellent op-ed in The New York Times:

This is partly a side effect of our information economy, in which “paying for things” is a quaint, discredited old 20th-century custom, like calling people after having sex with them. The first time I ever heard the word “content” used in its current context, I understood that all my artist friends and I — henceforth, “content providers” — were essentially extinct. This contemptuous coinage is predicated on the assumption that it’s the delivery system that matters, relegating what used to be called “art” — writing, music, film, photography, illustration — to the status of filler, stuff to stick between banner ads.

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