Look. we almost can’t talk about it. Have you seen it? You need to. This six part parody of the romantic, potboiler melodrama TV “events” of the 70s and 80s is brought to you by the people of Funny or Die and IFC, and it’s honestly the best thing ever.
To be honest, we’ve been a little off this week. We, along with the rest of the planet, are mourning the death of Robin Williams, about which we’re not going to say anything more. The only thing to do in this kind of situation, is rely on old, solid standbys and time worn remedies. In this case, it’s a kitchen remedy. It’s called bread, and cheese.
Born and raised in North Carolina isn’t typically the start of a blog about adventure, but artist, metalsmith, businessman, and part time deejay (in the studio, at least) Colby Byrd founded his company, Shelton Metal, on the principles of a well traveled life.
We first saw the breaking news on real live peach butts for sale two weeks ago, and we thought everyone in the world would see it in two seconds, because, well, LOOK. But we haven’t run across it nearly as much as we should have, and it’s still really making our day. Read the article about the man who slips lingerie on produce, calls it “Ripe Fruit,” and sells them for eighty bucks a pop.
In case you’re chained to your desk for lunch, in hot pursuit of the almighty dollar, your own tiny ship where you’re the captain, sailing on the rough seas of industry, never even a moment to step away and get a cronut, watch David Byrne’s 1997 deconstruction of what a pop music video for “Miss America” might be, the glitter and track suits a la Mariah Carey and Sugar Ray and the general 1997-ness of it all never detracting for moment from Byrne’s trenchant lyrics about America as an icy lover.
If we were making a list about all the things we love about pre-fall, the pale, green, wild apples studding the trees in every field and park would be one through ten. Eleven is new boots, and twelve probably has something to with finding the perfect tiny backpack we search for every autumn.
The deeply disturbing world of the Internet often makes us cringe for the pain it causes us — the jellyfish sting of an out of left field racist comment on an innocuous video, the ever-present burden of never being able to unsee Tub Girl — but sometimes the dark anonymity of the blobosphere brings us warm solace, in an otherwise cold and confusing era. What we mean is this: the greatest thing about this impossible network of nonsense is the real humans behind it (sitting like lumps before desks as we all do, our laptops burning on our stomachs as we read in bed), and the ever-popular sharing of our stories, about ourselves, our childhoods, and mostly our mortifications, brings us closer together, precisely because we are far apart from each other, precisely because we are strangers.
If you’re looking for a bunch of glampers with antique oil lamps swinging from Chinese silk tents, keep clicking. This is not that camping story. (And we’re not sure any should be). Camping stories should be about a man with a hook for a hand terrorizing teenagers necking in on a lonely lovers’ lane, his hook scraping slowly along the car’s roof, NOT about how many power outlets the yurt has, or the ergonomic design of your sleep pod.