A.V. Club Blog

While perusing the vast oceans of tortured prose that constitutes my life’s work recently, I came to a horrifying realization: I am a terribly wasteful and long-winded wordsmith, the kind of self-indulgent writer who never uses a strong, simple word when several dozen fancy ones will suffice. Needless to say, this filled me with shame. Also embarrassment. And shame. Did I mention shame? It also made me feel very shamefullified. Down to my bones even.

Looking back on past projects I was horrified and chagrined, not to mention somewhat flummoxed, by the sheer volume of extraneous words in my assorted scribblings. Honestly, I don’t know how you people put up with me and my wanton, wordy wastefulness.

So from this point forward I vow not to waste a single word. I will certainly not test everyone’s patience by mindlessly repeating the same sentiment over and over and over and over and over again. Nor will I be redundant. From this moment on I will refrain from unnecessary literary throat...

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The Box Of Paperbacks Book Club: The X Factor by Andre Norton (1965)

(Not long ago, A.V. Club editor Keith Phipps purchased a large box containing over 75 vintage science fiction, crime, and adventure paperbacks. He is reading all of them. This is book number 37.)

“The golden age of comics is five,” goes an old quote variously attributed to Roy Thomas and Comics Buyer’s Guide editor (and friend of the column) Maggie Thompson. I’d argue that the golden age of science fiction is roughly around 12 or 13. Or at least that’s when the stuff grabbed me hardest. Star Trek was a gateway drug that led to Stanley Kubrick’s 2001 that led to Arthur C. Clarke that led to Isaac Asimov to the too-heady-for-me-at-the-time Stanislaw Lem and so on and so forth. That interest didn’t blossom into a lifelong love, however. By the end of 8th grade I’d grown a little embarrassed by science fiction. Blame it on early-onset-pretentiousness.... read more

This time out, let’s check in on a few songs by Booker T. Washington “Bukka” White, who sang like a raspy bullfrog and was one of the early masters of the National Steel resonator guitar. White was born sometime in the 1900s in eastern Mississippi—1909 according to his gravestone, 1902 according to other sources, and 1906 according to his profile on allmusic.com. He got his first guitar at age nine, whatever year that was, and decided to be a bluesman after hearing the great Charley Patton. His first recording sessions in 1930, from which four songs survive, are a mix of blues and gospel, with a particularly strong Blind Willie Johnson influence on “I Am In The Heavenly Way.” The gospel element went away in his later work, but otherwise his style was already evident.

Here’s a stellar... read more

In Vinyl Retentive, A.V. Clubbers share what we find while crate-digging in our own houses.

James Brown And The Famous Flames

”I Don’t Mind” b/w “Love Don’t Love Nobody”

King Records, 1961

Format: 7-inch single

File Under: The punch before the funk

Key track: “Love Don’t Love Nobody”

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Hey you

Yeah, you, loyal A.V Club reader,

If you’re like most A.V Club readers you’re probably worried that The A.V Club isn’t introducing new features fast enough. Sure, we have seventy-three or so recurring features we trot out on a regular basis in our ongoing effort to overwhelm readers with new content. But we haven’t introduced a new feature in a good three or four hours.

That’s why we’ve created a brand spanking new feature called “Ephemereview” that will chronicle some of the most useless pop-culture detritus known to man. “Ephemereview” will fearlessly explore all sorts of stupid, stupid shit that really does not merit being covered in any other context. Or at all. Needless to say, your suggestions are more than welcome. For the very first installment I’m going to write about Dane Cook: The Lost Pilots, two failed pilots everybody’s favorite comedian filmed shortly before he became dispiritingly ubiquitous.

Pilots are like fetuses:...

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Roughly halfway into the first song of the night, I suspected I was wasting my time.

The occasion seemed auspicious enough: Ministry was closing out its farewell “CU LaTouR” with a sold-out four-night stand in its hometown of Chicago, the city that was Ground Zero for the Industrial Revolution Ministry and Wax Trax! Records signified nearly 20 years ago. That scene may have died out, but Ministry was its critical component: It was both a member of it and encompassed it—during its heyday, Ministry was a sprawling collective that included all of that scene’s personalities at one point or another. So the band’s final show—“band” meaning founder Al Jourgensen and a bunch rocker dudes— (ostensibly) closed the door on Ministry and laid to rest a scene that appeared, peaked, and disappeared in the space of a few years.

So yeah, auspicious. But as Ministry opened with “Let’s Go” (from 2007’s The Last Sucker), a pummeling beat and raging guitars obliterated the pomp and... read more

I was lucky enough to attend the pilot taping of Bob Odenkirk and David Cross’ new HBO sitcom on Friday evening, and I’m pleased to report to you, legions of Mr. Show enthusiasts, that it was damn funny and entertaining.

I’ll try not to spoil every plot point and surprise here, but I’ll surely spoil some, so if you want to remain completely spoiler-free, you should probably, umm, turn off every piece of electronic equipment you own, just to be safe. On the other hand, there’s a chance you might never see the pilot of David’s Situation, unless HBO—based on this pilot—decides to order some episodes. So I’ll say this now, and then maybe again later: Hey HBO, order a season of David’s Situation. And this is coming from a guy who still sorta likes Entourage, HBO, so you can trust me a little. Also, I’m a subscriber! I’m your boss!

Anyway, the experience: The studio audience, numbering maybe 300 and including lots of Mr.... read more

Even though it’s my generational duty to do so, I don’t hate baby boomers. I’ve even stood up for the love generation on occasion. “Sure, baby boomers are smug, condescending, and overly enamored with their supposed generational achievements,” I say, “but what about classic rock, soul, and country? And ’70s Hollywood cinema? And all the great books, TV shows, and illegal but readily available drugs they’ve handed down to us?” Resent them if you must, but you have to hand it to the bastards—they’ve given us a lot of cool stuff. And because of that I’ve never been to able muster up true dislike for them.

Then I saw the new commercial for Just For Men’s Touch Of Gray hair treatment, which finally convinced me to taste the warm nectar of hatred for the generation that didn’t really stop the war but did elect Ronald Reagan twice. Yep, boomers sure are pricks, and now they have “the first and only hair treatment that lets you keep some gray,” according to... read more

OK, I'm totally lying. This is not a clip from I Want To Believe. But a guy can dream, can't he? (It's actually the opening credits of this show, which I had never heard of before yesterday; somehow I doubt I'll be writing a laudatory Better Late Than Never column about it anytime soon.)

Found at the reliably funny blog Why, That's Delightful!, the home of writer Graham Linehan, who among other things created the wonderfully insane Irish sitcom Father Ted.

(Thanks for the correction, rpgibbs.)

The other night I had yet another in a long series of recurring nightmares about a painting coming to life and threatening to kill me. In terms of frequency, as nightmare subjects go, this motif ranks second only to “remembering that I’m still enrolled in college and haven’t been to any classes this semester”—and that one actually makes sense, considering my admittedly lax attendance records during my own matriculation. But while that particular dream is a relatively new addition to my personal sleepytime cinema, the “innocent painting and/or photograph suddenly glaring at me menacingly before hectoring me relentlessly” theme, well, that’s been a constant ever since I was a child, no matter how old and cynical I may get, or how much my belief in the supernatural wanes. And like so many of my neuroses, it can all be traced back to one stupid brush with a piece of traumatic pop culture: The “A Portrait Of Henry” episode of Too Close Of... read more