Cee-Lo Green Gets It Off His Chest In Top-Drawer Fashion: Is This Funny?

I won't go into any review or analysis as this one speaks for itself. But I will say that I found it refreshing that rather than write a standard break-up song about having to be strong in the face of heartbreak and trying to heal in a positive way, Cee-Lo Green goes all emotionally incorrect and literally spells it all out in the video embedded below. Special thanks to my brother for sending me the link.

Cee Lo Green "Fuck You"
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Ghost In The Machine: An Old Medium Unravelled Is Today's Badass Art

Step 1: Dislodge Nick Cave tape stuck in truck cassette player.

Step 2: Unravel tape.

Step 3: Make painstakingly complex and beautiful art.

Step 4: Call it Ghost In The Machine.

Guatemalan Flight Data Recorder: Is This Funny?

Here is a spanish language video reporting that authorities investigating the crash of an Aero Guatemala Flight in La Masilla have recovered the plane's flight data recorder and begun to release limited information about what may have happened onboard flight 1134 prior to the crash. Preliminary reports point to equipment failure as the likely cause. The flight data recorder suggests that the Fairchild F27 suddenly lost altitude and plummeted out of the control of veteran pilot Manuel De Iglesias and his crew. The clip shows a source from within Aero Guatemala, his face hidden to protect his anonymity, stating that the company had known of and ignored reported problems with the aging engine, a claim which Aero Guatemala denies.

Is this funny?

Shutter Island: Martin Scorsese Drifts A Little Further From Himself

Something must happen to a person when they're repeatedly denied the pinnacle of success in their chosen profession. Naturally, some of us are simply role players in this life and that suits the majority of us just fine. But professionals such as athletes, scholars, scientists and even filmmakers, those that operate in the public eye, are often further compelled by the force and scrutiny of their audiences to not only grab the proverbial brass ring, but to dunk the mo-fo in a piping-hot cup of gasoline, set it afire with telekinetic energy and down it without even chewing. To be recognized as the best, you have to win championships, Nobel or Pulitzer prizes and of course, get the nod from the hit n' miss judgement of The Academy Awards. Much like a woman who has been a bridesmaid over half a dozen times but has never herself been married, there have to be some mental obstacles to overcome when squeezing one's self into yet another dress that matches the floral arrangements and venue decor but doesn't quite feel like you.

Chump Change: Dan Fante (Harper Collins)

There is a weatherman on one of the local networks here in Salt Lake City who is what can only be described as second generation "meteorologist". His father was a weatherman for two stations, spanning nearly four decades, in an era preceding cable television and long before the the advent of the internet that can now provide a person with weather information in their hip pocket, thereby relegating the talking heads of all meteorologists into the bin of obsolescence. Still, there are those that habitually tune in to watch this particular weatherman yammer on and on in his banal efforts to continually present his occupational standing as somehow relevant when the truth is that if it weren't for his father and his well deserved reputation of professionalism, this guy would have peaked hawking Sno Cones or perhaps even doing the lord's work; serving as a parking lot attendant or an insurance salesman. The sad fact is that when a son tries to follow his successful father into the same profession, the results are often meritless and pathetic. Sure, becoming a professional athlete or politician or even a dentist can work, perhaps even solidify a family business for a few generations. But there are far too many painfully grating examples of sons following too closely in their father's footsteps resulting in the proverbial "flat tire" effect usually caused by the toe of one shoe stepping on the heel of the other in a crowded hallway or stairwell landing.

Neil Young: Live At Massey Hall 1971 (Reprise Records)

Easily Toronto's equivalent, if not outright one-upsmanship of Minnesota's native son and folk legend Bob Dylan, Neil Young is in that whole different class of artist who can boast a following that spans nearly five decades and several generation's worth of musical craftsmanship. Arguably, much of his catalog falls into an overly expansive sector of the rock and roll landscape to reasonably classify it as one thing or another as Young took an independent, if not erratic approach to realizing his musical inspirations ranging from country and folk to hard rock and experimental electronica. Because of his broad range of musical interests, Neil Young falls heavily into the category of acquired taste. Young's lightly polished, high register singing style is not for everyone. Some listeners may first encounter Young's distinctive voice and declare it to be an insurmountable stumbling block when trying to access the full breadth of his work. But if the ear is allowed the chance to adapt to the lilting nature of Young's shaky falsetto, the unimpeachable evidence of his other worldliness becomes difficult to deny. Young's delicately crafted songs, with their intricate guitar and piano work, coupled with his frank, narrative approach to lyrics and songwriting in general was never designed for the purpose of commercial success, but served first and foremost as the most direct means in which the artist could keep a sort of public musical diary for interested strangers to thumb through.

The Beginning Of The End: The Failing Experiment Of The NBA In Utah

As a once devoted fan, now a simple observer of the Utah Jazz, Salt Lake City’s unlikely NBA franchise, I couldn’t help but bear witness to their most recent and unceremonious exit from the playoffs at the hands of the much hated and much higher profile Los Angeles Lakers. As recent custom would have it, the Jazz went down with little resistance; four straight games in what would ideally have been a best of seven series. Once again Jazz fans are forced to reevaluate the team assets a few weeks earlier than they had hoped and must now convince themselves that perhaps we'll get 'em next year, drawing hope from what has emerged as an insane and seemingly inexhaustible supply of "we'll get 'em next year"s. Some fans are contrite in their denial following our perennial dismissal from the party, suggesting that perhaps some harder defensive play and maybe a few key moves in the off season might be just what the doctor ordered to finally get past those pesky, talent-rich teams out west. Less grounded fans exhibit their denial by concocting what-if scenarios; hair-brained schemes that somehow incorporate the miraculous acquisition of a big-name/big-game free agent that could never possibly come to fruition, with some theories so far-fetched that they teeter on the edge of sports science fiction. The entire culture here in Utah has a rich history of powerful denial. A denial so long carried and engrained into this valley that you can almost feel it in the air as you come off an airplane. That same denial has permeated the Jazz since the end of the era in which they made two unsuccessful trips to the finals against the Bulls. The time for them to address the encroaching realities of owning a National Basketball Association team in today's market may be irreparably past due and the once sturdy ship of the Utah Jazz basketball franchise is beginning to show serious cracks in its hull.