Category Archives: Culture

On Obama picking Vanderbilt over Harvard

President Obama filled out his NCAA Tournament bracket this week. It’s become something of an annual tradition these past three years. Andy Katz shows up in a suit, hauls along one of those oversized, cardboard brackets, and Obama grabs a sharpie, delivering his picks with that trademark cadence.

This really isn’t about Obama filling out a bracket. It is, to me at least, one of the cooler things he does. Less cool that he does it on ESPN. But Obama seems to know ball, and his brother-in-law coaches Division I basketball, and basketball just seems to be a family sort of thing; one of those things he shares with people he loves.

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Why We Love Ryan Gosling

There’s nothing wrong with Ryan Gosling.

Gosling is a household name, face, and body. Fashion-forward straight men love him for his style and everyone else loves him for his everything else. From The Notebook to Half Nelson to Blue Valentine to Drive, the blue-eyed Canuck has dabbled in quite a few corners of the movie — and music — business and done a damn good job of it.

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Why, yes, Paul Rudd was once in a French commercial for Super Nintendo

The title of this post may be the most bizarre thing I’ve ever written. No, really. Paul Rudd. Kansas City’s Paul Rudd. French commercial. Super Nintendo*. Wait, what?

*The best part: I once owned F-Zero, the futuristic racing game Rudd is playing at the beginning of the commercial. 

I actually interweaved my way to this commercial through a Twitter link about Jack Black appearing in an old Atari commercial. Meh. But then there was Rudd, sitting on the side of the webpage, clutching a controller with a funny grin on his face. And, well, once you’ve seen Paul Rudd in a French commercial for Super Nintendo, you just can’t go back.

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Unsolicited Endorsements: XIII

Because sometimes you just want friends to tell you about cool things… the Brew House team offers up its weekly mix of author-supported goodness.

Film: “The Pruitt-Igoe Myth: An Urban History”


In college, I detested pre-requisite classes. My line of thinking: “When will I ever use biology, geology or the principles of mathematics in my everyday life?”* Sociology was the lone exception. I read all of our assigned books and texts and made it all the way through the textbook — even the sections we weren’t assigned. Social and financial stratification, ethnicity or gender as a blessing or curse, the construct of “race:” I found much of this fascinating. As an adult (I use that term lightly), it’s no surprise that my favorite genre of film is Documentary, and I much prefer non-fiction writing to fiction. I’ve consumed a lot of this material in recent years, and “The Pruitt-Igoe Myth: An Urban History” stacks up favorably against most of it.

The Theory of Moderation (Or how I learned to rip things): Volume II

Back a couple months ago, I mentioned this story. It’s about this old maxim my brother used to say. I’m pretty sure he didn’t come up with it. At least, I don’t think he did. But I always think about it whenever I feel guilty about doing something.

The quote, in and of itself, is about moderation. But really, it’s about everything else.

“I live my life by the theory of everything in moderation,” he would say. “But to truly live out this creed, you also have to exercise moderation in moderation. So, every once and a while, you have to embrace extreme debauchery.”

I always liked these words. 

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The Year of the Stream

It all changed July 14.

When Spotify expanded its service to the United States earlier this year, the streaming platform altered and improved the way I consume and find music — hopefully forever. No more forking over $9.99 per digital album on iTunes. No more sifting through shady sites in search of a decent free version of the week’s biggest release.

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Music and 2011

About three months ago, on a clear and cool night in early September, I made the short trip to Midtown to watch Bon Iver play at the Uptown Theatre. (That makes sense if you live in KC.)

On most nights, this would seem like a pretty simple plan.

Drive to said show. Sip a beer and act sufficiently curious during the opening act. Experience the concert. And then head back out into the Kansas City night, content, inspired, ready for more music.

The circumstances of this night, however, were something different. After planning for a couple weeks to go with two friends, life interfered in the days leading up to the show, and I was left with two extra tickets.

The Uptown was sold out that night, and I knew this. So I knew it wouldn’t be a problem to unload the extra tickets at the last minute, but I also felt a little hesitant about going to the show by myself.

Do people do this? I thought.

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Russians, Adele and How I Learned to Stop Worrying and Realize I Have the Consumerist Soul of a Suburban Woman

GoMusicNow.com is a music website that offers full albums for about two dollars and songs for about 15 cents. It is heaven, and it is likely (HAS TO BE) illegal. And I think it is based out of Russia.

One day in the not too distant future I will almost certainly take three steps out of my apartment and then three KGB agents will grab my arms and legs and cover my mouth with a chloroform rag before transporting me to a secret underground missile silo that doubles as a gulag for punk Americans who think they can cheat the music industry. I know this. Their names will be Dmitri, Boris (pronounced bo-REEEES) and Vladimir. I wait attentively like a minuteman for this regrettable day. Until then, GoMusicNow.com is worth it.

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Konichiwa, Bitches

This weekend, Robyn is the musical guest on Saturday Night Live, Saturday FREAKING Night Live. At Rockefeller Center. On national TV. As part of one of the most famous shows in American history. In terms of excitement level, for me, this pretty much equates finding a $20 bill on the ground with no one else around and then discovering that a Champion replica Bryant “Big Country” Reeves Grizzlies jersey is available for $20 on EBay, so yeah, VERY high excitement levels. Continue reading

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The story of Peter Berg

That afternoon, as the sun began to descend over the colorful mélange of San Francisco hills, we took our seats in the garden, a backyard with strange looking flora, life surrounding everything.

Our hosts looked at us with a hint of friendly suspicion. How could you blame them?  We were intruders, strangers, locusts looking for answers.

But… we did sit quietly. Mostly because we didn’t know what to say.

We had traveled thousands of miles, thrown into a journey that was one-part contest, one-part investigation, and one-part discovery.

And now we were here, sitting in the backyard of an old, white-haired man named Peter Berg, trying in vein to explain ourselves.

At last, the old man spoke:

“I wanna know two things,” he said, “One is why Peter Coyote? And why me?”

 

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