Bojack Horseman makes me laugh.

Chinchilla!

 

Netflix does kick ass. Lenny Abrahamson's film Frank, far from being perfect, is still a joy to behold. A film about strange creative people in creative relationships and processes.

Contrary to anything and anyone, Frank the character doesn't have much of a process, he is the prototype of the mad genius. A myth, more than a man. After all, he can write songs about anything. Really.

Based on Frank Sidebottom, Chris Sievey's comic persona, and inspired by Captain Beefheart and Daniel Johnston, Domhnall Gleeson, Maggie Gyllenhall are great, but Michael Fassbender is just incredible. For a guy who spends 90% of the movie wearing a fake head, he does a hell of a job.

The soundtrack is something. In particular "I Love You All", a song that ends the movie and makes me think of what Joy Division's Ian Curtis could have done if he ever played with The Beta Band. Amazing stuff.



Michael Fassbender cantando I Love You All en The Colbert Report 6 Agosto 2014 from Michael Fassbender Fan on Vimeo.

Stephen Rennicks whose responsibility of coming up with all these crazy ass tunes fell upon, gave a pretty interesting interview to LA Weekly. The whole process is messy, as Austin Kleon would put it.

Just go ahead and watch it, it's good stuff.

David Ogilvy's 'On Advertising' has some great advice on recognising big ideas:

Good shout, Darth Maul.

Horseback Diaries

Turned my swag on.

The light tortured my eyes in unacceptable ways. That fateful morning, I reflected on the meaning of life as I struggled with the smell of my own breath and armpits.

What had I done to deserve such severe livelihood? Had I been subjecting people to such painful experiences and sorrow that they were being led into madness and suicide? Was I a Mick Hucknall for the Youtube generation?

Maybe I should have had dinner instead of wine, beer and toilet water.
Maybe I should have avoided eating a whole Golden Syrup cake that had given me a irritable bowel syndrome and could have led me to spray paint the streets in poo?
Maybe.

I had been flustered in my existence by the breath of some drunk Polish guy and a vision of hell: an amateur porn video from 1997 that looked more like a horror directed by Eli Roth.

My being was sanguine, hell, I lived a joyous life. I sang and danced on the fields like Julie Andrews and I burped and farted and I once gave a hobo an expired credit card. Why would the universe want to mess with me?

Worst of all, I struggled to find the most beautiful woman in the universe, who I encountered leaving the bathroom of a pub whose name I can't remember on purpose. She had probably gone for a poo and a selfie, but she looked so naive and ethereal I wondered for a moment if I hadn't roofied myself.

I knew her name and attempted to stalk her on social media, to no avail. How can I find her? What am I? Who is this fat ginger bird in my bed? Some questions, I came to believe, are meant to remain unanswered. 

the comedian and his turtle, number three.

He used to wake up and dream of making people laugh. He misses the days where the skies weren't so grey, the food so shitty, and all the women he had sex with morbidly obese. Life was to him a torture and his existence futile. The comedian hadn't made his bed in months and still slept amidst some leftover cheese biscuits from 1993. He smelled like a rancid scrotum, and that was far from being nice.

Something was missing from his life, something beautiful. A naked picture of Jennifer Lawrence perhaps, he thought. But he already had acquired that because he was a pervert who couldn't help look at titties, no matter what. The whiskey in his cornflakes wasn't helping and as a drop of sour tomato soup fell from his beard into his crotch, he felt a deep sadness.

The turtle had left. His friend and companion of many years had abandoned him. One morning, he had told him he was leaving to buy cigarettes and never came back. He didn't even smoke, but he didn't argue with him. After all, he was a talking turtle and for someone who grew up watching mutant turtles eating pizza, that was sort of okayish.

Now without a soul to tell stories about his comedy misfortunes he was alone. Every day for the last six weeks he had tried to commit suicide and failed. He wasn't very good at anything in particular, apart from playing checkers. He could play that shit really well.

Where could have he gone? The town had only thirty-five square metres and most of that space was occupied by fat people on mobility scooters outside Greggs. Who would know. Plus the turtle wasn't very good at hiding, a fact proven before in a game of hide and seek, where he put himself in between pages three and five of The Big Issue for seven months.

Tired of looking for his Galapagos friend and potential ninja, the comedian entered a strip club. The sight of breasts appealed to him and made him cry for a moment. Then he realized he wasn't in a strip club but merely at his local pub and the breasts belonged to a inebriated football hooligan.

He arrived at an actual strip club at last. After thirty-three shots of Sambuca with a Romanian stripper, he was ready to give up on life at last. He would throw himself in front of a train. Hopefully one that wasn't stationary, like last time.

"Comedian! You twat!" the turtle shouted from the other end of the room. Happiness filled the comedian's face.
"Turtle, you're alive!" he said.
"I was hoping you had killed yourself by now man. You were totally about to when I left, I didn't fancy staying to clean up your corpse mind you. Especially considering I'm only an imaginary turtle and all."
"It's okay, I understand." the comedian said, crying. "I love you!"
"Now that's just disgusting." said the turtle "At least suicide I respect you know. You stop bothering people with your shit. It saves a lot of time and money and there are plenty of people on this planet already, watching Pop Idol and whatnot. I'd rather have you die choking on your own balls or something. Like a man. Because I care about you."

Suppose he was right, the Comedian thought.
He had spent his entire time feeling sorry for himself, when he could have been doing something productive, like catching gonorrhea. He could have had a monstrous baby with a minger, whom he would have to end up drowning to protect the environment.

"You're a downright pussy," the turtle said. "Not like a cat or a vagina but a real fucking pussy."

"All you do is sit at home all day watching porn and as much as I like Two Girls One Horse Plus Three German Shepherds it does get boring after the twelve-thousandth time. Get out there, get drunk, fuck shit up."

Suddenly a glimmer appears around the turtle and he grows angel wings. He becomes like an angel turtle and that's just weird. God must be desperate for recruits. The turtle flies to the heavens, leaving a poo on his way and a very special message in the clouds:

"TWAT."

There was never a turtle. There was only him and his insecurity. His fear of failure. The turtle was a fragment of his imagination, an excuse he had developed to think that he sucked balls. But he didn't. He merely licked them. His dog's. Because someone convinced him the dog's bollocks were the best thing ever. And he believed it.

Leo da Vinci knows

This one is called 'Eraser'

When the sister and I play hang man.

Vote with your heart.

Andy Warhol knows his shit.

May the fourth be with you

You know nothing, Netflix.