Wiggabags
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Saturday, February 28, 2015
Shmecky Von Dillpickle Headlocks Clementine
I often reflect on the many permutations of douchemock and hottlust that have burrowed like so many rivulets through the sediment of pop culture timeshock. When HCwDB began the mock, it was a serious time. Then it was a playful time. And the mock was enjoyed by all.
Now it is a serious time again.
Humorless.
Angrier.
Gender wars and dating battles taken from playful banter to dark resentment.
I’m not sure what to make of the ratcheting up of tension and loss of humor in today’s confused, decadent and most certainly decoherent anti-humor post-humor thunderdome.
But alls I do know is that Shmecky Von Dillpickle is a shmegtaint. And everyone should take a breath, stop getting so pissed off, and allow ourselves to unite in the principle that all of us, each and every one, can agree that Shmecky’s headlock of Clementine is the pestilent hair taint upon a mongerel’s tick bitten posterior.
For if we cannot agree to that, I put it to you Greg, what can we agree upon?
Monday, March 25, 2013Riff Raff, "Spring Breakers" and Douche Metatextuality
Back in my New York east village days, I once met indie film whatsit somethingorother enfant whatevers Harmony Korine.
It was at a screening of Gummo at Anthology Film Archives. ’98 or ’99. I was fresh outta film school, back when there still was film, and kinda interested in seeing if there was any merit at all in some arty eurotrash made by a 20-something proto-hipster.
Korine and his posse came to the screening. They sat in the back, sipping 40s and talking loudly.
During the movie, Korine and his Prepster Posse would make weird humming noises at various points. Occasionally, they broke out in rhythmic clapping. They seemed to have come up with some plan for live “accompaniment” to the film.
Typical entitled prep school asswipes pretending to slum it as outsider artists, I thought to myself. I theoretically peed on them. But the movie was engaging in a visceral sort of way. I will give it that.
The “happening” ended. Afterwards, in the lobby, Korine stood around getting his ass kissed by the cineastes and stuttering in an affected way. I lit out for the glory that was the original (corner) Joe’s Pizza. Over a slice of perfectly heated cheese, I promptly set about erasing all synapse memory of that clown’s douchey-ass herpster hair, Eternal Sunshine style. Obviously, I didn’t fully succeed. As evidenced by this post.
Cut to now.
Korine’s back. Now he’s post-irony, fusing the avant-garde with hip-hop douche culture in the upcoming Spring Breakers. Co-hipster James Franco is even along for the ride, playing HCwDB poo-legend, Riff Raff. Selena Gomez and a few other Disney Princess pop up as Woo Hottie uber-archetypes to be stared at like zoo animals. Shit happens. Things go wrong. Who the hell knows. D.J. Douchewipe of the moment Skrillex even drops the proverbial mass marketed beat. More stuff ensues. Wacky.
So now the art-indie-pop thing is everywhere. And, with it, some P.T. Barnum carnivalesque media blitz strategy. Fueds. Fights. Backstory. Anything to sell tickets to the kids.
And it all centers on Riff Raff. Douche extraordinaire. Wigga to the x-treme, as Poochy might say.
A few days ago, Grantland’s Amos Barshad wrote up this nice take-down of the Korine-Riff Raff pseudo-feud. Barshad gets it right. Art-shtick.
Long time readers know that Riff Raff has been bouncing around HCwDB for years, although so rarely with hot chicks and so obviously a constructed performance, the mock seemed a bit redundant.
As the cycle of mass media echo runs its lap, Franco as Riff Raff is an important milestone. Riff Raff was the beginning of post Jersey Shore meta-ironic douche culture. The moment at which spectacle became recodified as the means of subverting any and all cultural critique. If the douchebag is in on the proverbial “joke” then the douchey behavior is suddenly acceptable. From the authenticity of true douche essence, Donkey Douche and The Gator, to the cashing-in ethos of the performative ‘Raff.
Franco-as-Riff-Raff is our hall of self-reflexive mirror hip-hop herpster douche amalgam. Like the great Woody Allen pastiching The Lady From Shanghai in Manhattan Murder Mystery, the line between homage, reuse, and parody all become concurrently blurred.
And so Riff Raff bitches, Franco denies, and everyone pays to see Vanessa Hudgens’s ass.
Selling sex by way of metatextual melodrama. Who ripped off the other by way of the authentic recreation?
Will the real Slim Douchey please stand up?
Spring Breakers is an important film. Spectacle for spectacle’s sake, with a knowing know-nothing wink to the audience of the utter meaninglessness of the cosmic dance. As The Coen Brothers once quoted Rashi in A Serious Man, accept with simplicity all that happens to you.
Phallic guns as homoerotic penis substitutes. Disney princesses doing blow. It’s all grist for the pop culture blender.
On to the next Adderal stimulant.
And the cosmic consumption dance keeps spinning across the increasingly meaningless classicism of some art-pop-mass culture divide. That never even existed in the first place, Da Da very much.
Tuesday, September 11, 2012Wiggaz Joe and the Double Pear
It’s important to mark the eleventh anniversary of 9/11 with soberness and reflection.
But not at HCwDB.
Because we are neither sober, nor reflective. And the format of a one-joke blog that’s lasted nearly seven years requires a consistency of form that moves beyond the specificities of chronology.
So here’s Wiggaz Joe with a tasty double serving of pear.
Thursday, September 6, 2012The Wiggas Still Exist, Talk Hip-Hop to Aquahott
You might remember the Wiggas from our classic ode to Shel Silverstein in 2011, Wiggas and the Pear.
Or, more to the point, you might still be seeking out a brain bleach technique to make you forget you ever became cognitively aware of the exist of these white trashian suburban choadsucks.
But they do indeed exist. In all their wigga glory.
And therefore we must witness their sad and skeezy efforts to mack on the ladies.
That they’re now in the presence of taut drinksuckle Aquahott, she of the no-tatts and belly pooch, is only more grist for the godless among us.
And yes, even more pear.
