It’s Saturday night and I’ve spent most of the evening watching I Love the 70s Volume 2 on VH1.
The sad part is that I don’t love the 70s. Oh sure, I don’t honestly remember a good chunk of it, given that I didn’t even enter the scene until 72, but what I do remember (I remember things pretty clearly from about 76 on) doesn’t really fill me with nostalgia.
Here are the good things I remember from the 70s:
Star Wars. That’s pretty much a no-brainer.
That poster of Loni Anderson in a bikini that my brothers had.
That’s it.
The rest is all feathered hair and bell bottoms and polyester and shitty music.
Oh, wait, there is one other good thing: comic books were only thirty-five cents.
Sure, there were other things that I loved at the time, but most of them, like The Dukes of Hazzard, Superman: The Movie, and the movie Grease (What can I say, I liked Olivia Newton-John. The slutty version from the end of the movie.), but my affection for them didn’t last much past the end of the decade, and certainly didn’t make the transition to fond memories as I entered adulthood.
Of course, it’s not like I look back on the 80s or 90s with fondness either. In fact, I don’t look back on much of anything fondly. At least not any bit swatches of time. Mostly there are collections of happy moments here and there.
I’m not saying that my life was horribly traumatic, it’s just that, as far as I can see, that’s just how life happens. Your happiness, the things that you really remember fondly, comes in moments, just little free-floating fragments of joy interspersed among all of the rest of the pieces, and that doesn’t mean that all of the moments that aren’t pure joy are terrible, they’re just moments, moments in which you might not have been feeling anything in particular, or at least nothing particularly memorable.
Anyway, the point is that like the giant pile of lame that I am, I spent my Saturday night sitting at home watching a show about a decade that I don’t especially care to remember because that’s just how giant a pile of lame I am.
On a VH1-related note, Michelle Collins of You Can’t Make It Up has been blogging daily over at VH1’s site bestweekever.tv, and, unlike her fellow bloggers, has been consistently delivering the funny.
Recently she blogged about the existence of a porn version of YouTube called, quite naturally, PornoTube.
A site for people to share porn videos for free. It’s one of those forehead-smacking “Why didn’t I think of that?” ideas.
I checked it out yesterday (purely to satisfy my intellectual curiosity), and I have to say that while in theory the idea is brilliant, in execution it’s craptacular.
It mostly consists of extremely short clips that serve as ads for pay sites, with a smattering of amateur action that probably shouldn’t be shared.
The good news for 10% of the porn-viewing public, though, is that there seems to be a lot of gay porn. Can’t really tell you much about the quality of it, though.
That PornoTube kind of sucks (no pun intended) is hardly a surprise, though, given how much most of the content on YouTube blows.
I’ve come up with a checklist that people who post videos to YouTube should run through before posting.
If the description you’ll write for the video is likely to start with the word “Me,” stop right there. (Example: Me lip-syncing to Kevin Federline’s new song.)
If the description you’ll write for the video is likely to start with the words “My friends,” stop right there. (Example: My friends lip-syncing to Kevin Federline’s new song.)
Enough with the fucking Diet Coke and Mentos.
Other than that, you should be good.
Anyway, I suppose I should get back to work on my future YouTube post, “Me sitting around not doing shit on a Saturday night and finding fault with people who have actual lives even though I’m just a giant pile of lame. Oh, and lip-syncing to Kevin Federline’s new song.”
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