Editor’s note: J’mel Davidson is back. Thank you, God. Oh, how this editor rejoiced when I ventured into my inbox the other day and saw that J’mel, after many weeks, had emailed me fresh copy. Is it because J’mel has a great imagination? Well, I guess that’s part of it. Is it because he is so damned funny and irreverent? Yeah, sure, whatever. Look, y’all, it’s mainly because having J’mel’s column makes it that much easier for me to fill this rag with readable content each week. DON’T EVER LEAVE US AGAIN, J’MEL. PLEASE!
Hey! Here I am, back in the rear of the paper where the cool kids hang out and smoke and swear. I have to say thanks to all the people that stopped me on the street (and in other places not so public) to ask where I’ve been. Here is the scoop to those of you that don’t know. The last year has been an absolute crap-fest when it comes to me and computerized devices. Phones and computers crumbled at my very touch, and I dropped them on the floor a lot. And when I wasn’t dropping them on the floor, they were being ruined and wiped clean by faulty Windows updates. Hard times. It took me a while to save up the dough to replace the computer. I mean, I’m not made out of computer money! I’m barely getting by on my “mature ladies” film budget. Times are tough, son!
Some people suggested that I just write the articles in longhand and have someone type them up or do the articles at the library. Okay, two things. First, I don’t have a secretary that sits around waiting for the genius to drip from my pen so that she can translate it for you. There are hardly two people that can read my writing, let alone translate it into something that you can understand. I write with a strange mixture of uppercase and lowercase characters that are occasionally broken up with crude drawings of Nigella Lawson dressed as a Japanese schoolgirl in a way-too-small uniform. Second, I can’t type at the library. I can only type here, in front of my television. If you’re saying “That doesn’t make any sense!” then you, young lady, are not an artist. We are set in our ways and we refuse to settle. So, there.
Also, quick note: If any of you tried to contact me via my Birmingham Weekly email address, I’m sorry—but never do that. That address is riddled with spam, so I never check it. If only it were the good kind of Spam—the kind that Nigella would cook me after our torrid trysts in various semipublic locations—it wouldn’t be so bad. So, for future reference, find me on Facebook or Twitter or email me directly at heinousclown@gmail.com. I can promise you if you use the Birmingham Weekly address, I’ll likely never see it.
So, what have I been doing with my “free” time whilst I was away? Not a lot. I mean, what is there to do? The fun things are troublingly far from each other in this town, and the transit system is, well, I don’t want to repeat myself by complaining about this city. Sigh. What have you turned me into, Birmingham? I want to be happy but you refuse to let me!
While I was away, a lot of local crooked people went to jail. That made me happy. I love it when people get caught… unless I’ve been told in the first act that they’re doing “one last job” before they retire so they can move to an island or whatever. But we all know there’s no such thing as One Last Job, unless you get caught or die. And as far as I know, Langford’s 11 would have never stopped. So now he’s in jail. Ha ha. I guess now we have to wait for more crooked folks to step up or we’ll have nothing to complain about over coffee. Sorry, Southern liberals.
I got rocked in the face TWICE by Sir Nicolas Cage in my time away. The first came with his starring role in Bad Lieutenant: Port of Call, New Orleans. This film was scarily odd, and Cage was somehow both over the top and nuanced at the same time. His over the top-ness was nuanced. It was filmed in a way that made me incredibly nervous and uncomfortable. It seemed too real. Whenever an actor would appear on screen that I recognized, I was relieved to be reminded that this was not a documentary of some sort. The odd thing is that, halfway through all of the bummers piled on top of downfalls that afflict Cage’s character, you realize that this film might just be a comedy. I’ll leave that to you. See it.
The second Cage event was Kick-Ass. I guess I’m supposed to say that it kicked ass, but that’s not clever. I’ll instead say that this flick is review proof. It’s either for you or it’s not. You will not dislike this flick if you like comics or comic films, if you like to see Cage do awesome shit or if you like to see people get shot.
Some people take great pleasure in trying to disrespect Nic Cage to me, as if they’re going to hurt my feelings. Please. Grow up. As I have said, the hate you spew about Nic Cage is only equal to the things you refuse to admit that you hate about yourself. Pow.
So, these two incredible Cage flicks have given me two new things to yell in public. “Til the break of dawn!” and “Switch it to… KRYPTONITE!!” See the movies to learn why.
I have been both charmed and then alienated by the hit Fox series Glee. At first, I fell in love with it because of the music, just like everyone else. Then I realized that the plots were silly and convoluted. That’s fine, though, because I was only there for the music. Then came the episode when Beyonce’s “Single Ladies” was sung six times in a row. It was sad, too, because it was a surprisingly good episode. It was about the gay kid (my favorite character, even though I never went through the trouble to learn his name) coming to grips with his sexuality, trying to impress and ultimately come out to his dad. There was some funny and touching stuff in that hour of television. But I guess the producers assumed that this was still not gay enough, so they played the Beyonce song six times in a row. It’s as if they were trying to tell me that this show wasn’t meant for me, only hip gay guys and their silly female friends. Fine, Glee, but you won’t get rid of me that easily. I’m a modern American man who is completely secure in his sexuality. There is no way you can make this show so gay that you’ll scare me away. Stop. What’s that? An all-Madonna episode? Okay, I can take a hint. I’ll go.
While away, I discovered that some people don’t realize that we aren’t the top of the food chain. Some people think that since we’ve figured out how to shelter ourselves, we can skip around willy-nilly throughout the animal kingdom taking pets and making friends wherever we want. These people are then very violently and immediately mauled, poisoned, devoured or all three. (These people are also white)
They want to own monkeys and tigers. They want to commune with bears.
Why in God’s name would a person go through the trouble of secretly acquiring not one but three 10-foot-long aggressive and poisonous Gila Monsters as pets—INDOOR pets? We could ask him, but the lizards ate the stupid bastard’s face off. That’s what’s awesome about the animal kingdom, I think. No matter what the species or where in the world they are, animals always seem to go for the face.
Perhaps that’s what I really learned during this short time away: Go For The Face. Amen.
J’mel Davidson writes about pretty much any damned thing he wants to for Birmingham Weekly. Send your comments to editor@bhamweekly.com.
Hey! Here I am, back in the rear of the paper where the cool kids hang out and smoke and swear. I have to say thanks to all the people that stopped me on the street (and in other places not so public) to ask where I’ve been. Here is the scoop to those of you that don’t know. The last year has been an absolute crap-fest when it comes to me and computerized devices. Phones and computers crumbled at my very touch, and I dropped them on the floor a lot. And when I wasn’t dropping them on the floor, they were being ruined and wiped clean by faulty Windows updates. Hard times. It took me a while to save up the dough to replace the computer. I mean, I’m not made out of computer money! I’m barely getting by on my “mature ladies” film budget. Times are tough, son!
Some people suggested that I just write the articles in longhand and have someone type them up or do the articles at the library. Okay, two things. First, I don’t have a secretary that sits around waiting for the genius to drip from my pen so that she can translate it for you. There are hardly two people that can read my writing, let alone translate it into something that you can understand. I write with a strange mixture of uppercase and lowercase characters that are occasionally broken up with crude drawings of Nigella Lawson dressed as a Japanese schoolgirl in a way-too-small uniform. Second, I can’t type at the library. I can only type here, in front of my television. If you’re saying “That doesn’t make any sense!” then you, young lady, are not an artist. We are set in our ways and we refuse to settle. So, there.
Also, quick note: If any of you tried to contact me via my Birmingham Weekly email address, I’m sorry—but never do that. That address is riddled with spam, so I never check it. If only it were the good kind of Spam—the kind that Nigella would cook me after our torrid trysts in various semipublic locations—it wouldn’t be so bad. So, for future reference, find me on Facebook or Twitter or email me directly at heinousclown@gmail.com. I can promise you if you use the Birmingham Weekly address, I’ll likely never see it.
So, what have I been doing with my “free” time whilst I was away? Not a lot. I mean, what is there to do? The fun things are troublingly far from each other in this town, and the transit system is, well, I don’t want to repeat myself by complaining about this city. Sigh. What have you turned me into, Birmingham? I want to be happy but you refuse to let me!
While I was away, a lot of local crooked people went to jail. That made me happy. I love it when people get caught… unless I’ve been told in the first act that they’re doing “one last job” before they retire so they can move to an island or whatever. But we all know there’s no such thing as One Last Job, unless you get caught or die. And as far as I know, Langford’s 11 would have never stopped. So now he’s in jail. Ha ha. I guess now we have to wait for more crooked folks to step up or we’ll have nothing to complain about over coffee. Sorry, Southern liberals.
I got rocked in the face TWICE by Sir Nicolas Cage in my time away. The first came with his starring role in Bad Lieutenant: Port of Call, New Orleans. This film was scarily odd, and Cage was somehow both over the top and nuanced at the same time. His over the top-ness was nuanced. It was filmed in a way that made me incredibly nervous and uncomfortable. It seemed too real. Whenever an actor would appear on screen that I recognized, I was relieved to be reminded that this was not a documentary of some sort. The odd thing is that, halfway through all of the bummers piled on top of downfalls that afflict Cage’s character, you realize that this film might just be a comedy. I’ll leave that to you. See it.
The second Cage event was Kick-Ass. I guess I’m supposed to say that it kicked ass, but that’s not clever. I’ll instead say that this flick is review proof. It’s either for you or it’s not. You will not dislike this flick if you like comics or comic films, if you like to see Cage do awesome shit or if you like to see people get shot.
Some people take great pleasure in trying to disrespect Nic Cage to me, as if they’re going to hurt my feelings. Please. Grow up. As I have said, the hate you spew about Nic Cage is only equal to the things you refuse to admit that you hate about yourself. Pow.
So, these two incredible Cage flicks have given me two new things to yell in public. “Til the break of dawn!” and “Switch it to… KRYPTONITE!!” See the movies to learn why.
I have been both charmed and then alienated by the hit Fox series Glee. At first, I fell in love with it because of the music, just like everyone else. Then I realized that the plots were silly and convoluted. That’s fine, though, because I was only there for the music. Then came the episode when Beyonce’s “Single Ladies” was sung six times in a row. It was sad, too, because it was a surprisingly good episode. It was about the gay kid (my favorite character, even though I never went through the trouble to learn his name) coming to grips with his sexuality, trying to impress and ultimately come out to his dad. There was some funny and touching stuff in that hour of television. But I guess the producers assumed that this was still not gay enough, so they played the Beyonce song six times in a row. It’s as if they were trying to tell me that this show wasn’t meant for me, only hip gay guys and their silly female friends. Fine, Glee, but you won’t get rid of me that easily. I’m a modern American man who is completely secure in his sexuality. There is no way you can make this show so gay that you’ll scare me away. Stop. What’s that? An all-Madonna episode? Okay, I can take a hint. I’ll go.
While away, I discovered that some people don’t realize that we aren’t the top of the food chain. Some people think that since we’ve figured out how to shelter ourselves, we can skip around willy-nilly throughout the animal kingdom taking pets and making friends wherever we want. These people are then very violently and immediately mauled, poisoned, devoured or all three. (These people are also white)
They want to own monkeys and tigers. They want to commune with bears.
Why in God’s name would a person go through the trouble of secretly acquiring not one but three 10-foot-long aggressive and poisonous Gila Monsters as pets—INDOOR pets? We could ask him, but the lizards ate the stupid bastard’s face off. That’s what’s awesome about the animal kingdom, I think. No matter what the species or where in the world they are, animals always seem to go for the face.
Perhaps that’s what I really learned during this short time away: Go For The Face. Amen.
J’mel Davidson writes about pretty much any damned thing he wants to for Birmingham Weekly. Send your comments to editor@bhamweekly.com.
coach purses
