Danger, Danger
yes, of course, we are way past the hype over danger mouse remixing Jay-Z's "Black Album" with The Beatles' "White Album" to make the "Grey Album," but I'm showing you all a place to get it for three simple reasons:
1) because the importance of art being available in all forms, legal or otherwise, is very important to me. the purest forms of art are always illegal. and although "grey album" ain't exactly groundbreaking or anything, its still important that it is out there and it is still cool as all fuck. its just a cool fucking experiment, merging two seminal works like this. besides, art belongs to the people, and this is no exception.
2) because fuck linkin park, fuck their cheap, safe thrills with no innovation and no originality, fuck their incestual self-love for their own safe sound, fuck MTV for mashing them with jay-z, fuck all this bullshit hype over a bullshit combination, this is SO much fucking cooler. you want to see jay-z remixed with some GOOD music, check this shit out.
3) anyone with "Danger" in their name justs instantly gets the hook-up from me.
So here it is. Use safely. Share with your friends.
DJ Danger Mouse - "The Grey Album" (Jay-Z vs. The Beatles) available at Illegal-Art.Org
(NOTE: I, of course, do not encourage illegal activity on this site. All suggested illegal activities are done so for humorous effect. Its a joke, and if you don't get the joke ... well they can't all be gems, can they? Nevertheless, I am kidding. Honest engine. Its all a joke. Seriously.)
How I Cheated Death
(what you need to know for this article to make sense:
Glen O'Malley is our playwright-in-residence at APSU. He wrote and directed this production on campus called "Heartbeat to Baghdad." It was also recently playing at the Flea Theater in New York City. The rest shall be revealed in this context of the article.)
(and yes, this story is 100% true.)
Mother of God, I thought. This is it. This is how I’m going to die. Glen O’Malley is going to sense me coming and break me in half like so many Butterfinger bars.
It seemed like a logical fear at the time. I had stayed up until six in the morning working on that godforsaken review of his play for my theatre class, and the ink was still fresh both on paper and on mind. And here he was, and there I was walking toward him, going to have to walk past him, and he was going to have to kill me.
Here’s what you must know about Glen O’Malley. He is scary. Not in the classic Edgar Allen Poe creepy sense that you might expect a fear-inspiring writer to be like. No, no. Glen O’Malley is a big fuck. Muscles in places you don’t even know you have on your body. Veins straining, as if trying to hold his bulging limbs together, like cables ready to snap and cut your head off with the velocity. A Bill Bixby-Incredible Hulk look-alike, and you know he’s got to be crazy as a fucking loon to boot, since he’s a playwright, and a pretty damn good one, and they (ppsh, “they.” WE) are all crazy, and the more talent the crazier.
So there he was, standing in the fall outside of Trahern, smoking a cigarette and clutching what appeared to probably be a paper cup of some caffeinated beverage; coffee or tea or something, and there I was, about to walk past him, still clutching my review, and I knew it, I just fucking knew it: This man was going to know what I’ve written and he’s going to spin around when I walk behind him towards the door and tear out my asshole through my chest. I should have known that this was how I was going to die.
Fuck, man. This is the end.
Its not as if I wrote a searing review, or anything. In fact, I gave it a near glowing review. As a matter of fact, I dare say I was overly positive. I even dare say that I held back too much! But that’s just me, thinking there’s always more to be said on paper, when I’ve already written too much. Yes, I dare say that it was about as glowing a review as any other review that my pretentious white ass has written about anything. What worried me was my introduction:
“’A Heartbeat to Baghdad,’ written and directed by Glen O’Malley, can eat me all to hell. Fuck this play.”
It was ironic! I wanted to scream out, throw myself at his feet, and beg for mercy. The teacher asked for an attention grabbing opener, and I don’t have an off button for my Smartass Autopilot! But I would not beg; that was the coward’s way out. What Would Spider-Man Do? He would face his murderer and own up to his smartass remarks. And so would I. But still, goddammit, I knew I should have kept that thought out of the opening. Stuck it anywhere but the introduction, not at the beginning where it’s the first thing I think of, and will be the first and only thing he sees when he reads my head.
And now I was going to die. I was going to walk past this crazy, violent, irrational, mind-reading playwright (who was probably a ninja, too) and he’s going to hear my thoughts and see me writing the words, “Fuck this play” on my laptop, each word slammed out onto the keyboard beneath my fingers with conviction and without hesitation, and with the same conviction and promptness he is going to slam me into the concrete beneath his feet.
No, fuck, I remember thinking, I can’t die yet. I haven’t accomplished any of those goals: like starting a religion just so that I could say I did it, like transforming into Godzilla and destroying a small nation of people, like falling off a plane in the midst of an elaborate gunfight, like building that spice-rack. This can’t be it, I thought.
But as each step brought me closer to my hulking, smoking doom, I began to resign myself to my fate. Fuck it, I thought. You gotta die of something, right? My only regret is that I don’t have enough regrets. Those would be the merit badges of an honest, well-lived life.
Soon my casual, immobile executioner was upon me. His calm was what was most disturbing. Not simply silence, but utter calm. Almost as if he couldn’t care any less, almost as if he was paying me no mind. He puffed at his cigarette and warmed his hand over what I could now smell was coffee.
Smell. I walked behind him, tense as wood, ready for him to spin around and destroy my soul, and I wondered for a brief moment if he could smell fear.
And before I knew it . . . I was past him. I was standing at the door, ready to enter the building, not daring to look back in case he was already on me, teeth bared and hands going for my throat.
I held the door open for a couple of girls trailing behind me and used the opportunity to casually take a look at Glen O’Malley, and see if he was rearing for the attack. But nothing. He was just standing there. I didn’t understand. I began projecting the thought into the back of his head, staring a hole through his skull, firing thought after verile thought, repeating over and over in my mind, “’A Heartbeat to Baghdad’ can eat me all to hell.
Fuck this play. Fuck
your play,” trying to interpret his response.
But stillness. Nothing. He sipped his coffee.
And it occurred to me that I had just cheated death. I had robbed Glen O’Malley of his kill, defended against his bloodlust, resisted his probing psychic power. My mind must be too complex for him to operate in. He would have to maneuver through an intense living labyrinth of burning thought scraping against burning thought. I simply over-powered his ninja mind-games.
My God, I realized. I just kicked Glen O’Malley’s ass.
And that was my near-death experience. In such near-misses and close-calls, one begins to view life differently. Perceptions change. I was a changed man. Life held such beauty, such hope and promise. I felt alive. It was a new day, and I was a new man.
And as long as he’s not around to hear me think it, I think Glen O’Malley is a sissy.
