Archive for February, 2009

A band with a unique mission: Blame Ringo.

The band’s name is Blame Ringo.
The first single off their debut album “Lucky Number Nine” is called Garble Arch. The video is a time-lapse video of a typical day of a famous crosswalk.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=aKCG3zMEsYs

Blame Ringo are a band on a unique mission.
They are using the power of song to Blame Ringo for everything.
From the break up of the Beatles to teen pregnancy to communism and the rise of Hitler. Ringo is to blame for it all.

They take a mixture of good-natured ribbing and over-the-top accusations to make a pretty funny gimmick.

According to this video, I am to assume Ringo is to blame for pedestrian traffic on a busy street. 🙂

It’s a cute video, check it out.

Why are they doing this?

Their band was originally called “Goodnight Vienna”.

So?

Apparently, Ringo had an album by that name.

…and?

And apparently he thought this band was trying to bank on the album’s immense popularity.

What?!? I’ve never heard of it.

It doesn’t matter. Ringo is claiming ownership of that pair of words.

Instead of going broke fighting him in court, they changed their name. Problem solved.

They weren’t trying to profit off Ringo before, but they are now!

Unfortunately for Ringo, there’s nothing he can do about it.
Also unfortunately for him… they are big Beatles fans, so they know a lot about the man.
(Except, like me, that he had an album named Goodnight Vienna. I mean, seriously… who would remember something like that?!? Besides, that’s what every live performer says at the end of a show. Goodnight [name of city]! How can he OWN that!? Geez.)

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Marie Callender’s Creamy Parmesan Chicken Pot Pie

Creamy Parmesan Chicken Pot Pie

As I took the first bite, I considered what it would be like to sell all my belongings and live inside this pie. I could beg on the street for spare change and sleep in a shelter made of scotch tape and Marie Callender’s Pot Pie Empties.

The texture of the individual, perfectly cooked bits – bits that actually tasted like the vegetables they resembled – caught me off guard. I fell into eternity’s arms as I punched through the golden, buttery crust again and again. The chicken was moist and tender. A creamy sauce made of real parmesan cheese covered everything without drowning anything.

I blinked and realized that as I was daydreaming that I had been shoveling it into my gaping maw in a gastronomical orgy and had somehow already swallowed half the pie.

As the remaining amount dwindled I wondered what kind of ugly, shameful, Less Than Zero lengths I would go to to get one more bite.

Then it was gone.

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