Posted in humor on July 10, 2010 by monkeysgotablog
I know, I know what you are thinking. You, in your Homo cerebrum, are thinking that Monkey could never enjoy Slam poetry. That Monkey is far too intellectual to enjoy a Glenlivet and cig while the kids rhyme, twist words and shout their pontifications to the cheering hoards. Well, you are wrong, as usual.
I love Glenlivet.
Monkey just happens to also adore slam poetry. It’s the rhythm of the damned thing. The raw expression, the baring of souls. Slam poetry at times may be cathartic, but Monkey feels that it is also brave. Many of my intellectual brothers and sisters feel that poetry is dead. Housed in mausoleum walls. The youth isn’t interested. Monkey is quite pleased to say, they’re wrong.
Poetry has metamorphosed, quite the way Chris Brown did after beating the ever-loving tar out of his girlfriend Rihanna. Nevermind, bad example.
Monkey posits that slam poetry is modern Keats. Modern Sylvia Plath. Monkey realizes that not all slam poetry achieves this level of greatness, but feels that sometimes, once in a while, brilliance can be found amongst slam poets. The following young lady, Monkey thinks, is such a gem.
So, my brethren of the primate sort, encourage your kids to participate in the Youth Slam Poetry contest that is coming to L.A. or to participate in many of the workshops all sponsored by the ever fabulous Youth Speaks Inc.. Or just go and watch and listen. Brave New Voices, the contest and program, is slated for July 19-24. Find info and tickets here. Celebrities will be attending, yada, yada, yada…monkey doesn’t give a banana about celebrities, but you might, so Rosario Dawson, Hill Harper, etc. What Monkey does care about is that there will be over 600 participants in the event this year. It is an ever, incredible opportunity to support our youth…and if you are an intellectual, like Monkey, an ever incredible opportunity to peel away your copy of Finnegan’s Wake from your blood-stained eyeballs and experience real life. Bring your scotch, chap, no one will notice.
Here is a video, medley, collage of last years event:
Posted in Uncategorized on July 8, 2010 by monkeysgotablog
A closed Blockbuster store.
Monkey participated in a most excellent fourth of July weekend that included a shocking visit to Blockbuster. Shocking, you ask? Why yes, dear reader. Shocking, Monkey says, because there was one still actually open for business in my neighborhood. Haven’t you driven by the hoards of abandoned, discarded Blockbuster stores whilst Netflix envelopes ride shotgun on the way to the Post Office? You know you have…
but, well, Monkey hasn’t experienced this exact scenario, since his license was revoked, on the minor technicality that he is a hominid of the more hirsute kind and that, well, he can not see over the dashboard, but you hominids of the bare skinned and, ahem, bland type, I’m sure have. And who could blame you? Netflix offers as many movies as you can watch in a month for $8.99 and offers streaming to your computer and other Netflix ready devices. Monkey says, “Screw Blockbuster.”
Well, friends, I loathe to tell you that, like you, Monkey does not have a Netflix membership, since he is not allowed a credit card and his “caretakers” refuse to indulge me this smallest but grandest of things. Monkey, instead, was forced to fling open the back door of his keeper’s Mini Pooper (on the way to Trader Joe’s), leap onto the asphalt jungled streets of Los Angeles, dodge drunken, holiday traffic and bolt into the only workng Blockbuster Monkey’s seen in ages just to rent movies for his very good friend Robert and his daughter. They were coming for movies and poopcorn, one of Monkey’s favorites, and he couldn’t let those two delightful creatures down. So, it appears Monkey was the one who was going to get fornicated upon, if you catch my meaning.
Now usually, I’m not usually antagonistic against sexual deviancy, but when it involves my wallet as a participant in its behavior, I abstain. But, Monkey says, a promise was a promise, so perused the shelves and chose three movies: “9” directed by Shane Acker and produced by Timur Bekmambetov and Tim Burton, “The Last House on the Left”, written, produced, and directed by Wes Craven, and “Pandorum” written by Christian Alvart. The child and Robert should be thrilled with those choices, at least the two in the horror genre since they like to scream silly (at least whilst doing math homework), so Monkey scurried to the check out felt his heart lurch from his heart when he learned that Cockbusters, excuse me, Blockbusters, was charging $5 per movie and threatened a $1 per day per movie late charge. Yes. late charges are back. Begrudingly Monkey whipped out his wad of cash, the cash he earns as a mascot for Talbotgraphix, and quietly bent over the counter.
When Monkey left, movies stuffed under his arm, he vowed never to return to that place. Well, one last time, $1 per day late fees per movie would accumulate hoards of fees, and Monkey couldn’t abide that, but he would NOT turn his back whilst he was there.
So, Monkey found it as no surprise today when examiner.com released a Press Release that told of a Forebearance Agreement between Blockbuster and its senior note holders. They write that Blockbuster apparently “will preserve $42.4 million in incremental liquidity” and “monitor cost reduction opportunities and operational efficiencies”. HA! Recapitalize away, Blockbuster, but I must inform you that it won’t do you a darned bit of good. You are as extinct as a stegasaurus and as relevant.
Well, cheerio, and do view that delightful film “9”. It did inspire a trip to the Joann’s Fabrics so I could buy a bit of burlap. Lovely.
Monkey is wrought with anguish over the passing of Frank McCourt, the Pulitzer Prize winning author of his second favorite book in the world, Angela’s Ashes. And don’t let it fool you that it is only my second favorite book in the world- my first is Frankenstein by Mary Shelley, but that poor darling has been dead for so many years, I just can’t grieve for her lack of liveliness. Mr. McCourt, however, let Monkey so thoroughly into his hopes, dreams, passions and heart in that beloved book that I feel the breath knocked out of my corporeal frame knowing that he is no longer with us. I am so grateful that he left us with such an amazing book, so that we could know his humanness. And for those of you that haven’t read Angela’s Ashes, you will see in it, a reflection of yourself so clearly existent in those inseverable bonds of humanity. And those bonds will make you weep with triumph and in pain as you journey with Frank McCourt through his life. And your own.
Thank you Frank McCourt for your beautiful gift. I will never forget it, and I will surely miss your presence on this earth.
On the Fourth of July, Monkey didn’t grill hamburgers or hotdogs, didn’t stuff himself sick with potato salad, Doritos and pop, and didn’t partake in the consumption of even one alcoholic beverage. Rather, he took along a fairly amusing chap, his boss and friend of the homo sapien classification, Bryan Talbot, to see a movie about an American icon — John Dillinger. How better, Monkey thought to celebrate the birthday of our most beloved country than to celebrate the life of one of our most intriguing and infamous heros. A lover of gangster movies, Bryan agreed with alacrity to view the film and off we went to devour all the drama and intrigue that “Public Enemies” was sure to propagate.
Unfortunately “Public Enemies” propagated naught but a few whispers in a darkened theater of “What did he just say?”, along with stark exclamations of “huh?”. You see, my dear friends, the first of half of the movie was congested, like an asthmatic and bronchitic chest, stuffed full of non- essential scenes, poorly mixed sound, and actors playing flat, unloveable characters. Monkey couldn’t tell who was whom half the time, while the other half of the time I was just wondering when the movie was going to engage me. I wanted to care for our Johnny Dillinger, I just did, but my God, the man would have to express some sort of emotion for me to be able to grasp onto his persona. It’s rather hard to love a character that emotes about as much as a Popsicle stick -sorry our dear Gwyneth it’s just true. A character has to feel something, and then the audience feels with him. And Monkey is not entirely sure the talented Johnny Depp is to blame here. Monkey considers him one of his top ten…maybe even five… actors ever. Monkey thinks perhaps the script didn’t allow the character much emotion, especially not nearly as much as the lovely Marion Cotillard was able to express in Billie’s interrogation scene. She was astounding and mesmerizing , and that scene made Monkey decide it was worth actually watching the rest of the movie. It is Monkey’s understanding that the director too can have major impact on an actor’s performance, and since Michael Mann failed in a multitude of other aspects within the film, Monkey’s decided to blame him for Depp’s lackluster performance as well. And so disappointing Michael was in directing this film, that I am quickly reminded of another horror of his, “Ali”. It really is quite astounding to Monkey that this same man also directed “Last of the Mohicans” and produced “The Aviator”. Ah, well. I guess some people can’t be geniuses all the time. It can be tiring, so I’ve been told, and it looks like poor Michael Mann’s genius lay exhausted on the sound stages of “Miami Vice” and “Hancock”. Laugh out Loud. LOL for short. Anywho, the movie picked up one half to three quarters of the way through the film, but ultimately I left the theater wishing I had pigged out on watermelon and ribs, and spent the day baking my hirsute figure under the Southern California sun while drinking frozen banana frappes. Oh, well, there’s always next year.
Could it be true that Michelangelo was to art as Hitchcock was to film? Or Steven King, even? A cameo, a glimpse, a confirmation to the egocentricities of artists everywhere? Oh, how Monkey loves the thought of this! That Michelangelo, with his love of the male form and face, loved his own best! Oh, if indeed that Michelangelo painted his face and figure within “The Crucifixtion of St. Peter”, then could his own face be witness to “The Conversion of Saul”. Could he, for all of these years, have been spying on the Popes of the Catholic Church, glowering from the heights of the ceiling in the Sistine Chapel, as well? Or must we look upon the more intimate areas of his “David”, perhaps, to find his face carved amid the form of his beloved male figure? Oh, Michelangelo, the audacity! The curiosity that you have instilled in a monkey who lives 500 years past your time on earth! When I look upon your glorious creations, I will forever wonder if you are peering back at me, hidden in an angel’s face or in a cherub’s chub, curious to who your admirers are five centuries past your own! Or perhaps this was not it at all. Perhaps, Monkey thinks, like Keats you longed for eternity, and this is why you did it! To remain past your “generation’s waste” so that you may whisper to the worshippers of God himself for countless generations. And if this is it, what have you whispered all these years to the unsuspecting? What thoughts have you put in their heads as they prayed below you? Which subliminal teasings have you uttered? We are listening, now. We are listening, so tell us what you wished to all those years ago.
Monkey asks his readers to suggest, perhaps, why Michelangelo may have placed his face in a painting such as this? And while you do that, I’ll eat a banana.
Monkey has just heard Sid Garis, the president of The Academy of Motion Pictures, Arts and Sciences, on the radio discussing the rather juicy gossip that next years Academy Awards show will feature 10 nominations for best picture! Monkey posits that this will indeed be a nice money maker for the Academy and all those involved in the hysterias circling it. Such a convenient time too, Monkey thinks, since our economy has taken a flush, and Hollywood needs to be saved from depression. (Ahem). Oh yes and speaking of a “depression”, Garis tells us that this is not the first time The Academy has had so many nominees in his category. Apparently in the 1930’s there were upwards of twelve nominees per given year for the Best Picture category. (Monkey didn’t know that there were that many pictures actually made per year way back then!) Anywho, it seems apparent to Monkey that this decision has much more to do with economics than it does allowing more diverse movies to compete for Best Picture. Best picture is supposed to be best picture. Monkey doesn’t understand how broadening the field is supposed to give other movies a chance. If you’re best, you’re supposed to be the besst compared to ALL other pictures and ALL other pictures are supposed to have an equal shot at the title anyway. Oh, yes Monkey forgot. Only an equal chance if they have the money backing them. That’s right. Monkey has been privy to seeing those gigantic ads in “Variety” and other such Hollywood trade magazines. I’m sure those art house movies will be able to compete with Monkey’s favorite to thrash movie, Transformers, in that arena. Anyhow, Monkey does need a coffee break. Cheerio.
Monkey, on rare occasion, gets a wonderful treat from his very good friend, Robert. No, no, no. Not bananas! And no! Not cigs either! Nor coffee!! Could you believe it? Anyway these things are not treats to me anyway, but necessities. A treat is something loved but something not often received. And I partake in those necessities (or vices, perhaps) multiple times in a single day. Well, what is left that Monkey loves, you say? Well, Monkey loves musicals! There I said it, outloud (denoted by the bold type I used for the word). Outloud for all you hairless beasts to hear. MUSICALS! It gives me such monkeybumps just to think about it. Oklahoma, South Pacific, The King and I, Carousel…just fabulous they are with their spinning pirouettes, beautiful melodies, and scintillating dramas! I love them ever so much! And my friend Robert knew this, and offered me up two tickets to the Ahmanson Theater in Los Angeles. The lovely boy! The only catch was that I had to bring his 17 year old daughter with me. Well, well, I had met this teen-age creature on several occasions before and knew that compared to many of her peers, she was not so bad. Moody, perhaps, but a real lover of books and things intellectual. The little creature actually loves to watch the “Behind the Scenes” documentaries about movies even more than the actual movie itself, so I knew that we could have a jolly great evening as long as I kept her fed and the conversation off boys. She has a brain (unless she’s jibbering about the male of the species), and Monkey appreciates that greatly from his company, especially after spending years locked up in the lab next to a singing hominidae named Rihanna, who was continually tested for the effectiveness of a certain brand of rubbers thatreminds Monkeygreatly of Greek mythology (wink, wink) and sadly, also tested for the durability of boxing gloves (made by a brand supposed to last forever…hint, hint). And no this is NOT an insensitive dig to that poor soul’s later victimization by the ungloved hands of one named Chris Brown. Okay, maybe it was, afterall a bit insensitive, but one can only take the repetition of the word Umbrella so many timesbefore wanting to express their annoyance!
I lived locked in a cage next to the puppet for nearly a year. Heaven help me, that was the only word she muttered for 11 months of it. The other word, for the last month, was Disturbia-which by the way is not a real word (Don’t believe me? Look it up in the dictionary). The bloody word ended up being the title of one of her hit songs. Well, what else could she name a song? Oh, yes. SOS. Another brilliant word. One that denotes the need to be rescued. Hmm. Well, enough thrashing of the poor Barbados beauty queen. Monkey really believes that physical abuse is cowardly, dysfunctional and plain wrong. So, perhaps instead of hitting her, Chris should have put a little plastic widget and string on her back, so she could speak only when he pulled the string. Yes, that would have solved the problem. Too bad the scientists at the lab hadn’t thought of that. It could have saved me countless nights of dreaming that Mary Poppins was hovering over my bed with a large unbrella shoved in places I’d rather not have an umbrella shoved, whilst she stuffed spoonfuls of sugar down my throat. You see umbrella references always remind me of Mary Poppins and since I suffer from a phobia of nannies in general, it wasn’t perhaps the best idea to put our little pop princess in a cage next to me. I did much better when the cockroaches took her place. Their drunken states from the Raid and such were so humorous and did much to tickle my funny bone. Anyhow, enough of the thrashing I said, and I really must abide by my own declarations! I hope you do forgive Monkey’s verbose digressions.
Anyhow, Monkey does enjoy intelligence, so though Robert’s daughter is a mere teenager, she would be an acceptable accompaniment to a night out at the Ahmanson. I accepted the tickets with alacrity! Little did I know at the time that the tickets to the Ahmanson were not to a musical at all! They were to see Dame Edna, Live! My First Last Tour!
Oh, the horror! You can imagine my shock when just two days before the show, I pulled the tickets out of my billfold to check the exact showtime, so the child and I would not be late, and it said the show was one by this comic buffoon! To be honest, I wasn’t even sure if this Dame Edna was really a woman! I thought I remembered hearing that she was really a man dressed in drag, as this sort of alter ego. Egads! Good bye Oklahoma, hello Las Vegas! More’s the pity!
So, when Friday rolled around, I tried numerous things to dissuade the child from wanting to go to the theater. First, I picked the child up at eleven in the morning and took her to The Pancake House in Redondo Beach, Ca. I forced chocolate chip pancakes, potato pancakes, eggs and corned beef hash upon her small frame, hoping she might feel a bit ill later from the effects of overeating. Turns out she felt fine, and I was the one who suffered from gastritis and needed to take a pack of Tums. Kids apparently can eat what they want and not suffer the consequences that plague those of us over thirty. Then, I took her for a nice long hike of nearly three hours amongst the rocks and cliffs by the sea in Palos Verdes, Ca in hopes of tiring her out. It was indeed a splendid time poking at hermit crabs and such, although she had a much harder time scrambling over some of the rocks than I. I mean, afterall, I am a monkey and that young creature, though talented in many areas, does not have the ability to use her arms like they are legs. Unfortunately, however, she does have the physical fortitude of Britney in her 1000 sit-ups a day years. So, by the time we got to her home to prepare ourselves for purple-haired troll comedian, I needed an entire pot of coffee (oh, to suffer!) to get my opposable thumbs moving and an entire loaf of banana bread to get the gumption up to dress for the theater whilst the creature was all chatter and excitement. I do believe she showered, dressed, and applied maquillage in a tornado of energy last seen hurling a house on top of the Wicked Witch in the Wizard of Oz. So, off we went to see Dame Edna.
On the way, the child wished to hear a band of whom I have close relations to blasted from my Mini-Cooper’s speakers: Asphalt Messiah. They are an intriguing mix of rock and hip-hop, tempestuous in their passion, with catchy and some-times quite beautiful melodies. So, I blasted their song Transform Me, orignially intended, I think, to be in the Transformers 2: Revenge of the Fallen movie and soundtrack.
However, the word is, that time constraints left it out of the movie and my poor blokes in a sorry state and feeling quite rejected. My opinion, however, is that Mr. Michael Bay has sold his soul to the corporate evil empire and rejected anything not bought and paid for. Have you noticed that all the artists on the soundtrack are Warner Brother’s artists? And there is no doubt that the soundtrack panders to the white male twenty something audience. Hmm. Anyhow, the child loves this Asphalt Messiah, so we screamed their song the entire way. I did quite imagine that that is what the jungle is like.
We arrived in plenty of time to head to the toilet, grab a cookie and a glass of vino…for me, not the child. We found our seats, row D, seats 3 and 4. Lovely. Now usually I would be thrilled to have seats so close to the stage. However, this is never a wise idea when a comedian is on the stage. Usually one finds oneself the unwilling object of unjustified attention, and by unjustified attention I mean ridicule. So, I slumped in my seat the entire show in hopes that the great dame would pass me over in her quest to find a victim to thrust her jokes upon. You’d think a monkey in the audience would be an easy target, but Dame Edna seemed more interested in the elderly, housewives or homos of another kind. Or as she liked to call them friends of Kenny- Kenny being her most beloved son who resides in West Hollywood, if you catch her drift. They all seemed to adore her and for that I was grateful, as the teen and I were sandwiched between four friends of Kenny, all of whom were light hearted and gay (excuse the pun) and made our experience all that more enjoyable, nudging us ever so carefully in the ribs when ever Dame offered up a “good one”.
I learned quite a bit about our Dame Edna from the program thrust into our hands as we made entry into the theater. As we sat to enjoy our wine and cookie, we both took a look into the pages of the damned thing, the teen-ager to find out if there were any songs (I was curious to this as well) and me to find out if the Dame is really of the female gender or not. Well, there it was. Barry Humphries is Dame’s creator, the genius behind the woman. The man underneath the frock. I suppose it is fairly obvious that this is the case, but for a reason Monkey is quite unsure of it seemed to slip the mind when Dame was performing. Dr. Humphrie’s small, seemingly insignificant characterizations of Dame Edna gave her such veracity. She, for instance, called the audience possums perhaps every other sentence, and it reminded Monkey of his dear friend, Mabel, whose job it was to clean the laboratory. My sweet, dear Mabel always pilfered bananas for me and brought them during the late, late hours at the lab when all the coats had gone home. I lived for those times and that friendship, I did. She even made secret Starbuck’s runs for me, too and she called me… Monkey. Because of her, my Mabel, I still go by that name. And it’s the way Dr. Humphries said possums that reminded me so much of the way she said Monkey. With sweetness and love in their voices, both of them, like real grandmothers. Warm and soft. Of course our Dame Edna would cut through that warmth with a thick blade of humor, usually crass and perhaps a tad bit scathing, but mostly always uproariously funny. Dame also had an effectual way of clasping her hands together and claiming how lovely things were. Monkey has seen many elderly women do that who were trying their best to be polite in a situation that wasn’t so necessatily lovely. It was testament to Dr. Humphries meticulous observations of the women around him, to realize that more often than not women try to smooth over indelicacies and inappropriate behaviours. Bravo to Dr. Humphries!
Monkey would, however, like to point out that their were moments in the performance that were less than spot on, so to speak. There were times when Dr. Humphries was interacting with the audience that he seemed at a loss for words. His improv wasn’t as cultivated as other comedians Monkey has seen. To his credit, however, he was able to fall back on Dame Edna’s brilliant characterizations to pull himself through those weaker moments. Only a practiced performer could achieve that. It did, however, leave Monkey feeling more appreciative of the rehearsed material being tossed about the auditorium and perhaps, if I dare say, a bit cheated. After all today’s audiences are used to improv geniuses such as Robin Williams, Jim Carrey, and one of Monkey’s favorites Russell Brand.
In addition, Monkey could have done without Dame Edna’s daughter played by a boring Erin-Kate Whitcomb. Monkey doesn’t want to slam the actress too much, but her part didn’t really seem to fit into the act. She performed a song, which to her credit, was funny…but it was not brilliant. Monkey actually has seen funnier from those silly cockroaches he mentioned earlier. Perhaps Dame should have sprayed the poor actress with a little Raid before she took the stage. That would have livened things up wouldn’t it?
Anywho, the child laughed at almost every joke and even caught a gladiola that Dame had thrown into the audience. She, with about thirty others, got to wave it around and make it “tremble” so that the audience was filled with a garden of trembling gladiolas. Monkey knows that this sounds a bit silly, but feels that he must remind you that silly can be a very wonderful thing. Especially to a teen girl who has an unbearable amount of pressure on her shoulders to get “life” all figured out…now. To get all A’s, to choose a career that, for her father, will make her happy or, for her mother, will make her financially stable. Monkey does believe that sometimes being silly helps us all just cope a little bit. Helps remove us, at least temporarily, from the cages that we live in. And for that, Monkey is grateful for both Dr. Barry Humphries and Dame Edna.
Well, hope you enjoyed this one. I do say I’m ready for a cig.
Monkey wonders in general what death really is. Is it really an end in which all ceases for the individual that is taken by it? Or is it a transformation into something other than what was for that being? Or maybe it is a beginning into something completely different. Whatever death is, Monkey does know that we will all succumb to its advances in one way or another, at one time or another.
So why such sadness attached to it, especially when it is for those who we never knew person to person in life? Why did tears stream down Monkey’s face when he read about Ed McMahon, then Farrah Fawcett and then Michael Jackson? For Monkey, he believes that it is because those people will never ever have to chance to breathe the sweet beautiful air of earth again. Never be able to once again make us laugh, or capture us with their beauty or thrill us with their incredible talents. We are lucky for we have them, these three, forever. On records, mp3’s, film, video and in our memories. But for them, they can never “be” as they once were. They will never create their art again. Never feel the adoration of their fans. Never be able to make wrongs into rights.
Michael Jackson was accused of horrific things, things that are inexcusable no matter what brought it on. But isn’t it a bit harder for all of us to completely despise him for the things he may have done? I despise the part of him that could hurt innocent children, but I love the part of him who danced and sang his way into my life. We saw him and loved him since he was a boy, and we saw the abuse he suffered at the hands of his father. And we witnessed his unravelling. For it all to end in death is almost to much to bear. Though Monkey knows that death is where we all end up, I just wish, oh wish, that Michael could have turned his life into something less tragic. Into something, maybe, happy.
Yes, it is the finality of it all. Ed died with financial woes taking on odd jobs to hold on to everything he had. Farrah lost a long time battle with cancer that we were all hoping she would triumph over. And Michael died after spiraling down into someone quite unrecognizable (and I don’t mean just physically). I guess, in writing this, that Monkey realizes he feels sad not just because they can no longer enjoy the pleasures of earth, but because they were just human.
Yes, Monkey realizes that there is nothing more indelibly and definably human as death. And by human, I mean fragile.
Monkey wishes everyone would take a moment to inform yourselves and donate to :
Yes. Sometimes, I, Monkey, refer to myself in third person. If you had the name “Monkey” you would too. It’s not the same to say Bob is an art critic or egads! …Jane is an art critic. It just doesn’t roll off the tongue the same way “Monkey” does. Just saying the name Monkey, I feel happy. It’s the “onk” sound…the way I feel it high up in the back, roof of my mouth. Thrilling, I do say. So thrilling in fact I think I’ll go eat a banana and have a cup of coffee just to add to euphoria in my mouth.
Okay, I’m back.
So, yes. Monkey is an art critic. Yes, indeed. So, how could it be that Monkey who swings on the wrong branch of Hominidae family tree could express an opinion about art that others would care to hear? I feel I must answer this question as so many always seek to raise themselves higher in the echelon of society more often by gutting the qualifications of those who they feel threatened by. Who is he to critique anything? What does he do that’s so wonderful? Where did he go to school? Why him (by the way, if you’re offended by my choice to use the pronouns “he”, then go invent a word that refers to both genders and still flows nicely in the sentence, because right now, we don’t have one and I refuse to use the he/she pander)? Let me respond to those who would try to do that, try to disqualify me…”Go eat a banana.” They’re good. Yummy in fact.
Monkey is an art critic because I say I am. I, as a monkey, have a right to my opinion. I can thrash Warhol, adore Monet and throw poop at all of Michael Bay’s movies. And you’ll read all about it because you love the idea that a monkey can have an opinion. That a monkey smokes his cigarettes (don’t do it kids, it’s bad for you), drinks his coffee and types at a computer. After all, can your dog do that?
In short, I am a Monkey and I blog. I am intellectual and ever so verbose, so why not write a blog? And I know you'll read it, because I'm a monkey...and you love the idea that a Monkey has an opinion. So, give me a cup of coffee and a cig, here I go...
Monkey's Got a Blog 