Author: Ed Johnson

Recently, I’ve had a lot of cause to consider what the world would be like if I were God. And so have you.

The nugget at the heart of It’s Always Sunny in Philadelphia—for my money, the best comedy on television—is its insistence on making its characters into monsters.

The reasons for the demise of radio are legion, but the fact of the matter is, we really just don’t need it anymore. I can choose whatever music I want anytime I want to listen to it, and so can you.

Big Fan is misery desperately searching for company.

Born Andrew Mayer Cohen, and raised in Ann Arbor, Mich., this goofy looking white guy writes music that sounds like classic Motown and is damn near as good. If you’re into the new wave of neo-soul—Lord, yes—you’ll be into Mayer Hawthorne.

All things considered, we live in a damn beautiful city. There are mountains, rivers and a surplus of bridges. Sure it rains a lot but, you know, rain can be pretty too (or at least evocative).

Kids, our town should be in the movies. And it is, sometimes.

If it weren’t for the thousands of dead bodies piled in their wake, the lies that led us to war in 2003 would be downright comical.

Somewhere in the middle of Humpday, between the fuzzy, documentary-style footage and the deadpanning conversation, it becomes clear that this doesn’t have a damn thing to do with porn.

There are few unlikelier heroes than The Dude.

I mean it’s not like we all grow up wanting to be shaggy looking men in dirty robes and jelly sandals. But Jeff Lebowski transcends his schlubby pothead body and represents something more: an attainable zen.

Ray Drecker is pretty much the perfect emblem of post-crash America. He was once a great man—popular, handsome and successful—but now he’s alone with a burned-down house and no insurance to pay for it. His only solution lies in his one innate gift.

A big penis must be good for something, right?

To look at the cover of Pop Salvation is to understand the book.

With its garish pink and yellow scheme, half-toned punk rocker and giant sans-serif lettering, the cover works like the writing it contains: It’s obvious, but pleasantly so. The conceptual artifice is nothing if not transparent.