matt crump, a.d.

…Simba?

Since I’ve been in L.A., I’ve been fortunate enough to read director Jonas Akerlund’s treatment of Lady GaGa’s Telephone (featuring Beyoncé) and have an exclusive first look at the video.

The gist of the video is that GaGa kills actor/model Tyrese, goes to prison, gets released, and is picked up by Beyoncé — her partner in crime. The treatment *says* it picks up where Paparazzi left off, but I didn’t see that part of the video. However, murder seems to be a big part of GaGa’s repertoire.

There’s a prison shower scene full of huge, naked boobies which not air unless generous amounts of censorship is applied.

Tonight was ridiculous.

First, Ty saw an old man on a scooter get taken out by a Camry, which sped from the scene of the crime. I was afraid to look. She jumped out of the car and ran across Sunset Boulevard to help him. Ambulances came.

Then, we parked and waited in line at the Comedy Store for Black Comedy Night. Actress and comedian Tiffany Haddish came outside and brought us around back. The bouncer stopped us and Tiffany got crunk.

“THESE. ARE. MY. PEOPLE,” she said sassily. Tiffany goes inside and comes back with a tall, slender, bald black woman who knew Jedi mind tricks.

“I am Zaynab. They can come in,” she told the bouncer.

“But I’ll get in trouble,” he whimpered.

“No, you won’t. I promise,” Zaynab said, smiling sweetly but firmly. She and Tiffany took us to the theatre.

We were the first ones inside, so we chose the best two tables. As the room filled up, I realized I was maybe one of three white people. I also wore a white long-sleeved shirt and sat front and center. I was literally a huge white target.

I made it through most of the show with relatively tame jabs. At one point, a comedian talked about black-owned businesses. He looked at me and asked, “Sir, do you run a black-owned business?”

“No, I work for one.” Everyone thought that was pretty funny. I also got to plug Sanders\Wingo.

Then, Mike Epps — the final performer — came onstage. He noticed me sitting there and called me “Leonardo DiFaggy-o.” I wasn’t insulted — any comparison to Leonardo DiCaprio is welcome. The audience, however, responded with a sympathetic “awwwww.”

“Oh, it’s okay to make fun of y’all for an hour and a half, but one joke on whitey here upsets you,” he said with a laugh. He turned back to me.

“Boy, have you ever had black p - - - y?” He stuck the mic in my face. I wasn’t ready for the question.

“Uh? No.”

“Who wants to give this boy some black p - - - y?”

At the rim of the stage were 3 crazy, fat, Compton-born women with finger waves. One of them, JoBo (perhaps weighing over 300 pounds), was very drunk and knew many gang signs, which she periodically flashed throughout the night. ”I’ll give him some,” JoBo replied.

“Go rub your titties on him,” Epps commanded. My eyes dilated and my mouth went dry.

The next few moments occurred in slow motion and with striking clarity. JoBo rose from her seat and began lifting up her blouse. I turned away, not wanting to see. I locked eyes with Justin as I put my arms over my head to shield my eyes, ears, nose, and mouth, and hunched over the table.

Then, everything went dark. I felt the purple blouse slip over my head as my tall, slender torso was crushed between the table and JoBo’s gigantic breasts. From within the warm, wet, gyrating cocoon, I heard the muffled sound of wildly intense laughter from every single person in the theatre. I could make out Ty saying, “Oh, no, Mattey!”

But nobody could help me. I wondered how long I could hold my breath. Would this be my last experience before I asphyxiated?

And like a very obese tiger releasing its prey, she peeled herself off of me and sat back down. I sprung up, gasping for air. I’d been born again — only this time into a room of laughing, staring, shocked people. My first immediate thought was, “I am alive,” followed by, “Oh, God, what if I contract a rash?” Then, my crew began hugging me, asking if I was okay. They were legitimately concerned for my wellbeing, as they should be.

“Goodnight, everybody!” Mike Epps said, leaving the stage and ending the show.

It was more fun than I’d ever had.

I’m gonna see Tiffany Haddish, the actress from my commercial, perform at the Comedy Store in L.A. She’s cray cray talented.

Today, we presented the rough cut. The client loved our recommended version, and now we’re just waiting on tweaks from client higher-ups. The commercial is in a very good place compared to the last two productions, which seemed wrought with problems.

Crossing my fingers this thing flies into final mix without a hitch.

UPDATE: As if by magic, Glitters and I found each other on Twitter through GaGaDaily. Turns out, he is the creator of the viral website raraahahahromaromamagagaoohlala.com. Crazy.

“Slow down — do not run,” the crew kept yelling at the crowd as it defiantly ran down flight after flight of stairs to the Pearl concert theatre at the Palms casino. Once inside the theatre, I found the centermost spot in the pit. Only 1 row of people was in front of me — those at the lip of the stage.

At the front, a short, skinny gay with glitter in his hair was on the phone. He wore a tight white blood-stained t-shirt that read “THIS BOY IS A MONSTER” in bold Helvetica — the official typeface of the Monster Ball.

“They will tell you to walk. Fucking run,” Glitters told his boyfriend over the phone. But it was too late. The crowd was already pressing in, leaving no room through which to wriggle.

“Please let him in. He’s really skinny — he can fit right next to me,” Glitters pleaded, indicating an imaginary space. “GaGa love. GaGa love! Please!” Over my shoulder, another pocket gay in a matching bloody t-shirt locked his wet puppy dog eyes onto Glitters’. All they wanted was to be next to each other holding hands when their God revealed herself to us.

But nobody let him in. The rest of the theatre filled up, and after the opening act, the tension mounted. Most of us stood there, quietly waiting. Others screamed her name uncontrollably.

Then, the lights went out and a countdown was projected onto a giant mesh screen onstage. Black and white images of GaGa writhed on the mesh screen. Our screaming mouths watered with anticipation as the countdown ended.

And from behind the mesh veil, an LED-lit outfit appeared. It was Lady GaGa. After an eternity, she stepped through the mesh and stretched her arms out like Jesus Christ. The gays’ lord and savior had arrived. With the Coming, Glitters had forgotten about his boyfriend and vice versa.

We worshipped her for the next two hours as she praised us, sang and danced for us, and showed us things we’d never seen before: some of it colorful, some of it twisted, and some of it both — the most interesting of which was a video of GaGa in a white dress on the huge downstage screen. A girl sat on her lap with her fingers down her own throat. In slow motion, she withdrew them and purged bright blue goo onto GaGa’s dress over and over again. GaGa remained still. It was meaninglessly fascinating. What was wrong with her? What was wrong with us?

After she told the story of “the claw,” the official sign of a Lady GaGa fanatic, nobody put their clawed hands down for the rest of the show. She could make us do whatever she wanted. She could show us whatever she wanted. We were totally and irrevocably brainwashed. Her cult of Little Monsters was realized.

It was scary.

Notorious B.I.G. mashed up with Miley Cyrus? I know that sounds terrible, but it’s actually really. Fucking. Good.

It’s Party and Bullshit in the USA, y’all.

About 97% of Google’s revenue is generated by ad sales. We’re talking millions upon millions of banners ads, search-based results, mobile ads, and streaming videos — all constantly being served across the entire Internet. That’s an unimaginable amount of daily impressions. You think the click-through rates of all those ads just goes unchecked by Google? Of course not.

If there’s one thing Google’s good at, it’s data to analysis. Google understands the psychology of the click — what gets people’s attention enough for them to click on something and what doesn’t. 

So, naturally, when we see a Google ad somewhere on the web, our little ears should perk up, because thousands of terabytes of carefully analyzed information stand behind it. You can’t buy that kind of research.

This ad on CNN.com asks a simple question and showed the top half of some sort of arty furry thing. I had no idea what it was (and still don’t), but it got my attention and related to the content in the click-through.

And it’s worth mentioning that there’s not much happening in the ad. The only animation that happened was the furry thing grew quickly from the bottom. Google did this on purpose. Google must know that if the message relies on a few frames of animation, people are probably going to miss some of it, and they won’t care enough to replay the animation to absorb the content — resulting in lost clicks.

So, what did we learn? Don’t overload your ad with information. That’s what the click-through is for. People don’t want to be bombarded with info unless they want it. So, get people to want it in your banner ad — or whatever’s being clicked — and then give them answers on the microsite, or wherever you take them on the click.

Simplicity for the win.

Dear La Zona Rosa,

Last night was the first time I’ve been to your venue. I saw was supposed to see Imogen Heap. I’m such a fan, I bought my ticket off craigslist for $75. But you completely ruined my experience.

I get what you’re trying to do. You wanna foster intimacy with a small indoor area and a stage. But why was it 100 degrees? Yeah, it was a little cold outside, but seriously? Leave the blazing hell furnaces off next time and give us some air to breathe.

But that’s not my biggest complaint.

What I really would like to know is this: why, why, WHY would you place two giant speakers in front of the stage to block off nearly 15-20% of the audience’s line of sight? For the nearly two hours I stood there, I saw Imogen perform for about, oh, 30 FUCKING MINUTES.

Worst concert experience of my life. Fuck you, La Zona Rosa.

Sincerely,

Matt Crump

Lady GaGa’s upcoming Fame Monster (a re-release of The Fame with 8 all-new tracks) was leaked last week. Thus, it’s time to discuss the good, the bad and the ugly of GaGa’s latest. And If I find out you’ve downloaded it with no intention of buying it on Nov. 23, I will hunt you down and beat you with my disco stick. Read on for Crump’s review.

Bad Romance: Catchy, artful lyrics combined with an urgent, hypnotic dance beat. Honestly, I’ve been listening to this song on repeat for a few weeks now. Pretty sure I’m brainwashed thanks to her satanic video (please note sarcasm). RATING: VERY GOOD.

Alejandro: All that she wants is another baby, anyone? Heavily influenced by Ace of Base. Fine, since The Sign was the first album I ever bought. Regardless, I’m giving Alejandro lots of airtime. RATING: GOOD.

Monster: The title track fits in with the other songs from The Fame but it’s nothing special. RATING: BAD.

Speechless: Similar to Brown Eyes and Again Again (less electronica, more piano and strings). Not a personal favorite but a pleasing showcase of GaGa’s voice nonetheless. RATING: GOOD.

Dance in the Dark: Quickly rising to the top of my iTunes’ most-played songs. Dark, moody vibe with strong lyrics about damaged goods. RATING: GOOD.

Telephone (feat. Beyonce): What in the fuck. Terrible, horrible, no-good, very bad lyrics.

Hello, hello, baby?
You call but I can’t hear a thing.
I have got no service in the club, you see.
What did you say? You’re breaking up on me.
Sorry, I cannot hear you. I’m kinda busy.

Saving grace? A catchy chorus. If you can get past the first 45 seconds of the song, it might grow on you. And Beyonce? Please GTFO. RATING: GOOD, BAD & VERY UGLY.

So Happy I could Die: A not-very melodic song about clubbing with a bottle of red wine. Not much to say. RATING: UGLY.

Teeth: Fun and simple, but I’m not finding myself wanting to listen to it over and over. RATING: BAD.

…but she won’t be getting the Grammy. GaGa’s found herself in a catch-22 because her first single, Just Dance, was nominated in the best dance category for the Grammys back in February. According to Grammy regulations, this disqualifies her for next year’s Best New Artist award.

It’s an issue of bad timing. GaGa released her debut album at the end of 2008 and didn’t become a household name until after last year’s Grammys. Since then, she’s had more #1 singles from a debut album than any other artist, ever, and has sold over 1.5 million copies of it. GaGa has also been applauded for her dynamic artistic vision.

The first time I used the shower in my apartment, water pooled on the floor near the back of the tub. All I needed to do was adjust the shower head’s angle so its stream wouldn’t hit the back of the tub (and not create runoff onto the bathroom floor). By my second shower, the pooling was no longer an issue.

But sometimes, products are created to solve minor annoyances that you’ve already dealt with. Tidee Tubb is one of those products (I guess Tidy Tub was taken). It has a patented curve that directs water back into the tub. It is aesthetically pleasing and blends in with all decor. It comes in white and the maker’s newest color, Ultra Clear!™. And most importantly, it’s made in the USA. Exclamation point.

In reality, Tidee Tubb is a fucking plastic wedge that you caulk onto the corner of your tub. Oh, and caulk is included. The end.

After I installed it, I pushed the shower head all the way up — further than it’s ever gone before — and took a shower. And whaddaya know? My bathroom floor remained pool-free. I can now stand all the way at the back of the tub and bathe. My life is complete.

Rating: It works, but really, why the fuck do you need that?

I recently fell in love with Bed Bath & Beyond and am quite obsessed with buying as-seen-on-TV merchandise knowing full well it will not work. My last purchase was the Bender Ball — a miniature, basketball-sized exercise ball made of regular-sized exercise ball material at three times the price. Fucking brilliant.

Back home, I inflate the ball with the included straw and insert the needle-like pin inside the hole to prevent air leakage. Duh, right? Now it’s time to use the stupid thing.

I pop in DVD 1 of 3. For the first 3 to 5 minutes, Leslee Bender (inventor of the Bender technique and an apparent M-to-F transexual) shows me how, step by step, to inflate the already inflated ball, which took me about 5 to 7 seconds to actually do. I forgot that only retards buy these things!

Now — finally — I can activate my core and be on my way to sexy, rock-hard abs. And for the next 18 minutes, I do whatever the tranny tells me. Get on your knees. Put the ball under your ass. Put the ball in your ass. Imagine your navel kissing the ball. Pulse it. Reach it. Lick it. I. Do. It. All.

As the DVD credits roll, I lay there breathing heavily with my head back and arms splayed. The Gender Bender Ball is pressed between my upper back and the floor. I concentrate on the Iron Gym in the doorway above me, using it as a focal point so I don’t vomit up Perfect Sliders all over the Snuggie beside me.

Trembling but somewhat recovered, I crawl into bed.

The next morning, every single muscle in my torso aches, including ones I didn’t know existed. Standing upright burned like hell. Wait a minute — this means the Bender Ball actually worked.

I’ve never really found an effective core-training technique that made my abs hurt like so. I guess the packaging was right. It is 408% more effective than, um, doing nothing at all…?

Rating: Recommended and university tested!