Listamia! Redux: OCD Nation Unite

So with 2004 drawing to a close, the whole country's got a fever for some listmakin'. According to the fourth edition of the American Psychiatric Association's Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of Mental Disorders, excessive list making is a common compulsion associated with Obsessive-Compulsive Disorder.

Well it's time for many of our favorite indie-music publications and sites to start a-courtin' Helen Hunt*, because the best-of-2004 lists are flying fast. The excellent Stylus has done 2004 albums and singles. As we mentioned before, The Onion A/V Club put their picks up. The NME list and several others are available at the Rocklist site. Stereogum posted the really embarassing entries in Rolling Stone's 2004 top 50 albums list. Jimmy Buffett is represented. I shit you not. Be prepared to throw up in your mouth a little. Finally, Bitchfo... er... Pitchfork has posted their reissues and singles. Albums go up tomorrow. So that leaves Spin, The Village Voice's Pazz & Jop poll, and the major newspapers.

In the spirit of year-end stock-taking, the management would like to take a moment to consider notable moments in the cinema of 2004. Specifically, two films that were so bad, so unnecessary, so... wrong as to boggle the mind. The first offender is the Denzel Washington/Tony Scott wank-fest Man on Fire, a paean to gratuitous violence so deeply cynical and coolly executed as to go virtually unnoticed by critics and social commentators alike. The basic premise, that any level of physical depravity is justified if it's perpetrated in retaliation for the death of Dakota Fanning is bad enough. That the victims of Denzel's increasingly sick and elaborate tortures are all Mexican scum who dared to defile a lily-white innocent takes inspiration from one of the oldest (and most offensive) tropes in American cinema... one that points back to the proud tradition started by D.W. Griffiths's Birth of a Nation. Who woulda thought? A respected black actor and an Englishman just set America's cultural growth back about 20 years. Oh, and the little shit turns out to be alive at the end.

Shitfest number two is a more straightforward, old-fashioned stupid movie. In fact, rather than tell you why it was so bad, I'll just give you the name: Van Helsing.

But don't listen to me. Of my three favorite movies this year, two are about zombies.

*In case you didn't get that Helen Hunt joke

LISTMANIA! 2004

Sweet Christ in heaven. The management is happy to bring you this year's installment of LISTMANIA! The "convenience" of modern blog technology has allowed fun graphics and other 21st-century tricks and treats. This also took four times longer than it has in past years. So you'd better fucking appreciate it. And now, without further griping, the management is proud to give you...

THE TOP TEN ALBUMS OF 2004

10. Our Endless Numbered Days ~ Iron & Wine / Rejoicing in the Hands ~ Devendra Banhart


Let’s get this out of the way: on the whole, I do not care for folk music. I don’t like hippies, and I believe that barefoot people should not make music. There are exceptions both past (Dylan, Billy Bragg) and present (Kings of Convenience), but that stuff is just… beyond. And they all wore shoes. So two folk albums in one year? What are the chances? Okay so I’m cheating right off the bat by choosing two albums for the tenth slot, and there are basically two reasons for this. One, this spot was, like, totally a tie between some five or six albums and I needed some plausible thematic wiggle room. Two, both are neo-folk albums consisting primarily of one dude and one guitar. And frankly I don’t know enough about folk music to tell which is better. Banhart’s guitar lines are more interesting but his voice can get a little “arty” (read, ostentatious). Samuel Beam, the thick-bearded chap who is Iron & Wine, brings a more simplistic, inbred-yokel feel to his songs, calling to mind whiskey-fueled sing-alongs in the smoky mountains. If I had to, I’d give Iron & Wine the edge by virtue of his awesome beard and the genuinely haunting quality of his music. Nonetheless, both albums are masterpieces of songcraft and acoustic, um, folkiness. An interesting side note: Banhart actually recorded 57 songs, 32 of which were chosen for two albums; this one, and the slightly less stellar Niño Rojo, which was released this fall.

9. Shake the Sheets ~ Ted Leo + Pharmacists


“Little Dawn,” Shake the Sheets's opening track, is so good, so tight, so bloody fist-pumping and life-affirming, that it’s difficult to get past. I think I heard the second song on the album for the first time 24 hours after pressing play. The repeat button kept getting in the way. Luckily, I finally arrived at song two: “Me and Mia.” Yeah. I might have pooed my pants. I can’t remember. Ted Leo’s music is unabashedly pop-punk, and he has more than a passing vocal resemblance to Joe Jackson. Really, that’s all you need to say. If Look Sharp-era Joe Jackson had a baby with Stiff Little Fingers and the Buzzcocks… well, you get the point. The strained earnestness of bands like Blink 182 seems all the more pale in the light of Leo’s blend of pop skill and lyrical directness. The most astounding (and misleading) element of these songs is their apparent simplicity. He makes it look so goddamn easy. But there’s nothing harder than pop perfection.

8. Talkie Walkie ~ Air


The essential elements remain unchanged. Goofy French pronunciation of English lyrics? Check. Le smooth? Check. Laudanum-laced keyboard notes that never seem to end? Check and check! In fact, two tracks in you start to wonder if Air is stuck on autopilot. Then you run into “Run” and everything goes all pear-shaped. A spooky reverie leads into the most heavenly “chorus” imaginable… floating choral lines fade in and out over a single word (“run,” “go,” etc.) stuck on repeat. Even better, they’re so fucking French that “run” sounds like “ren.” Trust me, it’s as funny as it is beautiful. The real upside is that Nicolas Godin and Jean-Benoît Dunckel have upped the ante as music writers, relying less on cheap 1970s atmospherics, and plumbing the greater depths of both electronic and acoustic traditions. They’re still Air, though, which means copious amounts of marijuana will doubtlessly enhance your listening experience.

7. Antics ~ Interpol


Luckily, Carlos D. is good for something other than black ties and shoulder holsters. Increasingly nasal and fatuous vocalist Paul Banks may eventually put the band on the road to ruin, but for now Carlos and drummer Sam Fogarino are keeping Interpol head and shoulders above the rest. Okay, okay, I’m a little bitter at Banks for wearing a stupid hat and turning his damn vocals up to 11 the last time I saw the band live. But seriously, dude’s lyrics are pretty rough. It’s a testament to the band’s technical skill and unique (yes, unique) sound, then, that they make such bloody good records. Hey, it can’t be easy when your debut album (my retrospective pick for best album of 2002) makes you the U2 of indie rock and draws comparisons to Joy Division and Afghan Wigs. It’s not all skill, though. Interpol do doom and gloom with grandiose style and danceable hooks… and they look cool. That’s all the goth ‘n’ roll bases right there, kids. Also, “Not Even Jail” is my clear choice for non-single song of the year. I love big, epic rock songs that make me tear up just a little, y’know?

6. The Libertines ~ The Libertines


This may be the ultimate break-up album. Not because it’s something you put on and cry along with when you break up with someone, but because it is the sound of one drunken, dysfunctional, and totally fucking doomed rock band coming apart at the seams. So it’s depressing? Nope. It’s fucking glorious. This is the sound of abandon, of Nero fiddling while Rome burns to the ground. Life is fucked? Have a drink. Is the opening track, “Can’t Stand Me Now,” Pete Doherty’s fatalistic mea culpa? Yeah, probably. Who cares? “Don’t Be Shy” may be the drunkest I’ve ever heard a band on LP (including The Pogues), and it sounds fantastic. The Libertines are the most beloved band of the UK’s music press for two very different reasons. Reason one, they’re always in trouble and make great press. Reason two, some of the most quotable lyrics ever: “The boy kicked out at the world/The world kicked back a lot fucking harder.” “Well I’ll confess all of my sins/After several large gins…” and so forth. Anyone want a drink?

5. Good News For People Who Love Bad News ~ Modest Mouse


I don’t like Modest Mouse. Their last album left me cold. So imagine my surprise when I picked this up after hearing “Float On” on modern rock radio(!?). It was one of those “this song is great… who could this be?” moments. The rest, as they say, is history. The album opens with a wild horn intro, leading into “The World At Large,” which sounds like a funeral procession for the victims of a bloody clown-car accident. And then it’s the aforementioned super-single, the feel-fucking-good hit of the summer. Wow. For whatever reason (hey, I’m not Greil Marcus!) the band’s calculated eccentricity has become a virtue, adding a taste of the unexpected to otherwise conventional, solid hooks. Horns, carnival organs, and the like threaten goofiness, but Jeremiah Green’s brilliant drumming is just enough to keep the whole balloon from, er, floating on. Special secret note: “The View” is the best slept-on dance song of the year.

4. The Futureheads ~ The Futureheads


Does a rock band need a raison d’être to be considered relevant? More to the point, is relevance relevant? The Futureheads are, at least on the face of it, all about fun, speed, precision, and the sharpest four-part harmonies on Earth. Also, they have really thick, cool Sunderland accents and they dress real nice. Not exactly a recipe for critical praise. And yet their crisp sonic attack and boundless energy has made these clean-cut North Englanders critical darlings. Interestingly, The ‘Heads’ self-titled debut was produced by none other than Andy Gill, whose Gang of Four is still “relevant” as all hell and had raison d’être falling out of their assholes. Anyway, this is all irrelevant. Songs like “Robot” and “Decent Days and Nights” beg you to dance around in your underwear and learn every vocal part. This is the very essence of fun. Also, The Futureheads win this year’s Best Live Band award.

3. Funeral ~ Arcade Fire


I’ll come right out and admit this up front: I can’t really articulate why this is such a good album. I could mention other bands to which they bear some similarity (Talking Heads top that list), but it wouldn’t really do much good. There are marching-drum rhythm sections, arpeggioed guitars, Yoko Ono-style ethereal vocals… all kinds of stuff, really. Like British Sea Power or Broken Social Scene, Arcade Fire is a brilliant art-rock band that’s far too mercurial to pin down. Needless to say, they’re Canadians. That being said, Funeral is no pretentious mish-mash of pretty noises. No, that’s Fiery Furnaces’ Blueberry Boat (winner of this year’s Most Overrated Album award). Rather, it’s a poignant, grandiose reflection on humble little themes like life and death. Oh, and “Neighborhood #3 (Power Out)” is a mind-blowingly beautiful song. So it’s got that going for it. Which is nice.

2. Franz Ferdinand ~ Franz Ferdinand


Hi. We’re Franz Ferdinand. We’re from Scotland, which chicks love. We’re really well dressed, which chicks love. We’re totally gay, which chicks love. When we started this band, it was with the intention of making rock music that girls like to dance to… which chicks love. Basically, we’re a disco-rock, postpunk orgasm wrapped in chocolate and dipped in beer with cocaine sprinkled on top and chicks love us. Oh, and we’re not really gay.

What can you say about the FF that hasn’t been said already? “Take Me Out” was far and away the best dance single of the year. “The Dark of the Matinée” was the best make-out song of the year. See? There were a number of “bests” associated with this album. It’s cool, funny, deprecating, sexy, endlessly insinuating, and effortlessly stylish. Basically, this album is every sophisticated foreigner you’ve ever wanted to fuck. Only in convenient album form.

1. Bows + Arrows ~ The Walkmen


Anger, hurt, defeat… in musical terms, these emotions are too frequently reduced to outright aggression or gothic moping. Or, in the case of Nine Inch Nails, both. But let’s face it, emotional complexity is more than just a pet concept of French film critics. In real life, you rarely feel 100% Minor Threat. You’ve gotta read a lot of Sylvia Plath to feel exactly Cat Power. The power of The Walkmen is their ambivalence. The songs can be upbeat--hell transcendent--while they make you want to pound your head against a wall. They can sound like funeral dirges while they kick out drunken one-liners. The jumbled, contradictory nature of real emotions, of genuine crisis, comes across just as those emotions frequently do: clear as a fucking mud puddle.

This is the first time I’ve selected an album for number one that has everyone split into two camps. There is no middle ground on The Walkmen. A lot of people just don’t get it. And I don’t think it’s a question of failing to grasp something that’s definitely there. These songs are raw in a way that can unsettle, or even annoy, as easily as they can enthrall. But I just can’t get enough of it. This baby kills me. The haunting wail of Walter Martin’s organs, Paul Maroon’s wall-of-sound guitar, and Matt Barrick’s drums are the perfect foil to Hamilton Leithauser’s weary, addled vocals… a smoky hybrid of Boy-era Bono and Greg Dulli of Afghan Wigs.

Oh and there’s one more thing: “The Rat.” Hands down, the best song/single/whatever of the year. A monstrous ball of rage, disgust, and utter resignation, it manages to make the listener want to jump around instead of curling up in a ball to die. How Barrick’s drum kit keeps from exploding, I’ll never know. “When I used to go out / I knew everyone I saw / Now I go out alone / if I go out at all.” Uplifting stuff.

Runners-Up:

Bloc Party (EP) ~ Bloc Party
You're a Woman, I'm a Machine ~ Death From Above 1979
You Are The Quarry ~ Morrissey
Misery Is a Butterfly ~ Blonde Redhead
Boy in Da Corner ~ Dizzee Rascal
Probot ~ Probot
Smile ~ Brian Wilson

Honorable Mention:

American Idiot ~ Green Day
Now Here Is Nowhere ~ Secret Machines
Kiss & Tell ~ Sahara Hotnights
Tyrannosaurus Hives ~ The Hives
Young Liars ~ TV on the Radio
Underachievers Please Try Harder ~ Camera Obscura
Pawn Shoppe Heart ~ Von Bondies
Through the Sun Door ~ White Magic
Madvillainy ~ Madvillain
Onoffon ~ Mission Of Burma
Hot Fuss ~ Killers
Louden Up Now ~ !!!
This Island ~ Le Tigre


SINGLES

1. “The Rat” ~ The Walkmen
2. “Take Me Out” ~ Franz Ferdinand
3. “Your Cover’s Blown/Wrapped Up in Books” ~ Belle and Sebastian
4. “C’mon, C’mon” ~ Von Bondies
5. “Float On” ~ Modest Mouse
6. “Can’t Stand Me Now” ~ The Libertines
7. “The Last of the Gang to Die” ~ Morrissey
8. “Spitting Games” ~ Snow Patrol
9. “What You Waiting For” ~ Gwen Stefani
10. “Mr. Brightside” ~ The Killers
…but this goes to…
11. “Teenager” ~ Camera Obscura

Honorable Mention:

Annie, “Chewing Gum”; LCD Soundsystem, “Yeah”; Britney Spears, “Toxic”


REISSUES/ COMPILATIONS

Ranking reissues doesn’t make much sense, but I do have to place the special edition of The Kinks’ The Kinks Are the Village Green Preservation Society at the top. Why? Extras, baby! The Pavement and Clash reissues of great albums are just super, but the extras are somewhat less than enthralling. But this edition of Village Green is three discs of rarities and obscurities worth listening to.

1. Village Green Preservation Society: Remastered Special Edition ~ The Kinks
Crooked Rain Crooked Rain: L.A.'s Desert Origins ~ Pavement
London Calling: The Legacy Edition ~ The Clash
Weezer: Deluxe Edition (The Blue Album) ~ Weezer
Travel Edition, 1990-2005 ~ Saint Etienne

Here are the superior label and theme comps…

Dfa Records Presents: Compilation 2 ~ Various Artists
Left of the Dial: Dispatches from the ‘80s Underground ~ Various Artists

…and the best DJ mixes…

DJ-Kicks ~ Erlend Øye
Suck My Deck ~ Ivan Smagghe
Unclassics ~ Morgan Geist

Whew!! I'm exhausted. That's it. Go home.

Hot Pixies Action, 12/13/04

Pixies. Concert. Old. Fat. Better than expected. "I Bleed." "Gigantic." Kim Deal is an angel. I was the youngest person there. Crowded. Missed Mission of Burma. Bummed. Camera phone sucks. Etc., etc.

I don't know why, but even though they played a great show, I'm having difficulty being enthusiastic about the whole thing. I guess you just can't go home again, y'know? Also, Hammerstein Ballroom is way too big for a rock show. I hate that place.

Tracklist:
1. Is She Weird?
2. Something Against You
3. Bone Machine
4. Cactus
5. I Bleed
6. Caribou
7. No. 13 Baby
8. Broken Face
9. UMass
10. Mr. Grieves
11. Dead
12. Hey
13. Velouria
14. Ed Is Dead
15. Gouge Away
16. Wave of Mutilation
17. Monkey's Gone To Heaven
18. Crackity Jones
19. Isla de Encanta
20. Tame
21. In Heaven
22. Wave Of Mutilation (UK Surf)
23. Here Comes Your Man
24. Holiday Song
25. Nimrod's Son
26. Vamos
27. Where Is My Mind
28. [ENCORE] Debaser
29. [ENCORE] Gigantic

Livin' La Vida Aquatico

The Life Aquatic with Steve Zissou will, as with all Wes Anderson films, require multiple viewings. In his review in the Times, A.O. Scott refers to Anderson's tendency toward "wonder-cabinet production design" (a wonderfully apt description). The guy takes an obsessive-compulsive approach to every frame, resulting in films that don't really sink in until the third or fourth viewing. I can say this, though: it's a very good movie and Bill Murray is my hero.

Most impressive, as always, is the music supervision. I don't want to give anything away, but both Bowie's "Queen Bitch" and Iggy's "Search and Destroy" are used to startling effect. Only Martin Scorsese can match Anderson's facility for using pop music to enhance even the most mundane scenes. Remember "Making Time" and "A Quick One (While He's Away)" in Rushmore? How about Nico's "The Fairest of the Seasons," "Judy is a Punk," and almost the entire first side of the Stones' Between the Buttons in The Royal Tenenbaums? Utter fucking genius.

Anyway, thumbs up.

And So It Begins... A Prelude To Listmania!

The Listmania! music list is the management's annual attempt to say a little something about the year's finest albums, singles, etc. Many of you will recall having received/participated in the old, lower-tech e-mail version. This year, what with the "blog" and all, you will be able to visit again and again, see cover art, etc. Also, in addition to the ability to comment without the dreaded "reply to all" stigma, you will still be able to submit your own list (The management will be happy to post many of them) and you can even send a link to your site if you have a similar posting. Glee! This is the kind of idyllic community that we can create using the internets!

This all comes up because, in addition to 2004 being nearly over, the first of the geeked-out 2004 music lists has already arrived. The folks over at The Onion AV Club kicked the list season off late yesterday. *bitter defeat* should follow suit as early as next week.

Thanks to Chezzabella for sending this article on an etymological approach to the word "dude." For those of us who [ab]use the term often, it's a fascinating read.

The management will attend a special premiere screening of The Life Aquatic with Steve Zissou this evening at MoMA. Can it possibly stand up to expectations? Probably not, but it still looks great. An assessment will follow shortly.

Mischa Barton: "Will You Still Love Me If I Switch Back to Solid Foods??"

Mischa Baaaaaaaarton
Originally uploaded by the management.

The management has been made aware of the fact that Mischa Barton, star of best-show-on-TV The OC and international spokes-scarecrow for not eating, was also the freaky puke ghost in The Sixth Sense. Apparently I was the only person in the world who didn't know. The real question is this: is this the scene that put Mischa on the glamorous road to full-fledged celebrity bulemia? Has she graduated to the far more A-list anorexia nervosa? Is she perhaps dabbling in crystal meth, fancying herself a model type? If so, can we get her dealer's number?

Some reptilian part of my brain must have known that the Meesh was also the scary vomit girl... she has always unsettled me on a visceral level. Especially in this scene from the OC season premiere. Note the unlikely appearance of her frumpy, saggy ass... the last outpost of stubborn humanity on an otherwise extraterrestrial frame.

Six days and counting to the Pixies/Mission of Burma show. Here's a great Frank Black Francis Thompson quote about the reunion from Ken Switzer's Village Voice article:

"'People talk like, "Oh, they're just doing it for the money," as if it's some kind of ignoble thing. But the fact of the matter is, as a musician, you work really hard to get where you're at, you put a lot of effort into it, and maybe you fight with a lot of people about it.' So, he says, 'It's not just about money in the most evil sense of the word; it's about being an artist as opposed to being the manager of a warehouse.'"

Finally, just in case you were worried, renegade Rolling Stones remixer Fatboy Slim assuages the fear of electronic music fans everywhere: it's just in a slump right now. An offhanded admission to the mediocrity of his latest album?? Could be. Word on the street is that it's a lump of shit. Of course, how that differentiates the album from the rest of his work remains to be seen.

Matthew Barney? Chris Cunningham?? GOD???

I have no idea who's responsible for THIS, but they are to be congratulated.

All I can say is this: RAD. AWESOME. HOLY FUCKING SHIT THAT RULES.

You get the point.

**UPDATE** This is apparently the work of an artist named Mariko Takahashi. A definite resident of WTFland.

I Love The 00s, Episode One

Remember Friendster?? Remember iPods?? Oh, and the last episode of Friends... that was so sad. Playstation 2 was so deck!! Trucker hats, too!! Oh my god, wasn't Electroclash funny?? I wanted to marry The Strokes. You know what was a great song?? "I'm sorry Miss Jackson (OOOH), but I am for reeeeeal!!"

The management has just been made aware of the fact that episodes of I Love the... go by year. Please disregard the above parody, as it doesn't make sense. It's a slow day at the office. Thank you for your understanding.

Sax-a-ma-phone... Sax-a-ma-phone

Happy Monday after Thanksgiving. The management would like to apologize for the recent lag in post frequency.

Between the MoMA reopening and a much-needed week in Miami, it has been difficult to get up the will to write. Here's a free tip: if you're trying to dry out, don't spend a week with your party-happy parents and their 1,000-bottle wine cellar. I have reached the fat-with-a-beard-Jim-Morrison stage in my development as an alcoholic.

As promised, above is a Zutons pic from the MoMA opening. Below is Perry Farrell on the wheels of steel. Turns out camera phones take sucky pictures. Who knew?



A special thanks to all those who ventured to the mysterious heart of Brooklyn for the final nail in the coffin. Despite less-than-stellar turnout, a great time was had by all. Bacardi and Cola played a spirited debut set (if I do say so ourselves). It was an auspicious start at the very least.

As I reintegrate myself into non-vacation society, I leave you with these delectable treats:

First, from the "give me a fucking break" file, the kids who sing the "We don't need no education..." part in Pink Floyd's "Another Brick in the Wall, Part 2" are suing for back royalties. Second, LK sent me this, which he referred to as "without a doubt the best thing ever created by western civilization." I'm inclined to agree.

**UPDATE: the above link has been updated.** Also, here's a slightly exaggerated recap of the Zutons' MoMA gig from NME

MoMAnia: The Triumphant Return of a Cultural Juggernaut

The management is proud to bring you a first-hand report from Manhattan's Cultural Event of the Year: The Museum of Modern Art's opening shindig.

Here's the short version: Holy Fucking Shit.

Here's the long version: After toiling away on this reopening for the better part of two years, the culmination of our efforts is finally in sight. The museum opens to the public on Saturday, but last night was the big premiere party.

Confirmed celebrity sightings: Alan Cumming in this cool white tuxedo (That dude is seriously tiny... I wanted to hug him.); David Byrne (I swear to god I see this man everywhere.); Marisa Tomei (Who cares?); Alicia Silverstone (Wouldn't have figured her for an art lover, but whatevs.); Tom Brokaw. Rumored no-shows(?): Gwinny and Chris Martin and Renee Zelweger. Oh and earlier that day I was working at the front desk and Debbie Harry asked us for a Sharpie. We didn't have one. I was so starstruck that I stared at her with my mouth open and couldn't talk. Diagnosis: Embarassing retard.

Music: First, Ryuichi Sakamoto treated everyone to a hopelessly avant-garde DJ/laptop set that sounded like dogshit in the "soaring 110-foot-tall atrium." Apparently trustees were complaining all night about the horrible racket. Don't you just wanna punch old people? Next, an amazing live set by The Zutons up in the temporary exhibition galleries. Oh man... they were so great. And I was apparently one of three people in the building who had actually heard of them. Word is that Sigur Ros was originally scheduled for this slot, but they cancelled at the last minute. Thank the lord Jesus in heaven for small favors. If I wanted to go to sleep, I'd stay at home in bed, thank you very much. Finally, none other than Perry Farrell, looking quite dapper in a shirt and tie, played the most middle-of-the-road, lowest-common-denominator DJ set in history. If he had played "Brick House" or "Bust a Move" it would have fit in perfectly. But he was having fun and the crowd was dancing like maniacs, so well done sir. Note: The management will post pictures the moment new camera phone technology is understood. Photos are currently trapped on phone.

Drinkin', dancin', and art appreciatin' is hard work, but we sucked it up and headed to the afterparty at MoMA's pet bar, Connelly's. We had pockets full of cash, brains full of free booze, and Zutons David McCabe and Boyan Chowdhury in tow. Newsflash: Liverpudlians can drink. Left bar too drunk to see... went to breakfast... crawled into bed at 5:15 a.m. Brain cells killed: 23,000,000. Cocktails consumed: unknown. Number of times "Awesome!" was yelled: 12,345. Hours late for work: 2.

Final analysis and conclusions: Liverpudlians can drink. Saxamaphone may be poised for a legitimate return to rock-music respectability. Canadian Club whiskey is my new best friend. MoMA is an astounding place for looking at art and a bad place for listening to music. Of all people, Perry Farrell should know that "Give It Away Now" is a crappy song. The Museum of Modern Art is genuinely breathtaking and I would recommend seeing it on acid (unless you are afraid of heights... then you would go insane with fear and claw your own eyes out). I have been either drunk or hung over for the last 72 hours and I think I might be dying.

Also, you should come to the party tomorrow night.

New Heaven Resident Celebrates Arrival with Year's Biggest Party

HEAVEN, November 15, 2005 -- A "crack" team of 17 angels has been called in to perform a miracle of unprecedented scope this morning. At the request of Rick James and new resident Ol' Dirty Bastard, the winged seraphim have been deployed to cook up what officials are calling "the biggest crack rock ever seen in the Kingdom of God." According to a herald close to the Almighty, "The city in the clouds is about to produce some clouds of its own, as Rick James and ODB are planning what they have billed as 'the biggest mothafuckin' crack party they ever had up in this piece' for next weekend."

Another source close to the Lord of All Creation, St. Peter, voiced some concerns about the admission of Heaven's newest celebrity resident. "Frankly, I'm a little taken aback by Yahweh's decision in this. Of course, I'm not one to second guess the Alpha and Omega, but it did come as quite a surprise. At least [ODB] changed his name back from Big Baby Jesus. There would have been no end to the confusion up here if he was still calling himself that."

While some nearby residents have also indicated their trepidation, primarily citing noise concerns and insufficient parking, most of the Blessed and the Host of Heaven are looking forward to the celebration. In addition to several official envoys of Jahova and the First Son himself, Jesus of Nazareth, confirmed attendees include Biggie Smalls and roommate Tupac Shakur, John Belushi, Keith Moon, Jimi Hendrix, John the Baptist, Jam Master Jay, Miles Davis, and Jessica Tandy.

Although the King of Kings has thus far declined official comment, a spokesman for Jesus Christ, speaking under condition of anonymity, stated that the Messiah is "extremely excited about joining Mr. James and Mr. Bastard in the ceremonial first hit off the glass dick," Adding, "Whether your name is Big Baby Jesus, Dirt McGirt, or just plain Jesus, everyone is going to get higher than a motherfucker at this jump-off."

The End Of Innocence

**UPDATE** T-minus 5 hours and counting to the Interpol show. Should be a sweet dose of gloom and glory. Here are some treats for the weekend. This will make you laugh. This will, too. This will serve as a useful guide to people who don't already know what kind of music they like (via Lindsayism). Bon weekend!


BLOGFLYER
Originally uploaded by the management.

All the earth-shaking and doom-bringing culminates in this Bacchanalian orgy of dancing, drinking, drugging, pillaging, and grownup hugging.

If you're gonna be in the New York area, drop me a line and I can provide location and directions. It's gonna be a serious throw-down. The climax will be the management's ritual suicide at 3:00 a.m.

Vincent D'Onofrio: Portrait of a Cracked Actor

I AM In a World of Shit

I am a big Vincent D'Onofrio fan. Even his name is cool. He was great in Full Metal Jacket, Mystic Pizza, and Adventures in Babysitting, and he was perfect as Orson Welles in Ed Wood. And I'm apparently the only person on Earth who thinks Law & Order: Criminal Intent is awesome. The way he always cocks his head to one side and almost puts his ear on the table during interrogations... so friggin' weird. Plus there's that strange bump in the middle of his head. He's always quite the odd bird.

Aaaanyhooo... It comes as little surprise that ol' Vinnie is completely off his tit. Some months ago, we were having a nice birthday dinner for tobyspinks at the Maritime Hotel, and Vinny D. was there, hunched over and chain smoking and acting mysterious. He seemd a little off even then. Well, rumor has it that he's started to go all the way around the bend. Apparently he just can't deal with the Gee Dubya victory. At least he's melting down for a good reason. Not sure why this was worth a post, but cuckoo character actors are way more interesting than big stars.

Calling Dr. Dre to Surgery

I think they're forming a supergroup over in C Ward. As Marc Almond continues to recover from head injuries, Paul Weller has been admitted to the hospital with a severe throat infection. Perhaps autograph hunters should just start camping out in London emergency rooms.

Consumerism update:

Saw I ♥ Huckabees last night. Very entertaining, if a bit muddled. Actually, the film's utter incoherence was the source of its charm. The most unexpected thing about the movie was Marky "Feel It, Feel It" Mark, who was goddamned funny. Finally picked up the 3-CD DFA Compilation #2. Surprise, surprise... it's great, with the exception of any track by Black Dice, who are the worst fucking "band" in history. I wish Eye Yamatsuka and The Boredoms would fly over here and beat the shit out of the guys in Black Dice just for being so dumb.

Stay tuned for detailed commentary on the season premiere of The O.C., which I finally got my hands on today. Oh when shall our home have TiVo???

What's Wrong with this Picture?

The world is turning upside-down, people. As of last night's season premiere, The Simpsons is 100% not funny anymore. For the first time ever, they went through one entire season of mediocrity, and they started out with another loud, wet thud. The trailer for the next Star Wars film looks... pretty damn good. The Red Sox won the World Series. Damien Thorn... OOPS!... I mean, GeeDubya Bush won the election. The Secretary of Spousal Affairs has tickets to see Slayer this week... and the management does not. Something isn't right. These are dark omens, portentious and fearful.

What's next? Snow in Hawaii? Talking dogs? Will the U.S. abandon the Red, White, and Blue, opting instead for the colors of the Miami Dolphins? Maybe when we go to see Interpol this Friday, they'll open their set with the Bay City Rollers' "Saturday Night."

There can be only one reason for these strange occurrences. Only one explanation for these minute ripples in the space-time continuum.

The Management is turning 30 in two weeks.

Here's what to expect in the days to come:

"There was a great earthquake. The sun turned black like sackcloth made of goat hair, the whole moon turned blood red, and the stars in the sky fell to earth, as late figs drop from a fig tree when shaken by a strong wind. The sky receded like a scroll, rolling up, and every mountain and island was removed from its place."

Details on the culmination of these dire happenings are forthcoming. In the meantime, you may want to make your peace with your people and your god.

TTFN!

Nonalignment Pact (or, How I Learned to Stop Worrying and Get Out of Bed)

Jesusland
Originally uploaded by the management.

Thanks to Robbb for the new map of North America (well, the parts that count anyway... Lo ciento mucho, Mexico!!). Also, thanks to Pere Ubu for the title inspiration.

In the wake of America's decision to replace the Constitution with the New Testament, many of us have been heard to remark--half-seriously--that it's time to move to a more enlightened neck of the woods. Scandinavia comes up a lot, as does our hockey-loving neighbor in the Great White North. Not that the Quebequois would even let us in, but Vancouver could work. Anyway, the management would like to propose a slightly more... um, offbeat approach.

Instead of moving away, I propose a kind of mental and spiritual secession from the mainstream. (Here in New York that's relatively easy. For Manhattanites, the rest of the country is a slow, boring wasteland populated by toothless yokels. And, judging by the vote distribution on Monday, we're not far off.) For those of us with a brain in our heads and anything other than the love of Christ in our hearts, it's time to drop off the grid, militia-style. Of course, instead of stockpiling weapons we'll need to hoard other threatened contraband: Henry Miller novels, beer with alcohol content higher than 3.2%, the Bill of Rights, J.S. Mill's On Liberty, porn, some albums with naughty lyrics, George Carlin, and some ministers willing to perform same-sex marriages. Who's with me?

So Wednesday night was the long-awaited Futureheads show. It was one of the best things I've seen in a long while, but they didn't go on until midnight, by which time LK and I were utterly fucking plastered. For a cogent recap of the show, check out The Modern Age. Also, three new albums I must pick up in order to bask in the hottness: the three-disc DFA Compilation Vol. 2, The Soft Pink Truth's Do You Want New Wave or Do You Want the Soft Pink Truth?, and Death from Above 1979's You're a Woman, I'm a Machine. You heard it here first, pizzarty pizzeeple.

Tonight is the staff reception at the new, improved Mueum of Modern Art, home of the management's day job. We's fit to git effed up, art-history-major steez. I'ma pour one out for my dead homiez from da Italian Futurist movement. Peace!

(Just Under One Half of) A Nation Mourns

Cobra Commander's bid for President ended yesterday when he was defeated by the incumbent. Several issues were in play, but gay marriage came up big. As the eleven seperate state-level anti-gay marriage referendums indicated, Americans just aren't ready to accept the kind of inclusive lifestyle policies championed by Cobra Commander and his domestic partner (and likely Secretary of Defense), Destro. It appears that America is, however, ready to accept fundamentalist Christianity as the primary motivating force behind both foreign and domestic policy. Initial reports indicate that John Ashcroft was last seen at the Bush victory banquet, stuffing himself with spareribs and using the Bill of Rights as a bib.

Congratulations! A clear majority raised its collective voice and announced that xenophobia, bigotry, unchecked aggression, fiscal irresponsibility, corporate croneyism, the ready availability of assault weapons, the oppression of women, and the development of a borderline plutocracy are America's main priorities. Now let's get to work dismantling this pesky separation of church and state, 'cuz there's baby killers and faggots and Arabs that need persecutin'!

So for those of you considering immediate expatriation, I offer this.

The fervent liberalism of Monday night's Le Tigre show seems like another life now. Good lord, Kathleen Hannah is delectable. Too bad she'll be one of the first herded into the camps. Sugar D and I have tickets to see The Futureheads tonight, but something tells me they're going to develop sudden visa problems. Maybe Tony Blair can write them a note or something. "Dear George, these lads are okay. They are really, really fond of Jesus. They promise that they are not terrorists or subversives of any kind. Your bitch forever, Tony."

In truly important news, the Lakers won last night! That's just not the upset I was hoping for.

The management would like to take this opportunity to express its severe depression and all-consuming desire for a beer.

Your Next President

Cobra Wants You
Originally uploaded by the management.

On this, the eve of election 2004, we all have a tough choice to make. The Management urges each and every voter to consider every alternative to the current business-as-usual administration. Ladies and gentlemen, I give you your next President: Cobra Commander.

Screen Terror: The Poll

Ash gets pissed
Originally uploaded by the management.

Bored at work? Me too. Here's a fun, seasonal activity:

Okay, it's simple enough. The management would like to know which horror films you consider to be the scariest, coolest, whatever. List one or ten or whatevs. Use the comment field.

Just to get you started...

The management's Top Ten Horror Films
(in no particular order)

The Thing (1982)
Halloween
Suspiria
Evil Dead 2
Bride of Frankenstein
Cat People (1942)
The Shining
An American Werewolf in London
The Cabinet of Dr. Caligari
Re-Animator

HAVE A HORRIFYING HALLOWEEN

Ghouls' Night Out

Scariest picture ever
Originally uploaded by the management.

Above is the crown jewel of the management's collection of zombie-movie film stills. Now that is fucking terrifying.

I am not a superstitious person, but there is some deeply spooky shit going on as Halloween approaches. First and foremost, last night, as a lunar eclipse rendered a full moon an eerie blood red, the Boston Red Sox swept the World Series. Now baseball is not my bag of treats, but I know a line from the book of Revelations when I see it. Have the dead started to rise yet? Because they soon shall.

A few posts back, we mentioned the great John Carpenter's The Fog. Well, come to find out they've just greenlighted a remake. Spooky, right?

Halloween, a brief tutorial
In addition to being the band Glenn Danzig started after leaving The Misfits, Samhain is the ancient Celtic festival that marked the end of the harvest, the autumnal equinox, and the coming of winter. One of the four main "sabbats," or festivals, of the Celts, it is also the primary pagan progenitor of Halloween.

McBain's Etymological Dictionary of the Gaelic Language says that 'samhuinn' (the Scots Gaelic spelling) means 'summer's end'..." Summer and winter were the only seasons (which makes a shitload of sense in Ireland and the British Isles), so it signals the transition between the two.

Samhain (pronounced "sow-in") is Irish Gaelic for the month of November. Samhuin is Scottish Gaelic for All Hallows (or All Souls Day), Nov. 1.

Celtic traditions held that on the night of the Feast of Samhain, the barriers between this world and the next become whisper-thin, allowing some of the dead to walk among the living. Understandably freaked-out villagers would hollow out turnips and make them into little lanterns (this tradition was transferred to the pumpkin in America) and light massive bonfires to ward off the shades of the underworld.

Knowing full well that the church could never eliminate these pagan traditions, the papacy turned to the oldest and most reliable trick in Catholic history: they adapted the indigenous traditions to chrch doctrine. In 1006, Pope John XIV recognized Samhain as All Hallows Eve; the night before All Souls Day. "All Hallows Eve" was gradually shortened to the colloquial "Hallowe'en." Ta-daa!!

One other thing: the wearing of costumes was originally intended to trick spirits into thinking the wearer was just another spectre. Neat, right? Zombie camouflage.

For more on Samhain, visit your local library. Not one for fancy book learnin'? Check out the HowStuffWorks entry.

What's In a Name?

Bacardi&Cola
Originally uploaded by the management.

Motherfuckin' everything, kid.

MTC and I finally completed our DJ demo (with massive and invaluable assistance/patronage from Luna). Unfortunately, our first tag-team moniker, Ebony and Ivory, was found lacking. When MTC loaded his copy of the CD into iTunes, it somehow came up with "Len Lindstrom." The name was promptly googled, yielding THIS. It was then decided that we should be called Len & Lindstrom. Although I got shafted with the Len half, it did have a nice DJ-ish European ring to it.

Then last night at the Year of the Band show, Greg suggested that, given our black-and-white-cookie vibe (Get it? Ebony and Ivory??), we should be Bacardi and Cola, after the brilliant Miami Vice-esque duo in the commercials.

And so the management is proud to present to you Bacardi and Cola, the slickest, most profoundly metropolitan pair of DJs in this or any city. Our debut CD, Smooth and Unique, will be available soon for distibution to promoters, bar owners, cuties, drug dealers, etc. Next stop: MISSHAPES.

**TOMORROW** More on this evil season of ghouls, witches, and all that spooky-ass shit.

Official Band of Halloween 2004: The Misfits

Happy Halloween from The Misfits
Originally uploaded by the management.

Why? These are just a few of the track titles from disc 1 of the Misfits boxed set:

Horror Business
Teenagers from Mars
Night of the Living Dead
Vampire
I Turned into a Martian
Ghoul's Night Out
Astro Zombies
Die, Die My Darling
Horror Hotel
Halloween
Halloween II
Hate Breeders
Braineaters

Also, the Glenn Danzig cameo on the Aqua Teen Hunger Force haunted house episode was key. Finally, it's because they were very evil and cool.

The image above was stolen from the ultimate Misfits site, onethirtyeight.com.

John Peel, 1939-2004

Seems like a lot of death notices have gone up here lately. The old guard of punk is reaching that age, and the previous generation, the godfathers, if you will, are getting downright elderly. But hearing about John Peel's untimely passing is still a great surprise and a staggering blow to rock fans everywhere. It's hard to imagine anyone (save possibly Rodney Bingenheimer) who has been more consistently (and succesfully) instrumental in championing great new music. Tonight I'm going home, raising a glass, and putting on all the Peel Sessions I have.

**UPDATE** The Undertones' "Teenage Kicks" was John Peel's favorite song. Teaching the Indie Kids to Dance Again has a post and an MP3.

Prissy Is the New Evil

Refreshingly Evil

Although music, parties, interesting links, etc. will show up, The management is proud to introduce a Halloween-week special focus on scary stuff. Evil. Horror movies. Ashlee Simpson. Exploding heads. The upcoming election. Jack-o'-lanterns. You get the point.

I spent most of yesterday on the couch, nursing a severe hangover and watching AMC's presentation of The Omen Trilogy. I really paid attention to Damien: Omen II, which I hadn't seen since I was a kid, and Omen III: The Final Conflict which, amazingly, I had never seen before. Diagnosis: totally awesome and totally not scary. Sam Neill plays the grown-up antichrist as a slimy, whiny über-priss. And he kills people in the most retarded ways imaginable. One guy is killed by a group of English hunting dogs! Seriously... this huge group of really cute beagles is chasing this guy and we're supposed to be frightened? It's like attacking someone with a group hug or a cozy blanket. Three movies in, and the most forbidding weapon in the antichrist's arsenal is his poutiness. "I'm very peeved with you, and I shall now attack you with a scone. It's a very scary scone, I assure you. Absolutely chock full of delicious evil."

So the point is that it's just so great to sit around on autumn days and watch horror movies (and drink beer and smoke pot and eat candy corn). Tonight AMC does the Amityville Horror Trilogy. I recommend avoiding that if at all possible. Although it is fun to watch James "Mr. Babs Streisand" Brolin go all I'm-fucking-crazy-and-so-is-my-beard in the first film.

Just to keep you in the mood, here's a picture of Angela from Sleepaway Camp. (Obvs, the heart frame was not in the film.) This is the best shot in the film... it's at the very end when she freaks out and reveals that in addition to a big butcher knife, "she" has a big dick.

Very weird and very disturbing when it's 3:00 a.m. and you're full of drugs. That is an apt description of my condition the first time I saw this. Me and Sleuther were simultaneously laughing our asses off and pooing in our pants from being afraid.

As previously reported, the Dawn of the Dead remake comes out tomorrow. Also worth noting, the anabolic steroid super edition of Pavement's Crooked Rain, Crooked Rain comes out tomorrow, too. Most important, tomorrow marks the release of Grand Theft Auto: San Andreas. Now all I need is some money.

Tomorrow: more on the horror tip, a report on the first Ebony and Ivory DJ CD, a report on Ebony and Ivory changing their name to Len & Lindstrom, and much, much more.

Unsolicited Web Dis: Pitchfork Jumps the Shark

Many of you may be thinking, "Yeah, no shit," but the sudden and precipitous drop in the quality of Pitchfork's reviews is noticeable even to the site's long-time detractors. The 3.3 (out of 10) rating they gave the new Le Tigre album was so out of line that Gawker actually mentioned it. If the folks at Gawker took time out of their busy Tina Brown/Graydon Carter/Olsen Twins-dishing schedule to bring it up, you know it's bad. Then, this morning, the review for the new Ted Leo + The Pharmacists album not only yielded a mediocre mark (7.0), but Rob Mitchum proceeded to piss and moan about how disappointing the album is. Worst of all, the central criticism was based upon the oldest, laziest mistake a critic can make: "I didn't like this because their older stuff was better." Dude, cut the fanboy horseshit and review the fucking album on its merits. It's exactly this kind of crap that kept the Pixies' Bossanova and Trompe le Monde from being considered great albums by the critical community. The entire tone of that site has gotten irritating. Pretentious douchebags who poo-poo fun music because they desire something more "ambitious" get old fast. No one likes to hear a bunch of critics turn their noses up at everything they hear. The world already has one Village Voice.

Now don't misunderstand me. I don't think the world should be filled with rapturous reviews for shitty film and music. Nor do I think that feeling differently about a piece of music than I do makes someone else an idiot (with some obvious exceptions like Mariah Carey and Celine Dion). Far from it. I think Captain Beefheart and Black Dice and Wilco sound like shit, which to most music geeks is like admitting you want to rape nuns and vote Republican.

A world filled with Peter Traverses and Joel Seigels and Entertainment Weekly clones would suck. But as Lester Bangs so brilliantly proved, there is a vast, hilarious, illuminating world in between middle-of-the-road mainstream backslapping and esoteric wankery. As a former music critic and a fanatical music lover, I just hate to see people mistake dismissive negativity as criticism. People have lost sight of the fact that criticism is for the reader, not the writer. If you want to mope and bitch for your own gratification, start a blog.

Okay, that was a rant. *steps down from pulpit*

**CORRECTION: The girl in the James Iha picture yesterday was NOT Ultragrrrl. The management apologizes for any offense or hurt feelings, because the chick in that picture isn't lookin' so hot. My bad.

So Good They Had to Play It Twice

Let's start at the very beginning (a very good place to start). Met up with the lads for greasy fried bar food at the Blarney Rock, then off to see Team America. When the bouncer checked my ID at the door of the theater, I knew we had walked into the goddamn Twilight Zone. Turns out the 8:00 show of Team America is also a Lavalife.com "singles event." The dude is checking IDs because beyond the theater door is a bizarre world of bad house music, cheesy people, and a free bar serving various flavors of Svedka vodka. Seriously. In the theater. Despite the retarded name, the vodka's not bad, and now we are four drinks in. Unfortunately, that wasn't drunk enough to make the movie any good. Don't get me wrong, we were laughing pretty hard at first, but after the whole "puppet" thing wore off, the jokes were just stale. Making "fun" of Kim Jong Il, Michael Moore, and Alec Baldwin is pretty fucking weak when you get right down to it. I mean, who cares? Puppet sex is hilarious, but this was no South Park movie.

Anyway, after the movie we headed down to Snitch (a "rock & roll sports bar") for the Tarts of Pleasure's (link and link) new weekly, Stolen Transmission. The pitch: open bar and James Iha and others spinning records. The reality: open bar once you get this big dude in a leather jacket to write a little "x" on your hand, and full-volume Yankees-Red Sox game. They won't let the DJs start until the game is over. Allow me to reiterate: FUCK BASEBALL. They finally relented somewhere around the eighth inning, and the DJ proceeds to play "Debaser"... twice. Hey, works for me. Right about the time everyone I went with disappeared, the music got excellent, the Yankees lost, and I ran into some fun "party acquaintances" who wanted to talk about do-you-know-this-person and Pulp-is-so-great and all that goofy open-bar shit talk. It was so weird having a fun night out totally hijack a mediocre night out and punch it in the face. It was like watching Joey Ramone reach down from heaven and bitch-slap the lead singer of The Killers.

Speaking of the DJ, James Iha was just wandering around the DJ booth, good-naturedly talking to everyone and just being Mr. Former Smashing Pumpkins Normal Guy With Blonde(?) Hair. The guy who was actually spinning did the simple excellent-DJ trick: "other" songs by the usual bands. Everyone plays Franz Ferdinand, but he played "Auf Achse." Everyone playes the Ramones, but he played "I Wanna Live." Thumbs up, my good man. Well played.

Aaaanyway, I'm happy for the Red Sox and I'm so glad all these fucking Yankees fans had to eat shit. That sounds a little harsh, but the management strictly enforces a no-Yankees policy. (BTW, if you're really interested, here's a "Curse of the Bambino" timeline.) The management is also drooling over the start of basketball season. How awesome is the first week of November??? November 1: Le Tigre show at Irving Plaza. November 2: Election Day, Deerhoof at the Knitting Factory, and the release of the new DFA compilation. November 3: The Futureheads at the Canal Room. November 4: The Magic Johnson's play an Urban Professionals Basketball League double-header on the same day the NBA season starts (Good fucking omen!!). November 5: The staff reception in the new MoMA! November 6-7: WFMU Record Fair. Best. Week. Ever.

**UPDATES** Talk about good news! Graham Coxon and Blur are getting back together!! Also, last night the L train was shut down and I was so pissed I wandered into the Virgin Megastore and bought the Bloc Party EP and the new Ted Leo + The Pharmacists album, Shake the Sheets. Reflections and musicrit musings forthcoming.

We Can Rebuild Him...

Marc Almond
Originally uploaded by the management.

The management extends heartfelt prayers to the family of Marc Almond. The Soft Cell frontman was involved in a serious motorcyle accident, and he is currently listed in critical condition. I should have known something bad was in the air after a shocking Soft Cell-related incident at Misshapes this weekend: The DJ put on "Sex Dwarf," and MTC asked, "Who is this?" I almost pooed in my pants, so great was my indignation. Anyway, it was one of those bad-moon-risin' moments. Nonetheless, I think we're ready for a new Marc Almond. Better, faster, gayer...



In other music news, Luna broke up. That's the bad news. The good news is that The Shat is getting great reviews for his new album. That cover of "Common People" is worth it all by itself. It's like a Shat renaissance these days. His new show, Boston Legal is pretty decent as well. The Secretary of Spousal Affairs and I were watching Star Trek VI: The Undiscovered Country yesterday (Don't scoff, you fucking snobs!), and there is this super-rad moment when JTK yells, "FIRE!" and makes this move with his arm like he's letting go of a bowling ball. It was almost as funny/scary as "KHAAAAAAAN!!!!" Shatner is so Hott right now.

**UPDATE** Possible Best Thing Ever HERE. Prepare for mind-blowing cuteness.

Touch Me I'm Sick!

Christ Healing the Sick at Bethesda (detail)
Originally uploaded by the management.

Thanks in part to the insidious bacteria running rampant throughout my mucus membranes, I will miss the CMJ Music Marathon entirely. No Ted Leo + The Pharmacists, The Faint, TV on the Radio, Mahjongg, or Prosaics for the management. Instead, the weekend holds the wondrous promise of NyQuil, Cold-Eeze, and plenty of fluids. (See below for a fascinatingly over-simplified cold-vs.-flu chart. Gee, it's starting to look like USA Today around here.) This is just last weekend's insanity coming home to roost. Between the management and the recently-maimed Secretary of Spousal Affairs, our apartment is starting to resemble an Aleksandr Solzhenitsyn novel.

We're still going to Misshapes, however, in celebration of MTC's birthday. Last week was fun, and so it limps on. Tommie Sunshine and one of the guys from Junior Senior are spinning, along with Tankengine's former roommate, so it coulde be very interesting (although all that cigarette smoke is gonna burn like acid!).

Um... guess that's it. Time to listen to Ween for a bit and then sneak out of the office early and crawl into bed. Have a nice weekend and be sure not to share any cups or crackpipes with me.

The Dead Walk (or, Portrait of the Undecided Voter)

Shaun and friends
Originally uploaded by the management.

The management is proud to endorse Shaun of the Dead as funniest film of the year. The Life Aquatic with Steve Zissou might sneak in there and steal the crown with that whole coming-out-right-before-Christmas bullshit move, but for now, Shaun is the universal zombie-smashing champion of radness. Imagine The Office crossed with Dead Alive... yeah, exactly. Bitchin'.

I've come to realize that zombie movies may be my favorite horror subgenre, especially if you allow semi-zombie classics like Re-Animator, Prince of Darkness, The Fog, and The People Vs. Larry Flint (Courtney Love counts). The remake of Dawn of the Dead comes out on DVD in two weeks and it's totally on the Halloween buy list. Maybe it's the idea of the entire world, the entire populace, being consumed by this mindless hunger. The rapid and complete breakdown of all human systems. For whatever reason, zombie movies really get under my skin and freak me out. I even love the band The Zombies! I even love songs about zombies, especially when they're by The Misfits or The Cramps. And don't even get me started about the amazingly dangerous tropical cocktail! The king of the zombies even has a blog!!!

One thing that might be cooler than zombies is Japanese girls calmly slapping the shit out of each other (via The Black Table). Also cool is impeccable shirt-folding technique, which the management considers a valuable skill (via Redboy).

Now if only someone would make a movie about a zombie rock band that drinks fruity cocktails while folding shirts and bitchslapping Japanese girls all over the place. Then we could just disband the Academy of Motion Picture Arts and Sciences and everyone could just put their film equipment away because it would be all over. There would just be nothing left to make movies about in the wake of such cinematic perfection.

Death, Deconstruction, and Detox

The management is sad to report the death of Jaques Derrida, the only philosopher whose work is so thoroughly dense, difficult, and downright abstruse as to remain virtually incomprehensible. Okay, that's an overstatement, but in four years as a philosophy major and two years of graduate work in critical theory I can honestly say that I never managed to understand his work. Jaques Lacan, sure, but not Derrida. I have friends who understood some of his stuff, and they assure me that it's brilliant, if not totally coherent... kinda like Hunter S. Thompson. Anyway, he is largely renowned as the godfather of deconstruction. The Times obit gives a decent breakdown of his impact across a range of disciplines. Big ups to a guy so smart no one had any idea what the hell he was talking about.

In this post-structuralist discursive spirit, I have started breaking down my life in search of hidden meanings and motivations. I will spare you the deets. Suffice it to say, after a weekend of utter debauchery and narrow escapes, the management has developed some new policies with respect to employee safety and continued profitability:

1. Heavy partying will not be permitted more than two nights in a row. In addition to the health risks involved, mental outlook really starts to deteriorate during that third consecutive hangover. The subsequent dark thoughts, anxiety, and fear of the outdoors is bad for morale.

2. The two-beers-and-a-shot pre-party prep will no longer be practiced. Especially when alone. Although practiced in the name of "saving money on drinks," no money is actually saved. The only thing accomplished with these warm-up drills is getting you half in the bag before everyone else. You spend just as much on drinks, and you're the guy everyone remembers the next day as having been "totally wasted." They were too, but you were drunk before their respective blackouts and will therefore be branded the night's buffoon.

3. Except when bed-ridden, at least one excursion out of doors is required during daylight hours. Even if it's just to pick up more beer. This will ensure that the walls don't start to close in, reducing you to a quivvering basket case.

4. Adequate reading material is required for trips to the Emergency Room. Whether you are the patient or the "buddy," you are going to be there for a long time. Also, coins are important. Those vending machines tend not to take dollars.

5. Life and loved ones will be held more dear. Buses, showers, falling rocks, arteriosclerosis, bullets, overdoses, etc. are all out to maim and/or kill us. You never know what's going to happen tomorrow, so get your shit together and act like today is your last. This does not mean you should run out and go skydiving. In fact, trying to get yourself killed is contrary to the spirit of this dictum. It just means don't take stuff for granted or get in stupid fights about dishes or baseball. Don't even fucking talk about baseball. God I hate that sport.

In fact, just use this as your guide in life. Listen carefully and learn some valuable lesons.

When the Cat's Away...

Let's Dance!
Originally uploaded by the management.

...the mice will stuff themselves with Doritos and Miller High Life.

The Secretary of Spousal Affairs, the center of my world, as it were, is heading to the Catskills for three days of boozing, hard rock, and "meetings" at the Roadrunner Records company convention. Three days is pretty much the most I can handle without domestic support, but the management is nonetheless looking forward to a bacheloresque whirlwind of liquor, beer, three-hour living-room DJ sets, video games, horror movies, dirty underwear, televised sports (esp. college football and celebrity poker), Doritos, beer, liquor, and general squalor. The weekend kicks off early with the long-awaited Deva show at the Luna Lounge tonight. Friday remains a blank slate. Saturday is the do-or-die night for Misshapes. Sunday = recovery and possible playground hoops (AKA heart failure). Activity suggestions are much appreciated, as the having of plans will decrease my chances of spending the next three days in my underwear, playing video games and hiding from the daylight. Unless you want to come over... I've got some pants lying around somewhere and we can clear some additional space on the couch/floor.

A sad farewell to Rodney Dangerfield, by the way. "Rage, rage against the dying of the light!"

Finally, here's another installment from The Dirt: Mötley Crüe, Confessions of the World's Most Notorious Rock Band. Today, a highlight from Ozzy's Bark at the Moon tour:

"We rolled out of the bus under the heat of the noonday sun and went straight to the bar, which was seperated from the swimming pool deck by a glass window. Ozzy pulled off his pants and stuck a dollar bill in his ass crack, then walked into the bar, offering the dollar to each couple inside. When an elderly lady began to cuss him out, Ozzy grabbed her bag and took off running. He came back to the pool wearing nothing but a little day dress he had found in the bag... I handed him a straw and he walked over to a little crack in the sidewalk and bent over it. I saw a long column of ants... And as I thought, 'No, he wouldn't,' he did. He put the straw to his nose and, with his bare white ass peeking out from under the dress like a sliced honeydew, sent the entire line of ants tickling up his nose with a single, monstrous snort."

October Is...

October Evil
Originally uploaded by the management.

National Liver Awareness Month, National Orthodontic Health Month, National Down Syndrome Awareness Month, Halloween Safety Month, Celiac Sprue Awareness Month, Domestic Violence Awareness Month, Healthy Lung Month, National Breast Cancer Awareness Month, National Dental Hygiene Month, National Family Sexuality Education Month, National Lupus Awareness Month, National Physical Therapy Month, National Spina Bifida Awareness Month, Rett Syndrome Awareness Month, Talk About Prescriptions Month, Let's Talk Month, National Medical Librarians Month, Health Literacy Month, National Brain Injury Awareness Month, World Blindness Awareness Month, National Book Month, Apple Jack Month, Clergy Appreciation Month, Computer Learning Month, Cookie Month, Eat Country Ham Month, International Drum Month, National Pizza Month, National Popcorn Popping Month, Sarcastic Month, Seafood Month, National Disability Employment Month, National Pet Wellness Month, Adopt-A-Dog Month, National Car Care Month, National Clock Month, National Cosmetology Month, National Dessert Month, National Pickled Pepper Month, National Pretzel Month, National Kitchen and Bath Month, Vegetarian Awareness Month, National Arts & Humanities Month, and Italian American Heritage Month.

Dig! Dug

Like every other rocker in NYC, I ran down the Sunshine Cinemas to catch Dig!, the seven-year saga of the love/hate relationship between the deliciously adorable Dandy Warhols and the rotating freakshow that is The Brian Jonestown Massacre. Needless to say, this film is essential. Even if you're not into either band, it's a fascinating portrait of drug abuse, envy, and creative dysfunction. Also, I've been spending a lot of time downloading all of the BJM's music from their Web site... for free!! Also worth noting: Zia McCabe is the hottest woman in rock today by FAR. Like, five extra "t"s hotttttt.

Confession time. Not only did the management purchase the new Green Day album, American Idiot... the management also quite enjoys the new Green Day album. How's that for shocking? Also shocking, ABC's new Gilligan's Island-meets-Jurassic Park series LOST has achieved New Favorite Show status. What's it about? Don't quite know yet, but it get's weirder with every episode and the dude from Party of Five is rocking the serious heroic five o'clock shadow.

So while everyone else was at the Bloc Party party at the Tribeca Grand on Saturday night, we went to Misshapes. Ooops!! Problem number one, Door-guy of the gods Thomas was working the Tribeca party. Problem number two, the elitist cuntwads working in his place thought they were running Studio 54. Two of our companions were denied entry due to t-shirt and sneaker violations. Main problem? Everyone wears fucking t-shirts and sneakers to Misshapes! Inside it was empty, crowd consisted mainly of the fake-ID set, and the DJ apparently just stumbled off the short bus, took off his bicycle helmet, and wandered behind the decks. In a word: disappointing. It was like waiting two months to go to a friend's kegger, only to have the entire party overrun by his junior-high little brother's kickball team. Next week may be the last... more on this in seven.

**UPDATE: Here is today's excerpt from The Dirt:

"Even though we couldn't afford coke, we could always sniff it out. We'd find someone who was holding and throw them into Tommy's Chevy van, which became our party truck... We'd scrounge up enough money to buy an egg burrito from Noggles. Then we'd bite the end off and stick our dicks into the warm meat to cover up the smell of pussy so that our girlfriends didn't know we were fucking anything stupid or drunk enough to get into Tommy's van."

Susie, What's a Sanitary Pad?

Oh. My. GOD.

MTC has shared an educational short film that is guaranteed to enlighten and entertain. Many questions that I myself have always wanted to ask have been answered. Thank you, little developmentally challenged girl!

Guess what I have in my lap...

That's fucking disgusting! Get your mind out of the gutter, you twisted bastard. It's a book! Not just any book, though. This is the new Holy Bible. It's called The Dirt: Mötley Crüe, Confessions of the World's Most Notorious Rock Band. When I opened to a random page and the first words I noticed were "pain," "heroin," and "fucking," I knew something special was about to happen to my life. Only on page 36 now, but the world seems... different somehow. Here's the very first paragraph:

"Her name was Bullwinkle. We called her that because she had a face like a moose. But Tommy, even though he could get any girl he wanted on the Sunset Strip, would not break up with her. He loved her and wanted to marry her, he kept telling us, because she could spray her cum across the room."

Hello? Pulitzer committee? Can you people even fucking read?? The management is pleased to announce that more excerpts from this epic tome will appear in the coming days. "If you have the means, I highly recommend picking one up... it's so choice."

Ever a Dull Moment

Sadly, the similarities far outweigh the differences.

Is It Me?

Um, didn't anyone find the "Lotion" video to be profoundly rad? The management sincerely regrets any trauma it may have caused, but come on, people! Only one e-mail response?? WTF??

Some brief comments in the aftermath of my recent retail orgy:

The Star Wars DVD is... eh. Whatever. I think George Lucas might have ruined the whole thing for me. I am starting to realize, however, that Jabba the Hutt is really funny and likeable. Smile is interesting. I'm glad Prozac poster-boy Brian Wilson got his shit together, but this would have sounded a lot better coming from a younger set of pipes. Still, it's pretty damned impressive. The 25th Anniversary Legacy Edition of London Calling is mad neat-o, son! I haven't watched the DVD or listened to the outtakes/new tracks yet, but the remastered album sounds fucking fantastic. "Brand New Cadillac" is the reason I still wanna learn guitar even though I'm old. The October issue of MOJO revisits the making of the album (along with a Greil Marcus article on Buddy Holly AND an article recalling the filming of the Stones' Rock and Roll Circus) and includes a cool free CD compiled by Mick Jones and Paul Simonon.

And finally... *imaginary drumroll*

Interpol's Antics is unbe-fuckin-lievable. I mean, its quality has been well known for months, but hearing the whole thing with the benefit of post-production and mastering was, as MTC put it earlier today, like hearing it for the first time. "Slow Hands" was looking like the frontrunner for the full-on hott jam title, and it is the most danceable song on the album, but "Not Even Jail" is just plain beeyootiful.

In fact, I'm going home and giving it the stereo + expensive headphones treatment right now. And the management urges you to revisit that Greenskeepers video. Seriously, WTF??

Would You Fuck Me? I'd Fuck Me.

Buffalo Bill
Originally uploaded by the management.

Once in a great while, a band comes up with an audacious musical... nay, artistic, statement that simply cannot be ignored. Greenskeepers have produced such a song, called "Lotion," with a brilliant video to match. It downloads the video for "Lotion" or else it gets the hose again. (Link via Stereogum.)

It's Not "Disabled," It's "Differently Abled"

Anatomy lesson
Originally uploaded by the management.

For the first time ever, I am on the Disabled List. After taking a knee in the quadriceps and the tensor fascia lata (pictured above) during a pickup basketball game (and, admittedly, seriously aggravating the injury by subsequently playing in my first league game), lifestyle-threatening gimpitude has set in. The Doctor is guessing muscular and vascular damage to the area, the result of a serious deep-tissue contusion, has messed up the iliotibial band (see above), leading to pain in both the hip and the knee. Plus, the interior of my thigh is one giant, plum-colored bruise. Rest assured, those pictures will be posted later. I can't play ball, dance, stand for long periods of time, or walk without pain in my thigh, knee, hip, and back. Sweet, sweet lovemaking, although painful, will not be denied.

In the meantime, I've missed another game, and I'll miss tonight's as well. While I doubt there's any connection to my absence, given my overall lack of skill or fitness, the Magic Johnson's are now 0-2 with only six games left to play. In short, the Injured List sucks donkey cock.

In the meantime, fevered work continues on the reopening of MoMA in Manhattan. Work is a horrible, horrible thing, suitable only for the poor, the stupid, and the deluded. Unfortunately, at least one of the above applies in my case.

Now here are the very cool things that keep me going: 1) Interpol's Antics hits stores today. Of course, it's been on heavy rotation for months, thanks to the glorious internet, but post-production, packaging, and the sheer euphoria of commodity... of OWNERSHIP make for a heady cocktail. 2) I will also be purchasing Brian Wilson's Smile, the 25th anniversary edition of The Clash's London Calling, and possibly the Star Wars DVD set (although I hate giving self-obsessed mini-Satan George Lucas any of my money) today. It's so great when freelance checks finally arrive! If nothing else, my desire to consume with such reckless abandon proves that I am a good American. 3) Jalapeno sent me the official trailer for Grand Theft Auto: San Andreas. It gave me chills. A video game trailer gave me chills.

Sweet Jesus... based on the above entry, one can only assume that the Management, rather than being a hip, sexy, metropolitan, overeducated aesthete, is, in fact, a fourteen year-old boy with no prospects for social interaction whatsoever. I am exactly the same person I was in high school, only fatter and slightly dumber (thanks again, drug and alcohol abuse!).

Strength... failing. Can't... blog.

No, I am not on vacation or dead. The closing of MoMA QNS, The Museum of Modern Art's temporary home in Queens, has turned my life into a living hell of actual work, and my recent leg injury has all but eliminated normal ambulatory capabilities. More as soon as I have a moment. At the very least, a morbidly detailed and disgusting medical report is forthcoming.

Breast in Peace: Russ Meyer, 1922-2004

Russ Meyer
Originally uploaded by the management.

Russ Meyer, beloved pioneer of pulchritudinous nudity and kitten-with-a-whip cinematic belligerence, died at his home on Saturday, aged 82. The utter fucking genius of this man cannot be overstated. In addition to his abiding love of strong, violent women with great big natural breasts, Meyer brought a sharp wit and a truly liberated sexual vision to his films (of which he made some 28 in total). Career highlights include the cult classics Faster Pussycat, Kill! Kill! and Beyond the Valley of the Dolls (which was co-written by Roger "Big-Tit Man" Ebert), as well as my personal favorite, Mondo Topless. Although his work is celebrated by both the film-critic and cult-film communities today, Meyer was vilified as a smut merchant for most of his carreer. He eventually slowed his cinematic productivity when the exploitation pictures were devoured by the hardcore porn and VCR booms of the late 1970s. Instead, he turned his attention to his rather accomplished photography... primarily featuring curvy chicks, of course.

Well now he's up where he belongs, floating on a billowy cloud of titties with a cocktail in his free hand. We salute you, sir, and your tireless work for the advancement of funny, lusty art.

Being "Over" Is So Over

The Carpenters
Originally uploaded by the management.

Does just looking at The Carpenters make you want to yell, "fuck!" or "Hail Satan!" and run around throwing furniture and stuff? Just me? I love The Carpenters and truly believe that Karen's was one of the greatest voices of the 1970s, but their wholesome little faces make me wanna Hulk out and act like Jello Biafra. Maybe it's just a knee-jerk reaction to how fucking good they are. (Although, now that I've seen Todd Haynes's Superstar: The Karen Carpenter Story I grasp the truly harrowing reality behind their ultra-honky image.) Anyway, no idea where this is going. I just found this picture of them and felt compelled to bring them up. In fact, for an unexpected musical perspective on the Wonder Bread dynamic duo, check out the If I Were a Carpenter tribute album. The Sonic Youth cover of "Superstar" is (as they say in tired Boston satire) wikkid retaahdid good.

The Chicago Bears not only pulled out a win yesterday, they did it against hated midwestern rivals the Green Bay Packers. I love the Bears despite the fact that they have sucked steadily since 1986. I even love the "Super Bowl Shuffle." I don"t even follow football that much anymore, but something about football season and crisp autumn weather gets me all fired up. Halloween isn't that far away, apple pie starts showing up on windowsills, and domestic violence reaches its frenzied peak.

Despite earlier promises that all the Misshapes boostering was coming to an end, the New York Times article was too good to ignore. In addition to being the most dreadfully behind-the-times publication imaginable (Remember when they "discovered" the iPod's shuffle function?), the Times is also the ultimate fad death certificate. That being said, I hasten to add that all this "over" stuff is both premature and foolhardy. I mean, it's not over until it's not fun anymore. As it was still a blast last time I went, it's still so hott right now. Remember when Electroclash was pronounced DOA about 15 minutes after it got started? Well the good part of that trend (the music) got totally fucked but the fashion is still going strong. So skinny ties are okay, but we're gonna drown Miss Kittin and Felix Da Housecat in backlash? Let's stop right here. This paragraph just got really boring all of a sudden. In the words of Digital Underground, "Doowutchyalike." Hottness is in the eye of the beholder.

Finally, thanks to Lane for this link to the Greatest Search Engine Ever.

Life: 1, Management: 0

Yesterday was not a good day. My cat, Pasta, was put to sleep. Keep in mind that I named him during a spaghetti dinner at the age of 11. After hanging on for roughly 19 years, he succumbed to the inevitable deterioration that awaits those of us who aren't lucky enough to have a massive coronary while having sex with an entire squad of cheerleaders. He was, however, lucky enough to live out his later years as most elderly Americans do: in Miami. Last night was also our first game in the Urban Professionals Basketball League. (No, I am not making this up.) Our team, The Magic Johnson's, got creamed. (Yes, of course I realize the possessive is superfluous, but naming the team had nothing to do with me.) The final score was something like 54-38, but that barely captures the depth of our (my) futility. Now I'm not gonna lie to you; bereavement was not a factor in the suckitude. I didn't get the news about the kitty until I got home. I believe I played basketball poorly because I am a) white, b) uncoordinated, and c) a heavy drinker and occasional drug user who exercises... um, infrequently. I don't think getting trashed and dancing at clubs counts as "working out."

Needless to say, I am taking all the wrong lessons out of yesterday and will be having many drinks tonight.

Proving that life moves on, many surprises awaited us in the news this morning. The biggest shocker is the final word that narcotics played a role in the death of Rick James. Although an "enlarged heart" was the official cause of death, no less than nine drugs were found in his system, including cocaine, methamphetamine, valium, xanax, and vicodin. The man went out straight River Phoenix steez! I was unaware that James once referred to himself as an "icon of drug use and eroticism," but now that I know... well, let's just say that I'll be using that phrase regularly for the rest of my life.

More surprises: Apparently, Edward Furlong is drunk, surly, and committed to the crustaceans' rights movement. Okay, the last one is somewhat surprising. The new format of the Miss America Pageant, which, according to Reuters, basically boils down to "more skin, less talent," is also a real shocker. And speaking of anorexia, the Olsen Twins will be the newest spokesmutants for McDonald's Happy Meals in France. Um... what? That really is a surprise, as Happy Meals tend to contain food. Even more bizarre are the prizes that you can get with your Happy Meal: a denim purse, a pencil box, or a photo album. Americans usually get cheap, cross-promotional toys, but this is France. Frankly, it's surprising the little froggies aren't chosing between a half-bottle of Montrachet, a pack of Gauloises (lights, for their tender little lungs), or a gift certificate for a first sexual experience with a kindly Belgian whore.

***UPDATE!! In case all this death is a portent, I've set my affairs in order at MyDeath.com. On the other hand... my boss's water just broke!!! It's all ups and downs, people.