The cable modem and the damage done

The final boundary has been crossed into the pathetic world of internet addiction. This posting goes up from a gaming/internet place in Bethany Beach, Delaware. I am, by a large margin, the oldest person in here (and this joint is two stories of geeked out 14 year olds). Despite my savage tan, blonding hair, sandy asscrack, and complete ignorance of current events, the beach couldn't cleanse the management's desire to squeeze another drop into the blogosphere.

Life is simpler here. Drinks are fruitier, breasts firmer, skin more leathery, butter more coco. Of course this is Delaware, the least distinct of the 50 states, and there is a serious Nascar flava in the air. For every "I'm Rick James, Bitch!" t-shirt, there are 5,000 pair of tiny short-shorts that say "bad girl," "sassy," or "princess" across the ass. Still, this sunburn-and-saltwater-taffy existence has pronounced advantages over, say, the retch-inducing stench of garbage on Metropolitan Avenue. Not to mention the brain-numbing monotony of cubicle life.

Pictures will be posted later. Sunsets will invariably be involved. But now I must go. My time is almost up on this computer and I want to sign up for tomorrow's Medal of Honor: Allied Assault tournament. Just kidding. Deep-sea fishing is tomorrow. Your envy is like a cool breeze. Keep on livin' for the city. I'll pour out a Corona for all my urban homies.

Vacation, all I ever wanted...

There's a possibility that this could be the last update for the month of June. No idea what the internet situation will be during a much-needed, week-long beach vacation. So here are some parting words until the next post. I saw this t-shirt on a homeless guy this morning: "Eat right. Exercise. Die anyway." Extra sweetness points for being on a homeless dude, who is clearly living as advertised.

Try to clean up this god-forsaken city while I'm gone, would you?

"I've got a little biscuit tin/ To keep your panties in/ Soiled panties, white panties, school panties, Y-Front panties"
--Throbbing Gristle

Ego, Superego, and Ig

Eric Carr's review of the Iggy and the Stooges masterpiece Raw Power contained the following brilliance: "Iggy might not have died for our sins, but he did the next best thing-- he rolled around in peanut butter for rock and roll." But it was the little picture of the album cover that really got me thinking. It was 1995 and Raw Power had just been reissued on vinyl. I knew of Iggy's music, but had never really heard anything other than "Candy," his great, unlikely goof-off duet with Kate Pierson of the B-52s. A renewed interest in Lester Bangs brought me to the record, but it was the cover that made me want the damned thing. And I do mean damned. Rail-thin, smeared with makeup, and looking like he's about to fuck the microphone stand to death, Iggy stares into space with a mixture of menace and glee, challenging some unseen audience to a knife fight in hell. When the impossible guitar mayhem of "Search and Destroy" screamed off that platter, I was changed forever. The Cramps were no longer the most dangerous band I could think of. I had never heard a song that was loud and blood-curdling no matter how low the volume dial was turned.

A few weeks later and without the then-unheard-of benefit of internet research, I picked up a used French double-album package of The Idiot and Lust for Life (only now do I fully realize the value, both spiritual and monetary, of my find). I was excited to hear The Idiot because I had heard that when Ian Curtis's body was found hanging in his kitchen, the record was playing on an old repeating player, over and over. Needless to say, I didn't realize that I had moved in the wrong direction. It would be several years before I was able to appreciate the depth and brilliance of those Bowie-Berlin albums. I was in college, and I needed the petulant danger of "T.V. Eye," "1969," and "I Wanna Be Your Dog." I needed music that made me wanna kill people, that made me a street-walking cheetah with a heart full of napalm, a runaway son of the nuclear A-Bomb.

Anyway, it's funny how that album cover, that threatening pose, could bring back such a wave of memory... the taste of Newcastle Brown Ale, playing endless games of dominoes, skateboarding to Amoeba to spend food money on records, the hollowed-out rush and mania of crystal meth... strange and powerful stuff for a cubicle-bound, almost-30 Thursday morning.

Lists, a love affair

While last night's broadcast of AFI's 100 Years... 100 Songs was enough to inspire a screed from the list-obsessed, it was eclipsed this morning by The Black Table's "NOW THAT WAS FREAKING FUNNY" article. This inexplicably brief and astoundingly male "subjective list of major influences to what We Find Funny" is so deeply misguided as to border on the bizarre. Now I spent yesterday on a Black Table-deep-gratitude high, so rest assured that this is in no way the result of vindictiveness or displaced blog envy. Hell, even the folks at Gawker were mystified! Basically, the two authors are a couple of guys' guys who think "fuck" and "pussy" and calling Chinese people "chink" is a real hoot. As if this dude-tastic, pussy-and-fart parade of snarky bad-mannerisms wasn't disappointing enough, it also includes that ultimate self-indulgent blight on the history of literature, Dave Eggers's A Heartbreaking Work of Staggering Genius. How did anyone read that piece of shit without wanting to throw it out a window? I love lists because they tend to get me all worked up. It's an obsessive compulsive thing. I once read that excessive list-making is one warning sign of a nervous breakdown. Get out the butterfly nets!

But here's the real deal: Today is day one of Pitchfork's three-day The Top 100 Albums of the 1970s countdown. It is friggin' awesome, people. It opens with Eno's Before and After Science and it does crazy stuff like rank both Hunky Dory and Diamond Dogs higher than Ziggy Stardust. Me, LK, and Sugar D could drink whiskey and cokes and talk about this list for a week. Also, be sure to check out their 1980s and 1990s lists. All told, it's coming up on 300 albums worth of pathetic, geeked-out listmania. Stay tuned for more overwrought musings on listology.

Hottness for you

Here is some F.B.I. teddy bear hottness. And then there's some Christian fluids hottness, via NewYorkish. And here's further proof that Nickelback is deeply retarded, via The Black Table. Finally, here are many random generators (including superhero generators and suicide-note generators) for you to enjoy. Have fun and may you do no more work today.

Which do you want first...

...the good news or the bad news? The bad news is, according to NME.com, Lollapalooza has been cancelled due to poor ticket sales. No Morrissey, Walkmen, or Pixies for us this summer. Thanks to Volume's recurring beef with the Brooklyn fire marshall, that's two Walkmen shows that have been cancelled in the last two weeks. Hopefully they can pull a show together in the near future. I need my fix!

The good news, at least for the management, is that after a couple abortive attempts I have finally managed to get one of my mean-spirited little gripes aired on The Black Table's esteemed Black List. My dissatisfaction with Friday's Franz Ferdinand crowd is bordering on an obsession. For the record, I did have a good time. Anyway, I need all the encouragement I can get on a nasty day like this. I had tickets to today's Brooklyn Cyclones season opener in Coney Island, but it's sure to be a rain-out. Can you beat that? It's all about ups and downs, ins and outs. Like a circle in a spiral, like a wheel within a wheel. Yesterday England wins their Euro Cup match 4-2 and advances to the next round, today the Cyclones get the shaft. It's enough to make one wax all philosophical and consider the delicate balance of all things in the universe's clockwork ebb and flow... and perhaps treat oneself to a fast-food burger for lunch.

Worth 1000 words

*bitter defeat* is now photo-capable (see below). More later. The *bitter defeat* headquarters is suddenly in the midst of a bomb threat, so it's time to go home.

Chaka no like blog. Chaka like tender moment. 

The Williamsburg Files: "You're crowding my girlfriend."

Perhaps Friday night's hot 'n' sticky summer temperatures had the hipster nation in a state, but that's no excuse for the lackluster pout-a-thon that was the Franz Ferdinand show at Volume. Inside, the temperature was approaching 95 degrees and the air was hovering around the dewpoint. Short skirts and tight Duran Duran t-shirts as far as the eye could see. It was a night made for dancing. Then FF hit the stage, smiled winningly, and launched into a fun and energetic (if, as LK pointed out, slightly robotic) performance. There was humor, lead-singer-finger-pointing, and dance beats galore. And 95% of the crowd stood rooted to the floor, their heads moving imperceptibly to the beat. It was like a fucking insurance seminar. I kept trying to dance, pogoing in place like a maniac, pumping the requisite fist... until the guy behind me actually said the words, "Could you stop dancing? You're crowding my girlfriend." I shit you not.

What could have been the show of the summer was turned into a casting call for zombie-movie extras. I kept jumping up and looking for the enclave of fun, sweaty, dancing freaks, but all I saw was tiny groups of three or four people who, like ourselves, were moving as much as the senior citizens surrounding them would permit. Shame on you, Williamsburg. Instead of "We can't wait to come back and play New York City," I imagine the band's lasting impression will be something like, "What a bunch of boring, poncy twats." I couldn't agree more.

Remember: Skate or Die!

Don't forget to skateboard today!

The antici...PATION...

The management would first like to acknowledge the two movies viewed this week with some brief reviews. Wednesday night: Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban. Thank god Chris Columbus stepped down and we've been saved his slick, family-friendly plodding in this third entry. Alfonso Cuarón has made things respectable, and the movie rates a solid B. Thursday night: The Chronicles of Riddick. Ouch. First off, the filmmakers should be sued not just for cribbing other films, but for creating a truly lethal concoction. Vin Diesel + David Lynch's Dune + Mike Hodges's Flash Gordon = shit. The fact that I was totally ripped helped spike the funny meter, but when Vin Diesel actually utters the line, "It's been a long time since I smelled beautiful," you know the end of days is close at hand. Final grade: D.

But the real point of this entry was all the great stuff happening this weekend. First off, tonight's Franz Ferdinand show at Volume promises to be a great time... and a total hipster nightmare. The plan? Drink until we can only communicate through lines from Dr. Dre's The Chronic. Sugar D and LK know what I'm talkin' about. Also (and yes, I know I should keep this one to myself) can't wait for the Salem's Lot miniseries remake to start on Sunday. Tobe Hooper's 1979 miniseries version takes a lot of undeserved heat, but I stand by it as a true David Soul classic. The management will provide a full report on Monday.

WalterWatch 2004

A third disc has been added to the upcoming reissue of The Kinks are the Village Green Preservation Society. More updates as they become available. A very special thanks to LK for the 411.

It worked! Hallelujah!

Either Marky Ramone was a Ramone attempting to comment on the complex medical condition of a former bandmate despite his utter lack of qualifications or reliable information, or... all those good vibes worked! Way to go, team. Johnny Ramone is not, repeat, NOT dying of cancer. According to his physician, he was suffering from an infection related to his cancer, but he's out of the woods for the time being. Who says prayers are never answered?

"It's just a Personality Crisis, please don't stop"

The New York Dolls played their first show together since the 1970s at the behest of this year's Meltdown Festival curator, Morrissey. Super-totally-awesome Libertines drummer Gary Powell sat in on drums in place of the late Jerry Nolan. No word on who had the unenviable task of taking Johnny Thunders's place on guitar. They even played Thunders's "You Can't Put Your Arms around a Memory" for an encore. By the way, if you do a lyrics search for the latter, all you get is Guns n' Roses sites, since they did that shitty cover version on The Spaghetti Incident. And speaking of Gn'R, can you believe that Velvet Revolver's new album, Contraband, is number one on the Billboard album chart? I, myself, cannot (spot the movie reference??). Something about Scott Weiland just screams "semi-retarded, talentless washout." But, as you well know, the management is sometimes cruel and unforgiving. Besides, you gotta give it to Slash, who still sports the Marc Boland stovepipe hat and gets into bar fights with people when they doubt his identity.

Anyway, the New York Dolls received a huge standing ovation after a triumphant performance. I'm taking this as a good Johnny Ramone omen.

Too Tough to Die

According to Marky Ramone, legendary Ramones guitarist Johnny Ramone is battling cancer in an L.A. hospital, and it doesn't look good. Let's all send some prayers to the West Coast so we don't lose another Ramone to the disease. (Joey Ramone succumbed to cancer in 2001.)

Skate or Die

In other sports news, Monday, June 21, is apparently the first annual Go Skateboarding Day. In observance one is expected to go skateboarding. So there you go.

Confessions of a Lakers Fan

Let's get this out of the way first: I have not watched a single game in these NBA Finals for longer than 10 minutes. It's not just that I hate watching them lose. This season I actually hate watching them play. For those of you who know me, you know that this is impossible. I bleed purple and gold. I grew up going to the Great Western Forum to watch Magic, Kareem, Worthy, Michael Cooper, Kurt Rambis, and Norm Nixon. But I gotta say this: this year's Laker team is the most unlikeable squad since (ironically), the 1990 Detroit team that beat the Lakers in the Finals. That team featured the two most hated men in basketball history, Bill Lambier and Dennis Rodman. Don't get me wrong. I'm a big fan of Shaq (on the court), Devean George, Derek Fisher, and Luke Walton. And Kobe is the best player in the game (and a total asshole). But Gary Payton is the Antichrist. Karl Malone is the world's first black redneck. Rick Fox is just weird and gross. I think the departure of Robert "Will Smith" Horry was the end of the last great Laker era. It's time to rebuild. I think the Pistons' Darvin Ham put it best in today's New York Times. "You'd have to be blind not to see it. They focus on who's getting shots and who's doing this and whose team it is. Whoever's on that roster, they all have a stake in that team. They should represent the group instead of trying to rep themselves." True dat. In the end, the nausea I feel at the prospect of massive dickhead Rasheed Wallace getting a ring subsides every time I think about massive coolguy Ben Wallace getting one at the same time. Now if only the Lakers could get Steve Nash...

Bits and pieces

Thanks to The Black Table for linking up with this list of the 50 best song parts of all time. The list is actually a piece of shit (it includes Lionel Ritchie AND Phil Collins), but it's fun to read the list, disregard it, and then start thinking up your own. As Sugar D and I were discussing on Saturday, Ringo's metronome-perfect drum solo near the end of "The End" is a great moment. I'd also like to mention Joey Ramone yelling "Third verse/Diff'rent from the fist!" in "Judy is a Punk." By the way, the list also provided a link to a whole new universe of Led Zeppelin/cute kitty/Viking warrior appreciation. "The Immigrant Song" never sounded so good.

On a lighter note...

Had an amazing weekend... Esp. Saturday night. Caught the Brian Jonestown Massacre and Dead Meadow at Bowery Ballroom. BJM was hilarious, and the show climaxed when four BONGO PLAYERS materialized on stage, the strobe lights started up, and then the pillows got sliced open. It was a crazy scene, man! A real psychefreakdelia scene! Afterwards, me, LK, and Sugar D hit Misshapes for some late-night, Red Bull and Vodka-fueled dancing. An amazing vibe and some great music. Highlights were Postal Service's "Such Great Heights" (to which everyone sang along at the top of their lungs) and Pulp's "Common People" (to which everyone jumped around like crazy and sang along at the top of their lungs). Nary a techno or hip-hop track to be found. It was heaven. Special thanks to Thomas the fabulous doorperson for letting us in free even though I wasn't on the list.

Fuck tha police! (or, I fought the law and the law won)

I had my three minutes in court this morning over a trumped-up $60 "fare evasion" ticket. The fact that the MTA and the police had clearly colluded to create a ticket-giving entrapment fiasco failed to sway the judge. The fact that I was holding my unlimited-ride MetroCard IN MY FUCKING HAND at the time didn't matter either. So, as I understand it, the law works like this: if you swipe your card and it doesn't work, you can get frustrated and jump the turnstyle (see the case of Jeremy Boyd, as recounted in The New York Times, May 25, 2004). If, however, you have your card but get confused and follow a bunch of other people through a wide-open, unguarded, and unmarked gate, you have committed a crime. How silly... I thought the crime was TURNSTYLE JUMPING, not "failure to swipe." Fuck the police, fuck the MTA, and fuck city hall. How's that for eloquence? Eat my ass, all of you. You know why there were five undercover cops waiting on the other end of that gate, ticketing a long line of people who had paid MetroCards on their person? Because the PREVENTION of crime is not a profitable enterprise. The police intentionally created a set of conditions that engendered the commission of crime on a large scale, specifically to bolster a revenue stream. Entrapment, fraud, and a steaming pile of horseshit. Your tax dollars at work. Is this why we need more cops?

Hey, guess what...

Georgia on my mind

A tearful farewell to the legendary Ray Charles, one of the only musicians to find artistic and commercial success in blues, soul, and even country and western music, and one bad motherfucker on the piano. Jon Pareles and Bernard Weintraub wrote a nice obituary in today's Times that's worth checking out.

In other, far more disturbing music news, Ice-T plans to produce a rap album for his neighbor and close friend David Hasselhoff. How can a guy who made an album with Kool Keith called Pimp to Eat hang out with a guy who talks to his car, names his kid "Hobie," and recorded an album called Looking for Freedom? Friendship with self-styled badass and former real-life pimp T might explain Der Hasselhoff's recent drunk driving arrest. Speaking of pimps, get your pimp name at PlayerAppreciate.com. I am now Master Fly Jason Flex, although I think that's more an MC name than a pimp name. I was hoping for something like Jellybean McDaddy or Sweetness Washington. Oh well. No one said pimpin' was easy. In fact, Big Daddy Kane said it ain't.

White Men Can't Blog

So French Lick, Indiana's favorite son, Larry Bird, made some "off-color" remarks during an ESPN special that will air tonight at 7:00 p.m. When asked whether the NBA lacked enough white superstars, Larry had the audacity to state the obvious and say "yes." He should know. He WAS the last white superstar in the NBA. He also stated, "It is a black man's game, and it will be forever. I mean, the greatest athletes in the world are African-American." That last part might be overstating the case a bit, but on the whole, Larry's saying what we all know. The only strange part was the implication that a few white stars would "get [white America] a little excited." As in, white people would help stem the league's flagging ratings and come charging back to the fold if only there were some good, fundamental, white jumpshooters to cheer for. What? I don't like Dirk Nowitzki and Steve Nash because they're white. Nor do I like Kobe and Ben Wallace IN SPITE of the fact that they're black. That's just fucking stupid. As a white guy, I get enough disrespect on the court as it is. I have to prove that I can play every time I get on the court just to earn the ball... and the grudging respect of the black and Hispanic players in my neighborhood. I don't need a bunch of white dudes getting schooled on national television every week to make my life harder.

Healing through Laughter

Just a couple things that made me snicker today. An ad on the subway read, "Marry for love, not for health insurance." It would be funnier if it weren't so plausible.

Actually overheard in my office today: "Can I stick a few more things in that box?" I know, I know... grow up. It's still funny.

Also, the new David Sedaris book, Dress Your Family in Corduroy and Denim, starts out slow and builds to some big laughs. Even when he's not particularly laugh-out-loud, I really enjoy reading the guy's stories. He manages the half-smirking humor without the strong asshole vibe that Dave Eggers and David Cross radiate. I just noticed the "David" humor trinity. Although Dave Eggers isn't funny.

God Save the Village Green!

More a public service announcement than a blog entry, but I feel I must disseminate: One of my top-five all-time albums is being rereleased. The Kinks Are The Village Green Preservation Society is getting a three-CD redux treatment that will include the original mono and stereo recordings, along with a new remaster and interviews with the principals (BOTH Davies brothers). For those who do not consider themselves giant music dorks, the price will undoubtedly be restrictive. For the rest of us... what price? I'll pay whatever, even if I have to go no-lunch-for-a-week steez.

Putting the "poo" in "pool"

Read this before you go swimming this summer. No article in The New York Times should ever contain the word "fecal."

Meat Is Murder?

The Moz is getting downright pissed off in his old age. No longer content to simply defend the lives of his various animal friends from hungry barbecue attendees around the world, Morrissey waxed callous about the not-so-surprising death of former President and Bonzo compatriot Ronald Reagan. I know what he meant when he said it should have been Gee Dubya who died instead, and I definitely wouldn't have minded were that the case, but people who piss and moan about the rights of tasty animals and then wish ill health and death upon people (who we aren't even ALLOWED to eat) seem rather... what's the word? Oh yeah: hypocritical. Okay, I'm being nitpicky. Vegetarians just piss me off when they clamber for the moral high ground.

While we're on the subject... I'm glad the fucker's dead. I'm sorry, but I spent my childhood scared to death of nuclear holocaust and I'm not about to put all the blame on the Soviets. No ten-year-old kid should know what ICBM stands for. And don't get me started on Iran/Contra, Reagan's staunch support of South Africa, airline deregulation, etc. If every Domino Theory-spouting jarhead in the CIA is walking around with a huge erection for eight years and the boys up at NORAD are wondering what DEF-CON level we're at, there's something horribly wrong with your presidency. I hope Maggie Thatcher keeps her streak alive and follows Reagan to the grave, too. Whew! I'm all worked up.

Shatner-tastic!

While I wouldn't call myself a trekkie, it's safe to say that I am a big fan of former T.J. Hooker heartthrob William Shatner. You gotta love a guy who can't act (KHAAAAAAAAAN!!!), almost commits suicide because of the ceaseless ringing in his ears, and finds his alcoholic wife at the bottom of his swimming pool... and just keeps on going with the same good cheer and (I assume) mediocre science-fiction novels. Thanks to my good friend Chezza for sending this video, which has brightened my day. And thanks to the folks at Rhino for taking the time to actually rerelease the recorded works of both Shatner and fellow Priceline.com spokesactor Leonard Nimoy.

Polly want some goat's blood?

An Earth-shattering new split 7" single on the Aquarius Records site may herald the dawn of a new age in Death Metal. HATEBEAK features the startling lead vocal talents of Waldo the Parrot. I swear to god. According to the CD blurb, "They appropriate Judas Priest's Screaming For Vengeance metallic bird cover, change Hatebreed's logo just a little bit (and include a little bird-hatching-from-an-egg graphic) and title their side of the split "Beak Of Putrefaction" (a play on Carcass's "Reek Of Putrefaction"). Awesome! And there's a rumoured upcoming split with a band called Caninus fronted by a dog! We kid you not." I'd love to write something witty about this, but how can I possibly improve on the profound radness of this idea? I'm buying the single today. Please tell me they taught the parrot to make little devil horns with his talons.

Hide the tranquilizers

I wonder if the suicide rate spiked in the New York City area this weekend? Sub-Pacific-Northwest weather combined with a rash of unfortunate news items to utterly destroy my will to leave the apartment. After a fantastic Friday night getting soused and listening to the world's worst DJ at the Royal Oak in Williamsburg (he actually played Fleetwood Mac and Bob Marley for a crowd that was trying to DANCE), it was all downhill. Smarty Jones loses the Belmont Stakes by a little over a length. Ronald Reagan dies (okay, I'll admit I hated the man's administration and don't really care that he's dead). The Lakers lose game one of the finals... at home. I watched it all through a semi-blissful, martini-induced haze and somehow made it to Monday morning. Only to find out that JLo got secretly married to Mark Anthony, promising any number of deeply irritating duets in the coming months.

...Till the juice runs down my leg...

A hearty thank-you to the brilliant tobyspinks for spreading word on what could be the best television idea since the laugh track. America's favorite knife-wielding, wife-slaying psychopath, Orinthal James Simpson, in dire financial straits since being found liable in civil court for the murder of his ex-wife, may finally be turning the corner. Seems the Juice is in talks to develop a Punk'd-esque reality show in which he pulls gags on, or "juices," unsuspecting victims. Imagine your "relief" when you find out that whatever harrowing prank you've just survived was merely engineered by a 6'1" 212-pounder with wild eyes and a penchant for lethal neck-stabbing. I guess it still beats that smug Ashton Kutcher bastard.

What a waster!

In addition to being the best band I ever totally slept on (even after standing pressed against the stage at a CBGB gig, I remained unmoved by their sloppy brilliance), The Libertines are also the most aptly named rockers ever. According to the big brains at Webster's a "libertine" is "a person who is unrestrained by convention or morality; specif: one leading a dissolute life." That about nails it, as Pete Doherty, the Robert Downey, Jr. of U.K. rock, is back in rehab again. This is the same pished malcontent who got so desperate for the sweet taste of the glass dick that he broke into bandmate Paul Barat's flat and stole a bunch of equipment. And even went to the can for it. The band's on-again breakup recently forced the cancellation of an anti-Nazi festival. Their manager swears the breakup is temporary and I for one believe the guy. When Pete checks out (of rehab) he's gonna need to get really high. Best way to do that? Get paid for some gigs with your newly reformed band and then treat yourself to a mountain of crack and heroin. I get the shakes just thinkin' about it!!

In case of accidental overdose...

He may be "the cute one," but he is apparently not the smart one. Former Wings bassist Paul McCartney has finally owned up to his heroin use. That is, his ACCIDENTAL heroin use. Seems the purveyor of easily-digested pop masterpieces forgot to ask that cardinal question of partygoing: "Pardon me, chap, but what is this substance that I'm about to smoke?" The result? Nothing much. Unlike the infinitely more interesting John Lennon (late hubby of the renowned Fluxus artist Yoko Ono), Sir Paul didn't take to the soothing brown bitch goddess the management likes to call "smackeroonie." Is he really that stupid, or does this highly unlikely scenario indicate that he thinks WE'RE that stupid? It didn't work for Bill Clinton, Paulie old chap, and it won't work for the world's most famous vegetarian chili spokesman either.

In other moronic music news, 'Tally proves once again that they are the biggest bunch of assholes in the history of mulletude. Why is Metallica headlining Scotland's Download Festival?? Didn't they notice the word "download" right there in the title? This is the same quartet of habitual circle-jerkers that stained their knickers about all the evil 14-year-olds deviously "stealing" their music via filesharing networks, thereby fractionally reducing the band's multi-gazillion-dollar take-home pay. Remember Napster (before its rebirth as "Napster ® © all rights reserved")? Those people were downloading the music, you twats.

What misspellings?

According to Quizilla, I have finally acheived that elusive godhead...


You are a GRAMMAR GOD!

Special thanks to 1000 ft of Despair for the quiz tip.

Let Your Soul Glow

Sometimes the New York Post's Page Six blind items are almost libelously transparent. (Did I just invent a word?) From today's: "WHICH pro basketball player, husband of a world-class beauty, is said to be having a torrid affair with a recently divorced actress? And when he's not with her, he's chasing other foxes . . ." Well it's obviously Rick Fox, the oft-injured small forward of the soon-to-be World Champion Los Angeles Lakers and hubby to former Penthouse model Vanessa Williams. But the "chasing other FOXES..." line really seals the deal. And how is it that the uber-creepy Fox can continue to chase women at all, let alone bed Mrs. Williams? In addition to massive jaw implants, the man sports a hideous contradiction upon his head. Is it balding? Is it a severe geri-curl accident? Fox should stick to what he does best: simulating prison rape in front of the camera.

Body Massage!

Remember the "Knowing Is Half the Battle" PSAs at the end of each G.I. Joe episode? Well ebaumsworld does. I almost made water in my pants after viewing this one.

With friends like these...

A lesson learned. Keep quiet about the blogging thing. Your friends will not support you in your endeavor. They will think you a self-centered nerd. They will be correct in their assessment, of course, but that doesn't take away the hurt. Also, if you misspell anything, they will descend upon you like a pack of rabid dogs. At least mine did. I'm back in the closet as of today.

Day One (or, Giving Up and Letting Someone Else Do the Work)

There is something to be said for throwing your hands up and accepting someone else's vision. That something? "What a fucking relief!"

Steadfast in my avoidance of actual work, I have allowed the fine minds at Blogspot to determine the basic shape and format of this, my very first blog. It is liberating. Let the muckraking, gossip mongering, unsolicited opinion giving, and bitchy whining commence.