Give Me Libertines or Give Me Death

Just ran downstairs to buy the new Libertines album. fye doesn't have it. Why can't I work over a Virgin Megastore or Tower Records? Why must I be taunted each day by having the most pathetic music retailer on the planet located in the building? Atlantic Records and Rolling Stone are in this building, fer chrissakes. A decent music store doesn't seem like too much to ask. I'm leaving for London tomorrow. How am I supposed to get trashed in some random pub and start drooling and screaming about how brilliant the new Libertines album is if I haven't fucking heard it? Guess I have some walking to do at lunch.

For those of you I haven't already bothered about this, our first night in London will include a trip to Miss-shapes, the older, gayer big sister of our very own MisShapes. While I am slightly concerned that "miss-shapes operates a gay and lesbian majority door policy," I figure we can cry guilt by association at the door. That is, by association with MS NYC, not by association with our gay friends. Although that would be rich: "What do you mean we can't come in? Some of our best freinds are gay!" Also, the special guests are the lovely ladies of Avenue D, which may be a good omen since Debbie D used to be our frequent waitress back in the heady days of the unlimited-drinks brunch at B-Bar. Needless to say, a full report will be delivered next Wednesday. If anyone goes to Misshapes on Saturday, we can trade stories and then giggle until we puke because we're so adorable and transcontinental and just-plain-fucking-fantastic.

**UPDATE: The Libertines' The Libertines is, after one listen, rocking me nicely. It lacks the overall punch of the first album, but it has this defeated, soused ruggedness that really gets under your skin. It's like you can hear the band pulling apart at the seams. Seedy and excellent. As Mayor of the Altered State of Druggachusetts, I declare this album to be... AWESOME!

"Everybody was kung-fu fighting"

A special thanks to Aimee for sending me this. Rewards multiple viewings. Also, see a severely trashed George W. Bush badmouthing the bride and groom at a wedding (via The Smoking Gun). Pay close attention to the very last frame. Strangely, this almost makes me like the guy.

"A Young Girl's Erotic Journey from Milan to Minsk"

Having people tell you about their dreams is annoying. What seems "so weird" to them seems boring to everyone else. Sometimes they even ask, "What do you think that means?" And generally you want to answer, "I think it means you should shut up now." (Or maybe, "I think it means you're gay/straight," whichever fucks with them more.) That said, allow me to share with you the greatest "dry" dream I have ever had.

THE DREAM
So I'm working in this seedy, dusty video store with old hardwood floors and high ceilings. I'm chatting with the fellow employees when a woman who looks like a slightly older, bigger Whoopi Goldberg comes in and heads straight to the adult section. She points to a title on a high shelf -- one that I had noticed earlier in the dream and wanted to see myself -- and asks if I can get it down for her. The film is called Gretchen of Rosenstrasse, and the cover features this incredibly attractive, naked young woman with enormous breasts. She's tied up, smiling wryly, hanging on a wall, and covered in splattered paint. From what I can tell, it's an early-1970s soft-core porn film about the erotic (mis)adventures of a European girl who falls in with a bunch of Fluxus-type artists and such. She's hanging on the wall, for example, because she is the artwork in one of their avant-garde shows. And did I mention that Gretchen had huge boobs? Anyway, at the cash register I say to Whoopi, "You have to let me know how this is!" That's it. The alarm went off and I got up.

THE AFTERMATH
In addition to being the funniest (not to mention the most linear) dream I have ever had, it's also one of the few that I actually remember later. It still seems vivid. What I want to know is this: Is this like a Field of Dreams moment? Am I supposed to make a semi-parodic, Euro-steez soft-core porn movie called Gretchen of Rosenstrasse? I can hear the soft-core porn spirits whispering now. "If you make it, they will (pardon the pun) come." I googled the title and checked IMDB, but only got a 2003 film called Rosenstrasse. That film tells the story of a little-known anti-Nazi protest in 1943 Berlin, wherein the Aryan wives of imprisoned Jewish men kept vigil outside their holding facility on Rosenstrasse, a tiny street near Alexanderplatz. That's not really the same vibe, so I dismissed any connection. Besides, as far as I know, I'd never heard of the street or the film.

So what to do? Forget it? Make the movie? Whaddya think? Anyone want to be in a movie about the erotic (mis)adventures of a naive, clever, experimental, and well-endowed young woman as she explores the European avant-garde of the 1960s and 70s? More importantly, anyone want to pay for it? I'm down for whatevs, so just let me know. 1970s European soft-core is so hott right now.

This Just In: Dave Matthews Band Continues to Release Shit

This comes as no surprise really, but in this case we're literally talking about "shit." The band's tour bus dumped the entire contents of its septic system (a full 800 pounds of human waste) while crossing a grated river bridge near Chicago. Unfortunately, the sum total of the DMB's creative output came raining down on a boatload of architecture enthusiasts in the middle of their river tour. Needless to say, this Great Moment In Busdriver History has resulted in at least one lawsuit. Think twice the next time you consider drinking bottled water from Illinois; The Dave Matthews Band has shoved enough shit down our throats as it is.

How to transition from such a lovely tale? Okay, new topic: Just a passing annoyance, but is anyone else having an adverse reaction to all the "Back To School" advertising crowding the airwaves? In tandem with the dreaded approach of the fall season premieres (except The OC, which can't return fast enough), it's as if the television is taunting us with the imminent demise of summer. Just the phrase "back to school" is enough to send shivvers up the spine of anyone who doesn't have kids. For parents it probably has the opposite effect. They can't wait to have the little fuckers out of the house. For the rest of us, it's just a reminder that it'll be freezing cold and dark at 4:30 p.m. before we know it. Jesus, who wants a drink?

Anyone Remember the Weekend?

...because the management would appreciate any recollections, anecdotes, lost articles of clothing, or missing brain cells that might help in piecing Saturday night back together. Naturally, most of the blame can be placed on the usual suspects. A full report is forthcoming, pending lots of little reports that lead to at least a hazy notion of what actually transpired. Some weak impressions to build upon: "Last Caress" by The Misfits; something called The Fortress of Drinkitude; The question "Dude, did you see that girl that I was making out with?" being repeated over and over; and a roomfull of people grabbing each other, jumping up and down, and screaming, "Let's all meet up in the year 2000."

If any of this makes sense to you, the management would appreciate your help. Little is clear prior to the Sunday afternoon's big platter of nachos and spicy bloody mary.

"Dig in, partner."

Newsflash: the Rick James story may involve cocaine. According to the Daily News, clubgoers are paying their respects to King Superfreak the only way they know how. Think it might be time to revise the will.

Smarter than the Average Bear

I, too, can be captured through the wily use of donuts and beer.

An open letter to Thomas Onorato

Misshapes, August 14, 2004
Originally uploaded by the management.

Dear Thomas,

As always, last weekend's Misshapes outing was a rousing success. There was enough sweat, tits, and good music to keep the management sated for a month. Yet thanks in part to your presence at the door, this dedicated, expletive-screaming, pogoing idiot (pictured above in red t-shirt) gets to go every week... for free. Do you know how truly appreciated your contribution to the management's nightlife is? Let's just say that your recent shout-out in Tricia Romano's Fly Life column is hardly adequate. You are a fine human being; fair, evenhanded, and utterly merciless in the face of the loafers-with-no-socks Eurotrash that gives you endless shit about not letting them in for free even though they are clearly not on the list and a have a shitty attitude. How do you do it? The management wishes to express its thanks and admiration.

There is just one more thing: the management and MTC are dying to do a tag-team DJ set at Misshapes, but we still haven't met the promoters. We're good enough, we're smart enough, and doggone it, people like us. Once I drop Gang of Four's "Damaged Goods," those kids will be eating out of the palm of my hand. I swear to god, we will do you proud and the night's promoters will think to themselves, "Jesus Christ, is there anything Thomas can't do? He rules the door like a velvet glove cast in iron, and his friends just played the most amazing set in the history of this club."

It's time to make it happen, Thomas. It is time to seize our destiny.

Many thanks, and continued good fortune.

Sincerely,
The Management

WE NOW RETURN YOU TO NORMAL BLOG PROGRAMMING

Lordy, lordy, there is so much to cover today. Feast or famine, people. Feast. Or. Famine.

How is it that this Village Voice essay on big asses on white women went unnoticed?? More importantly, how is it that two VV links made it into this post? Delicious white junk-in-the-trunk action has finally come into its own, and we need to gather together to ensure that this "trend" never goes away. Magnificent booty knows no race or creed. It is, in fact, a testament to the unity, to the the inherent oneness of all humankind. Fine booty is the lifeblood of human brotherhood and advancement. Let us pray.

Having seen Alien vs. Predator just last night, it came as quite a surprise to read this morning that they are now in negotiations to reunite Freddy Krueger and Jason Vorhees for another go. Only this time, Ash, hero of Sam Raimi's Evil Dead films, will be thrown into the mix. That's right, it's Freddy vs. Jason vs. Ash! Here are two more questionable ideas: 1) Marilyn Manson is releasing a greatest hits album, including a cover of Depeche Mode's "Personal Jesus." Now does anyone else think that the entire notion of "greatest hits" goes all haywire when applied to Mr. Manson? That's like a coffee-table book called Our Favorite Venereal Diseases or perhaps The Dick Cheney Guide to Business Ethics. It just doesn't track. 2) Britney Spears and Kevin Federline are apparently in talks with MTV to take over the Newlyweds show. Now I know this territory is adequately covered in Stereogum, but this is simply too much to ignore. Why do we want to see Britney and her sad, giant-shirt-wearing, Vanilla-Ice-looking, white trash piece of shit boyfriend argue about how much Spam should go into an omelette, how to spell "babydaddy," or how nice it is to be rich enough to buy the whole damn trailer park? Okay... that actually sounds pretty good. Never mind.

All I Wanted Was a Pepsi

All I Wanted Was a Pepsi
Originally uploaded by the management.

The rock and roll was so intense during Little Steven's Underground Garage Festival that Brian grew to enormous size. The same happened to a nearby Pepsi bottle. Mayhem ensued. He later attacked the Dunkin' Donuts tent. All concert photos courtesy of Giant Brian.

Malicious Assault

Malicious Assault
Originally uploaded by the management.

Free beer turns people into animals. During the Strokes's set, Patrick decided it was time for the management to relinquish the VIP pass, magical talisman of free drinks. Wrestling ensued. The management retained possession of the holy icon.

No Fun?

How much fun was Saturday? Hmmm... let me see. First, Little Steven's Underground Garage Festival: VIP passes that admitted us to a grassy paradise with a pool, free beer, a full buffet, private bathrooms, and multiple points of access to the field. The Strokes playing an uncharacteristically energetic set, which included a comment on the appropriateness of Dunkin' Donuts's sponsorship before launching into "New York City Cops." Iggy Pop flawlessly validating LK's claim that the Ig is the greatest live performer on the planet. He was an amp-humping, audience-taunting whirlwind of muscle and mayhem. He sang "No Fun" with, like, four fans crawling on his back, and he didn't miss a beat. The New York Dolls (David Johanson in particular) looked like the sarcophagus had been opened mere moments before they went on stage. Seriously, are we sure the entire band didn't die last month? And what can I say about Dick Manitoba and the Dictators? Do those guys just club women and drag them back to their cave? They were fucking fantastic. Best part? The Jersey meathead guy in front of me with the Dictators t-shirt on his head. He just kept looking at everyone around him and repeating his mantra: "I only came to see one band!" Other highlights included Sabrina and I making fun of Julian Casablancas's fat, acne-ridden kisser after every song; doing an impression of LK's concert swagger in full sunglass apparel; Patrick's drunken attempt to literally wrestle my VIP pass away so he could get another drink (which he needed like a fish needs a bicycle); Lane's claim that he would "drop trou" and show security his motorcycle injury if they tried to take away his tiny scissors; and much, much more. All in all, it was good friends, great bands, good times.

I thought I might have to pass out during the ferry ride back to Manhattan, but MTC (who is also the angel of mercy who hooked up the VIP passes) took pity on me. We spent some quality time watching TiVo'ed Olympic coverage while I wolfed down some Mickey-Dee's. Then it was time for phase two: Misshapes. No magic aspirin, but the second wind did kick in thanks in large part to the first DJ. I think her name is Ilirjana, and she ruled the shit. I mean, anyone who plays X-Ray Spex, Bis, the Dead Kennedys's "California Über Alles," "Where Eagles Dare" by the Misfits, and Mötley Crüe's "Wild Side" is all right by me. Managed to completely sweat through my clothes and kept yelling "Fucking Awesome!!" at the top of my lungs. It's nice to be too wasted to care that you're a total ass. Next DJ was a complete mope. Once he played "Bust a Move" and informed us that he didn't have any Pulp (Didn't even look like he'd heard of them. The club is called "Misshapes" fer chrissakes!), we knew it was time to move on.

Finally got home around 5:00 a.m., and the most excellent Sarah was awake and willing to sit up with me while I consumed more beers. Spousal unit Princess Points: 2,500.

Slept until 2:30 p.m. on Sunday. Subsequent bad mood and blood-curdling hangover totally worth it.

Thanks to Sarah, MTC, LK, Brian, Sabrina, Lane, Matt, Patrick, Jerry, Rich, Chezza, Chelle, and Misshapes (esp. Ilirjana) for a true test of man's endurance in the face of marathon good times.

Diagnosis: FUCKING AWESOME!!

"Fuck New York! This apple ain't that big."

How does the management feel about the arrival of the Republican National Convention in this fine metropolis? This about sums it up.

"I pity the fool that tries to blow up my gymnasium now!"

Hey, you! Yeah, you! You are jealous. Why? Because the management has acquired Pixies tickets! That's right... Monday, December 13, at the not-so-great Hammerstein Ballroom with fellow Beantown geriatrics Mission of Burma. Much excitement. Much trepidation. Deep and meaningful thanks to MTC for sitting through a stressful online presale to get the tix.

While it is not usually necessary to generate more traffic to The Onion, their crack reportage on the long-overdue vindication of The A-Team is what media hacks refer to as "a must-read." In an unrelated piece, they also produced yet another of the, um, tastiest quotes of the year: "If kids today just pop a pill every time they want an erection, how are they going to learn valuable pussy-eating skills?" How indeed.

The management has long been interested in the elusive Jackalope. Even respected cryptozoologists have come to doubt the beast's existence, but the magnificent antlered rabbit got a well-deserved shout-out in a Black Table article about Wyoming. Check out item #4. For more about the Jackalope, you can consult several online resources, including The Museum of Hoaxes and The Jackalope Conspiracy. Despite various reports of Jackalope violence and general viciousness, the management is committed to a more enlightened understanding of our mysterious, bushy-tailed friends. Like other cute but oft-maligned mammals (wolverines, badgers, raccoons, etc.), the Jackalope is simply misunderstood. Please send images and report any sightings to the management.

Two final items. First, the inevitable has finally happened: someone has made a film dramatizing the tragic last days of Kurdt Kobain (a.k.a. Kurt Cobain). Luckily, that someone is Gus Van Sant... so there is hope.

Finally, I recommend this Slate article to anyone who's in the mood for a brief, well-realized consideration of everyday racial politics. Link courtesy of TMFTML.

"Let's all drink to the [recovery] of a clown"

Kinks guitarist and God among men Dave Davies has suffered a stroke. Well he actually suffered a stroke on June 30, but we're just hearing about it now. This is bad enough news (especially hot on the heels of recent Ramones and Bowie health scares), but Davies still has not regained movement on his right side and faces at least another month of rehab. A special "go fuck yourself" to E! Online for the first sentence in their coverage of the news: "Dave Davies is working out the kinks after suffering a stroke last month." Oh that's fucking hilarious. Look, it's all well and good to make fun of people once they're dead, but are the brainiacs at E! really this disrespectful? More importantly, are they that desperate for a pun? I can just hear Billy Bush or Steve Kmetko saying this with a smarmy half-grin, wondering all the while who in hell Dave Davies is. Anyway, stay strong, Dave. We're all pulling for you.

Requiem for a Party Machine: Rick James, 1948-2004

Requiem for a Pary Machine: Rick James, 1948-2004
Originally uploaded by the management.

Further developments demand that the management readdress the Rick James tragedy. Yesterday's flippant remarks concerning the Freakmaster's dalliances with the wonders of Bolivian Marching Powder have apparently proved to be rather prescient, as reports indicate that James was once again speeding down the White Line Highway. After an autopsy, no specific cause of death could be pinpointed, and officials are now awaiting a toxicology report. Sources indicated that he was seen doing blow at a party a week and a half back. Keep in mind that this is a man with diabetes who recently suffered a stroke, had a hip replaced, and had a pacemaker inserted. You think your occasional binge drinking is worrisome? You are a goddamn amateur, my friend. Rick... pardon me, Mr. James has joined Kieth Moon in the pantheon of self-destructive party machines.

Let's take a moment to think about Mr. James's contributions to music and popular culture in general. Like many tragic figures, Rick James had a career of dizzying highs, so to speak, and harrowing lows. Artistically, he produced some of the enduring classics of 1970s/80s funk, most notably "Mary Jane," "Superfreak," and "Give It to Me Baby," but he was also responsible for 1988's Wonderful album. As album titles go, it was an example of blatant false advertising. As a producer, James shepherded the Mary Jane Girls to temporary stardom, but he also gave the world Eddie Murphy's "Party All the Time." Clearly, the drugs (along with Murphy's Greek-mythology-level hubris) had begun to take their toll. (To be fair, the whole MC Hammer "U Can't Touch This" thing was not his fault.) By the time James was imprisoned for holding a woman captive, forcing her to do drugs, and burning her with a hot crack pipe because she refused to have group sex with him and his girlfreind, the "cracks" in his psyche had clearly become canyons of spiraling insanity.

When F. Scott Fitzgerald said (I'm paraphrasing here) that American lives don't have second acts, he had apparently never heard of John Travolta. Or Rick James. Although the return of the Superfreak owed more to Charlie Murphy and Dave Chapelle than to the man himself, James came to embody the scarred, self-deprecating survivor of his own excesses. A funnier, urban answer to Johnny Cash, if you will. Unfortunately, Mr. James seems to have equated the spotlight with fast living, and it appears that he returned once again to his hard-partying ways. Again, his story attains the weight and pathos of Greek tragedy, with the inevitable fall of a captivating and fundamentally flawed protagonist. Mr. James's tragic flaw was his inability to extract his private persona from his public image and the trappings of fame. That, and his tendency to imitate a bottomless vacuum cleaner whenever anyone left some coke lying around.

How will James Ambrose Johnson, Jr. be remembered? What will his true legacy be? As part of his new contract with Comedy Central, Dave Chapelle has a development deal for a planned Rick James biopic, but it remains to be seen how this deal will be effected by James's death. The management wishes only to memorialize the man behind the music; the young bass prodigy, the funk impresario, the hit-making producer. That, and the twisted badass who snorted and smoked his way into such mind-bending depravity as to become both cautionary tale and eternal bachelor-party inspiration. We salute you, Rick James, you sick, crazy, brilliant motherfucker.

Cocaine Is a Strange Drug, Bitch!

Rest in peace, Superfreak #1. Rick James has gone to that great China Club in the sky, where he can do mile-long lines of blow without all that pesky psychosis and paranoia, burn hookers with crackpipes with impunity, and slap Charlie Murphy until his fingers go numb. Still no word on the cause of death, but I'm guessing his massive lifetime contribution to the Gross National Product of Columbia has something to do with it.

Well it's official; Pixies shows have finally been announced for NYC. On December 12 and 13 (for now), Frank, Kim, Joey, and David will blow the walls off the Hammerstein Ballroom. And you can attend for the low, low price of only $42. No, that's not a typo, and after the exhorbitant service charges it'll cost you more like $55. Now, of course we're all going to go. We'll all have a great time, too. But the notion of paying over $50 to see one band at a fairly shitty venue is sickening. It speaks volumes about the band's overall quality and musical legacy, though. How many bands that never charted in the Top 20 can command this kind of frenzy? Even The Clash had one major hit. These tickets are like cigarettes... no matter how expensive you make them, people will put cash on the barrelhead. Now if only they would add "The Happening" to their set list.

This Potato Tastes Good

This Potato Tastes Good
Originally uploaded by the management.

From this week's "What Do You Think?" segment in The Onion: "When dealing with genocide, you must ask yourself, "What would Hitler do?" And then, you know, do the opposite."

It's hard to escape the parallels when your own president says stupid shit like the following: "Our enemies are innovative and resourceful, and so are we. They never stop thinking about new ways to harm our country and our people, and neither do we." This is an actual quote. In their ongoing defense of civil liberties, the Bush camp has also decided that protesters are tolerable only if they remain invisible behind large concrete barriers. Or, if you want to actually, physically attend a rally, you can just sign a declaration of your support.

Speaking of Nazi fuckheads, Ralph Fiennes has been cast as Voldemort in the upcoming Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire. Speaking of big concrete barriers, Pink Floyd's The Wall is being developed into a Broadway musical. And speaking of Nazis, barriers, and civil liberties, Gana la Verde (basically translates as "get the green") is a new Mexican reality show wherein participants compete for the services of an immigration attorney in attaining a Green Card(!!!). Finally, speaking of foreign nationals, republicans, and antisemitism, these brilliant "Borat from Kazakhstan" segments have to be seen to be believed: one and two. Thanks to Stereogum for the links.

Finally again, this music video by The 'Hoff will prove beyond all doubt that he is the one, true GOD. And Radiohead fans (or just fans of really great animation) will go poo-poo in their pants when they watch this unbelievable short film set to an accoustic "Creep." Enjoy in good spirits, you adorable little poo-poo pants, you.

Rock and Roll Circus Freaks

This summary is not available. Please click here to view the post.

Putting the "shot" in "group shot"

MetalGroupShot
Originally uploaded by the management.

Slow news day. In lieu of saying anything constructive, the management has opted instead to post yet another shot from the recent 666Heavy Metal BBQ666. Jack Daniels is the liquid. Satan is the inspiration. Thanks again to jalapeno for the image.