"Don't mess with the bull, young man. You'll get the horns."

Paul Gleason, 1944-2006

Although his IMDB page lists some 131 film and TV roles, Paul Gleason will forever be remembered for playing three of the biggest assholes in cinematic history. In 1983, Gleason brought a real nastiness to Clarence "I'll rip out your eyes and piss on your brain" Beeks in Trading Places. Two years later he tackled what many consider his defining role, making The Breakfast Club's Principal Richard Vernon my generation's most iconically horrible authority figure. (And this character, along with Jeffrey Jones's Principal Ed Rooney in Ferris Beuller's Day Off and William Atherton's Professor Jerry Hathaway in Real Genius, forms the holy triumvirate of great administrative dickheads of 1980s cinema.) Then in 1988 he played the unfairly maligned Deputy Police Chief Dwayne T. Robinson in Die Hard. I actually kind of liked Dwayne. Plus he delivered the best line in the entire movie: "They're gonna need some more FBI guys, I guess."

If you look up "typecast" in the dictionary either Gleason or Bela Lugosi will be pictured, but the guy pretty much embodied petty authoritarian menace throughout my childhood. Ironically, "word on the street" is that we was a really great guy in "real life." Anyway, he died on Saturday of mesothelioma, which anyone who watches daytime TV will recognize from ambulance-chaser commercials as a rare, asbestos-related form of lung cancer. I call bullshit on such a cool guy dying from such a nasty disease, but what are you gonna do? Rest in peace, Paul Gleason, and may you spend every day in heaven knocking John Bender's dick in the dirt.

Desmond Dekker, 1941-2006

One of the truly great musicians in Jamaican history, Desmond Dekker, died yesterday at the age of 64. I have little long-term faith in hyperlinks to The New York Times, but his full obit can currently be found here. Anyway, brief and useless autobiographical note... I first heard "Israelites" in Gus Van Sant's Drugstore Cowboy, and immediately went out and bought the Aces' greatest hits. That was the beginning of what has been a roughly 13-year-long interest in Dekker's music. Bottom line, this is a great loss of one of the godfathers of ska and rock-steady music.

He Ain't Heavy... He's My Meatloaf

It may not have been the first, but Led Zeppelin's Houses of the Holy album cover ushered in a brave era of airbrushed barbarians, dragons, wizards, and crawling chicks... a kind of wicked-awesome sword-and-sorcery shorthand to let consumers know that the album they held in their sweaty, resin-stained teenage hands would probably rock in a vaguely medieval manner, and would at the very least feature some very long solos. As a rule, albums with cover art resembling the side of your older brother's van were heavy. Take Molly Hatchet, for example:



As all things must, this hard-rockin', hand-and-airbrush-painted, Frank Frazetta cover-art fetish eventually came to an end. However, it was not the rise of disco or its Continental stepchild, new wave, that sounded the death knell. Nor was it the increasing emphasis on speed and streamlining, both musical and graphic, typified by such metal acts as Judas Priest. No, this proud artform fell out of favor thanks mainly to this:


Meatloaf's Bat Out of Hell, in spite of its cover art and mildly Satanic title, is mostly famous for rocking very little, preferring instead to camp very hard. (And obviously the verb "to camp" is being used with some license here. Try not to think of tents or roasted marshmallows.) Thanks to Meatloaf's Kiss-on-Broadway "rock 'n' roll" histrionics, the truly wicked fantasy album covers went the way of the dinosaur, save only the most pathetic exceptions:


Luckily trends are, for the most part, cyclical. (A Postmodern theorist would probably argue that this is more accurately a reflection of the "death of the author" and the utter meaninglessness of "original" artistic production. A Poststructuralist, meanwhile, would probably argue something in French that only the most pretentious grad-school douchebag would even pretend to understand.) Inevitably, the "van" album-art style was rejuvinated, but at first it was employed in the service of what we'll call (very cheritably) "irony":


But the album-cover majesty of van rock has again risen, Phoenix-like, from the ashes of time. Eschewing irony and outright pastiche in favor of a more "genuine" stylistic homage, Australia's Wolfmother sings about unicorns and alternate dimensions atop LedSabbath guitars and massive, orgiastic organ solos. And behold the awesome chick-and-dragon action on the cover of their new album:


It is in the face of such rock 'n' redemption, however, that an old enemy has arisen. Much like the evil and otherworldly behemoths that once graced the covers of the heaviest albums (obscured though they usually were by seeds, stems, and wayward rolling papers), a monstrous beast threatens to undermine this second blossoming of van-glorious rock art. And the beast comes cloaked in a guise of deception:


Be forewarned, lover of heavy music. Be not deceived by the dragon, the sword, or the chick. For this righteous-looking album bears also the mark of the beast: It says "Meatloaf" plain as day right there on the cover. Fool us once, Meatloaf, shame on you. Fool us twice... well Meatloaf didn't really "fool" anyone with Bat Out of Hell II... but fool us with the soon-to-be-released Bat Out of Hell III: The Monster Is Loose, shame on us. We cannot allow what will surely be a profoundly non-rocking piece of shit album to poison the fields so recently sowed by Wolfmother. The time has come for the heaviest bands and the sweetest rockers to resume the mantle of warriors... this is nothing short of a call to arms. Bitchin' side-of-van, sword-and-sorcery album covers must live again! The unholy Gods of rock demand it.

**UPDATE** Check out this list of album covers that were banned or forcibly altered in order to satisfy standards of common decency. Apparently toilets were verboten right through the 1960s. Poo is dirty!!

The Elephant (Horse Penis) in the Room (Elevator)

You make one little comment about manually masturbating a prize racehorse, and everyone in the elevator acts like you're some kind of degenerate. Of course they are all in possession of the same set of knowledge re: the manner in which most high-stakes horse breeding is enacted, but we all play the appropriateness game at the office. Sexual harrassment laws notwithstanding, can I really be blamed if Barbaro's self-mutilating meltdown at the start of the Preakness was the weekend's biggest news? And, let's face it, the real moral/emotional calculus on the part of the horse's owners is not based primarily upon the horse's continued ability to trot and frolic, the summer breeze whipping through his full equine mane as the North Carolinian seafoam washes across his fully healed rear-right ankle. No, the only real question that remains is the efficacy of putting an extraordinarily valuable lame horse out to stud. And, as the animal's leg is now a mess of shattered bone and mangled dreams, Barbaro faces either a metaphorical (or is it still literal?) firing squad or a future of having eager veterinary students and/or experienced stable hands use their (presumably) gloved hands to unleash a spermatozoan stream of endless profitability into the veterinary equivalent of a giant Dixie cup. So roll your eyes all you want. Malign my choice of Monday-morning elevator banter if you must. By all means, affix a scarlet "M" upon my breast! But you know just as well as I do that today's biggest news story has everything to do with whether or not somebody is going to be able to effectively jerk off a broken racehorse.

ART. BRUT. TOP OF THE POPS!

I bought TWO Art Brut shirts at last night's Knitting Factory show. The obsession is that strong: double-merch bandlove.

IS Eddie Argos the best frontman in rock? ARE Art Brut the most important rock band on the planet right now? You must judge for yourself. But one thing is certain: Modern art makes me want to rock out! Stereogum has a wee review of Wednesday night's show, along with some groovy pix. Brooklyn Vegan has a great shot of Eddie in the middle of thee crowd, too. My buddy Lance and I are both e-mail wetting ourselves like a couple of girls today because Eddie made frequent eye contact with both of us during the show. Like he was looking right into our souls and commanding us to rock! (You wanna know how I know you're gay? Because you care that the singer made eye contact with you.) All I can tell you is I entered the venue a semi-normal person, and I came out a maniac covered in bourbon and beer (thank you, super-awesome PBR/whiskey drink special!!) with two t-shirts and no voice... and proceded directly to a bar. (One shirt reads "Modern Art Makes Me Want to Rock Out," the other says "Popular Culture No Longer Applies to Me.") Bedtime on a school night? 2:30. And hammered to boot! Hours late to work? One. Servings of bacon consumed this morning? One, but I'm considering another go.

For those of you who love monstrous, droning doom metal (Anyone? Hello?? Just me??), Boris and SunnO))) are touring together(!). Even better, they're playing at Avalon with Growing on May 30. I'm going to this one by myself, aren't I? Speaking of scary doom and stuff, Brian and I are hitting the 9th Annual NYC Tattoo Convention this weekend. Oooooo. Doom metal and tattoos. I'm suddenly giving the utterly false impression that I am a complex, scary man. Or that I'm a creepy, pierced, Al Jourgensen-looking nutjob. The latter is actually the case. I look exactly like THIS.

Random link alert: I think I know what happened to my dad!! Also, I think I have a new favorite movie!! [Both links via BoingBoing]

Last and, honestly, least, Dinosaur Jr.'s classic Green Mind was reissued on Tuesday. (The horseshit Bitchfork review doesn't come close to doing the album justice.) If you have the means, I highly recommend picking one up. It's so choice.

Have a happy, healthy weekend. Remember to think frequently about Jesus and the sacrifice he made for you and all your dirty, sacrelicious ways.

"Concentrate, Dirk. Just Focus on Me. Visualize The 'Hoff, Mein Schätze."

The management's current NBA playoff hero, Dirk "Diggler" Nowitzki, has been coming up huge on the boards, from the field, and from the line. Well now we know his secret (at least for the latter): Sweet, tender dreams of The 'Hoff! Okay, that's probably a slight exaggeration, but Dirk has admitted that he hums Hasselhoff's German mega-hit "Looking for Freedom" to himself when he's at the free-throw stripe. I smell a championship!!

And in searching the Interwebs for "David Hasselhoff Fan Club," I unexpectedly came across an amazing TVGasm post on my favorite TV show, Good Eats. If you don't know it, and you like cooking/science, get on it ASAP. (Seriously, if I had an extra $250 I would buy the DVD 27-pack.)

Party Weekend

Co-DJing a wedding tonight at Tavern on the Green (swear to god!), and catching Danielson and Saturday Looks Good to Me at Northsix on Saturday. Then kickball league on Sunday (swear to god!). It's going to be a good weekend.

In the spirit of weekend fun, I give you PROOF THAT EVEN THE BIG BRAINS AT M.I.T. CAN PARTY HARDY. (Be sure to watch the amazing video.) [via BoingBoing]

"What? I Can't Hear You! Kirk Cameron's Cock Is Jammed in My Ear!"

Hee hee hee.

Favorite sentence of the week. [Thanks, Robb]

So it appears that Hollywood's TV-recycling fever has gone from "jumping the shark" to "fucking the shark's wife while giving him the finger." I give you EXHIBIT A. Next up? Jerry Bruckheimer's Diff'rent Strokes! Actually, if they insist on all the remakes, why not a feature-film version of V? Why not? Because there is too much potential there for not sucking.

Bitchfork reports that David Bowie will be setting up a festival to correspond with the reopening of Manhattan's long-abandoned High Line rail platforms. Not much in the way of detail, but how can we go wrong with the Thin White Duke at the helm? (Don't even think about mentioning Tin Machine, smartass.) "My day job" put on a little show about the new High Line designs a while back. Interesting stuff, really. But the best source of info is still here.

Okay, I gotta go. This post was just an excuse to use that title, anyway.

This Shit Is Bananas. B-A-N-A-N-A-S.

Kirk Cameron's smart friend proves the existence of The Almighty. [Thanks Tye!]

That's it. I'm totally convinced.

One thing keeps bothering me, though. Doesn't the whole argument apply even more convincingly to other primates, the natural world's true banana compadres? And aren't we...? Wait... Did the British guy just prove the existence of God, or did he just prove that we are descended from apes? Or did he just prove that God likes apes even better than he likes us? Are apes our masters? Are bananas our masters??

An Evening of Comedy Killers

Karaoke.

Is there a more dangerous activity? No. No there is not. Today I am nursing an angry Level 7 hangover, thanks to the cruel bitch-goddess we call Karaoke and her unholy minions who walk the Earth disguised as innocent bottles of Japanese beer. (How can I properly commemorate a relatively minor Mexican miltary victory over the French in 1862 when I'm this sick??) Many things were said and done last night that cannot be unsaid or undone. Take, for example, the AIDS joke I made to a guy who apparently just lost a freind to AIDS. I mean, a) outside of Africa, what are the chances? and, b) what kind of asshole makes AIDS jokes? Naturally, I have absolutely no memory of what I said, but it's impossible to imagine that it was funny. If it was funny then I honestly don't feel bad and it was probably worth it. But let's face it... there's no way it was funny. Just stupid. In addition, I sang "Highway to the Danger Zone," "Wanted Dead or Alive," "America," and "Feel Like Making Love" in public. In front of people I know.

Dear diary, I am a fucking moron.

And Now for Something Completely Different: The Obligatory Coachella Recap

Giant Karen O is just happy to be here
Frankly, the whole concept of concert recaps is a little funny. I mean, if you weren't there, all you really want to know is: good/bad. You're looking for a four-letter review at most.

Well tough. Get ready for hundreds--literally hundreds--of words about My Coachella Experience. It's the "What I Did on My Summer Vacation" of concert recaps. You will read it, and you will like it.

In our last installment, our hero was embarking on a wondrous West-Coast journey with a nasty cold and a mother in the hospital. Your typical good-vacation omens? Decidedly not. The trip began with an uneventful Thursday flight to Long Beach, where Tye and Matt picked me up in a PT Cruiser covertible! (Growing up in California, the PT Cruiser was usually referred to as an "asshole wagon.") To a lovely resort in Palm Desert and some much-needed sleep.

Day one (Friday): Relaxation and mental preparation. Matt cooks a kickass spread that matches our opulent lodgings perfectly. Then to the gym, where I attempt to "power through" my cold with a workout. Then pool and poolside ping-pong. Then a barbecue with our final arivees, Kim and Ashley. Then to the pool again for sunset water basketball and a brief and seemingly insignificant coughing fit that left a mild coppery taste on my tongue. More hanging out. Early bedtime.

Day two: Matt is cooking up another fine breakfast as I go through my usual morning phlegm-removal routine. A minor complication: Instead of phlegm, this morning I get thick blood. A pretty fair amount. Figure it's just a broken blood vessel. Initial plan to ignore and "power through" is deemed ill-advised. So, everyone piles into one car and heads to the show. I pile into other car, drive self to hospital. Soon I am wearing only socks and an assless gown. There are chest x-rays. Then the older gentleman next to me starts dying. Long story short, no pulminary embolism, lung cancer, or pneumonia found. Diagnosis: broken blood vessel. Knowing you're not going to die at the concert: priceless. Arrive (with no fucking cell service) at Coachella having just missed the Walkmen. Meet up with the boys just as Wolfmother starts. The Mojave tent is too crowded (this will be a recurring theme), but the show is fantastic. We stay and see a fantastic, if quiet, set by Clap Your Hands Say Yeah. We then repose upon the grass during a totally hippie-jam-tastic My Morning Jacket set. Dinner. Back to the shitty tent for Ladytron, who play the exact same set they played two weeks before in NYC. Then to the main stage for Franz Ferdinand. At some point in the past two tears, the boys in Franz have apparently a) forgotten how to play their instruments, and b) stopped caring. They absolutely blow and we are all embarassed for them. Tye questions his ability to ever listen to them again. Depeche Mode procEEds to kick our assEs. Best visual design I've ever seen in a live show... for now. They even play "Photographic," which is just plain nuts. Martin Gore needs to tone down the Cats routine (As Kim put it, "Tights. He should be wearing tights."), but basically they are amazing. Then it's time for Daft Punk. This, very surprisingly, is the highlight of the entire weekend. Best visual design award is ripped from the quivvering hands of Depeche Mode and placed firmly in the silver claws of a pair of androids from France. There's no way I can do the show justice, but just try to imagine this: two French robots played the most ass-shattering house and techno on the planet from inside a giant video pyramid to around 30,000 people, all of whom were freaking right the fuck out. This clip doesn't do it justice, but you get the idea. Here's another one. Home. Many beers. Kim and Ashley bring extra-cheap wine and extra-special hotel robes. Sleep. The moral: I am an absolute rock star, going from emergency room to semi-rave in the course of 11 hours.

Day three: Cold persists, but today is blood free. Matt cooks another kickass breakfast. Tye and I vow to bring Matt on all of our future vacations. A relaxing day begins with more grass lounging, beers, and a great set by The Magic Numbers. Then over to the hated Mojave tent to see Metric. I have never heard them before. They are amazing. Decide to someday marry lead singer. We stay for Wolf Parade, who are beset by technical problems and play a so-so set, and we leave early to catch Bloc Party. Good, but disappointing compared to previous shows. The weirdo-watching, however, is primo. Middle-aged-Mexican girlfriend-jocking and Philippino-lesbian-trio freak dancing are on the menu. Delicious. The Yeah Yeah Yeahs redeem their last NYC show with more rock, more microphone-in-mouth antics. Then everyone wanders over to see Madonna. Everyone, that is, except me, Kim, and 2,000 other lucky motherfuckers who see Mogwai instead. Helllooooo gorgeous! It's a Mogwai greatest-hitstravaganza, and by far the loudest set of the weekend. Two thumbs way up. Here's a fuzzy clip. Massive Attack proceeds to put me into a coma. (The blood-coughing incident has precluded any marijuana intake, rendering Massive Attack utterly unappealing.) So, a brief lounge in the beer garden and then off to see Art Brut in the tent from hell. BUT... there's almost no one there and we're right up front for the second best performance of the weekend. As Ashley put it, "I'm not sure if I just saw a comedian, or a band." Probable answer: a very funny performance artist fronting a very tight band. Absolute comic mayhem and oh-my-rockness. Home. Straight to bed.

Monday morning: Matt doesn't cook us anything. Everyone feels bad. 2.5-hour drive to airport is relatively painless. I sit next to Mates of State on the plane, but don't say anything. I didn't catch their set, so I have no words of praise. Too tired to lie. Also, don't like them very much anyway.

Final result: Still sick. Totally worth it. Top ten vacations all-time. Photos from Matt and Tye to follow shortly.

Pardon any misspellings/grammatical errors. I'm too fucking tired to care. We now return to our regularly scheduled short, meaningless posts about funny shit on the Interwebs.