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.