And I Do Mean Stuffed Animals...

Wow. Thanks to Lindsayism for this disturbing little find. Anyone else feel like putting on some fur and hitting the produce section? Just me?

R.I.P. Johnny Ramone

After a five-year battle with cancer, Johnny Ramone passed away yesterday afternoon at age 55, leaving drummer Tommy Ramone as the only original member of the band still with us. As usual, the Times obituary is the best one out there. Further tributes are sure to pop up in the Village Voice, Rolling Stone, etc. in the coming days and weeks. I say we remember him by getting drunk and playing his music loud enough to piss off the neighbors. Have fun up there, Johnny. Give Joey and Dee Dee our love.

Behold: FAUNA METAL

Beak of Putrefaction
Originally uploaded by the management.

There is an article on Hatebeak on The Black Table today. As you may recall, the management covered the release of their 7" a few months back. Although the music was a little disappointing, the article pays brilliant tribute to the genius behind the very idea of Hatebeak. Fauna Metal is definitely the next great frontier in evil music. In fact, Caninus, fronted by angry dogs, is at the forefront of a burgeoning Canine Grindcore movement.

Speaking of evil, Resident Evil: Apocalypse was distressingly not bad. Well, of course it was bad, but it wasn't bad. Hereby recommended to all people of the stoner/comic book/video game/never get laid/George A. Romero-type persuasion. Also suitable for fans of Slipknot.

And speaking of "Evil," Matador is putting one hell of a push behind Interpol's upcoming full-length (September 28, people). They needn't bother. Antics is a fine album. A good American album. T-minus 13 days and counting.

"I'm So Exci-i-i-i-ted..."

Advance praise for Le Tigre's upcoming album, This Island:

"This Island kicks all kinds of ass and you should run out and buy it because it's, like, really good and fun and all that kinda stuff."
-The Management

I can't recommend this album enough. It comes out on October 19, and is worth picking up right off the bat. Maintains the fun-yet-politically-aware vibe of "Deceptacon" without being overly self-derivative. The cover of the Pointer Sisters' "I'm So Excited" is an instant classic, and is sure to become a staple of the Ebony & Ivory DJ set. Who's Ebony & Ivory? You'll see.

So despite suffering a crippling thigh injury last night -- just three days before our opening game in the "urban professionals" basketball league -- there is reason to rejoice today. The Packers beat the Carolina Panthers 24-14 on Monday Night Football. Go big cheese! Also, I'm going to see Resident Evil: Apocalypse tonight. Now I know what you're thinking: that movie is for dumb 13-year-old boys. True enough. But consider the following. According to Dave Kehr's review in The New York Times, "If you are in the mood for leggy heroines (the film has two) blasting down zombie armies with absurdly large automatic weapons, the film gives very good value for the money." Who the fuck isn't in the mood for that?? Despite (or, perhaps, because of) the modern-day ubiquity of car bombings, hostage-taking, unidentified mushroom clouds, etc., I find that I often need cinematic doses of a little of the old ultra-violence. My tastes are simple and unrefined.

"I'm a white male, age 18 to 49. Everyone listens to me, no matter how dumb my suggestions are!"

Hey, Has Anyone Seen My Will to Live?

Squirrel Suicide
Originally uploaded by the management.

Okay, it's not as bad as all that, but this weekend was heavy on excesses and endings. Misshapes was, well, not quite disappointing... but certainly a step closer to jumping the shark. Management favorites and former crushes Ultragrrrl and KarenPlusOne (known collectively as Tarts of Pleasure) played a deeply cynical greatest hits set that showed they're finally getting bored with the whole thing. The amazing Ilirjana, meanwhile, played an intense, inventive set (that included The Raincoats' cover of "Lola"). Unfortunately, the crowd stood around and looked confused because they hadn't heard these songs in exactly the same order every goddamn week. Not to go all Tricia Romano on your asses, but sometimes I have my doubts about New York and the hipster commitment to trying new things/having real fun.

Malibu Stacie is absolutely right: this is becoming the Misshapes site. Well, the madness stops today. The Management hereby reclaims this site. This means, however, that your help is desperately needed. My life is not that interesting and my time is severely limited. Send interesting things. Make witty observations. Share astounding insights. The management will happily post these items, taking full credit for your wonderful ideas in the process. Everybody wins. With the possible exception of you.

Speaking of jumping the shark, the season finale of Six Feet Under was bo-ring. Great brain-splattering suicide moment at the end, but it hardly made up for the self-indulgent, snail-paced snoozefest that led up to it. Has anyone else noticed how inconsistent Claire's character is getting? Cool, lame, cool, lame. Figure it out, writers. Cool or lame? All in all, despite the beautiful weather, Sunday was rife with letdowns. The Bears, Ravens, Bills, and Chiefs all lost. Only Minnesota justified my love. Maybe the Packers will score 40+ points in tonight's game and revive my already-waning NFL enthusiasm. Who am I kidding? I just want to spend all my time on the couch with chips and beer. I'll watch home shopping or Designing Women if I can have tasty chips and beer.

P.S. The squirrel suicide image was stolen from here.

"We'd like to go to town but we can't risk it."

Mis-shapes, mistakes, misfits. Jarvis Cocker, sultry man about town and rock-and-roll poet, will be spinning records at MisShapes tomorrow night. The Tarts of Pleasure are along for the ride as well, as is the management's favorite new DJ, Ilirjana. No guest list. No holds barred. See you all in the emergency room. This one's gonna hurt.

"I wonder to myself... Will life ever be sane again?"

EuropeanVacation
Originally uploaded by the management.

The management wishes to apologize in advance for the length of the following. Just remember, reading is fun-damental.

Let's just get this out of the way:

Miss-Shapes UK 1 - MisShapes US 0.

After ending up at some massive club called Cirque at the Hippodrome, where we somehow got set up in a VIP booth behind the DJ where we were force-fed champagne, we (the management, the lovely Secretary of Spousal Affairs, our fantastic host Leo, and new pal Alex) stumbled through Soho to Ghetto, home of Miss-Shapes. So how fun was it? Let's just say that within one minute of entering this seedy basement of wonder we were soaked in sweat, dancing our faces off, and grinning like idiots. Imagine a hotter, gayer, funner, Britisher version of MisShapes, and you're halfway there. Leo has provided photographic evidence of our drenched bliss. Before you make any cute comments about our huge, shit-eating grins and scrunched-up dance faces, ask yourself this: ever seen your face during an orgasm? Then shut up. Eventually you will come to grips with the fact that you are just jealous.

While it is unfortunate that we walked in just in time to hear the final note of Avenue D's live set, we nonetheless enjoyed one of the best nights out ever. Highlights: the guy with the huge mohawk and equally huge yellow hoop earrings; big 20oz cans of Red Stripe; "Dark of the Matinee"; (surprisingly) No Doubt's cover of "It's My Life"; Madonna (whose music becomes infinitely more fun when you're surrounded by every hipster fag in London); not having heard every song over and over every week; the feeling that the experience was surpassing our unreasonably high expectations.

After about three hours of sleep (which put us at three hours out of the previous 48), we hopped on the Eurostar to Paris. Can you say ROCK STAR? I knew you could. Another full day of eating and drinking ensued, after which we finally went to bed. Final tally: roughly four hours of sleep over 60 hours of travel, drinking, etc. Our fabulous host, Chris, had rented a car for the next day, and it was off to Chartres (which was awe-inspiring) and Versailles (which was... not). All in all, our three days in and around Paris were fantastic, despite the oppressive heat and the ubiquitous dog shit. Total piles of shit stepped in: one.

Back to London for one last day of fun. Finally made it to Rough Trade and spent too much money on Graham Coxon, Mahjongg, and The Futureheads, among others. The Futureheads continues to grow on me, although so far it's disappointing for an Andy Gill-produced album. After a sorrowful last day, we endured the worst fucking flight of all time to return to a flooded NYC. Why is it that every time I return to Brooklyn, my first thought is, "Why the bloody hell do I live here?" The management should stop using phrases like "bloody hell" (along with "crisps," "dodgy," and "flat") in about a week.

Okay, okay. So this has gotten lengthy and hearing about someone else's vacation is a lot like hearing about their dreams, their children, or their opinions. In a word, mind-numbingly boring. That's more like two and a half words.

In conclusion, the management would like to thank Leo and Chris for their generous hospitality; the beautiful Secretary of Spousal Affairs for being the best travel partner in the history of history; and Alex for the illuminating discussion of the current state of indie music and the greatness of St. Etienne. Special thanks to The Futureheads, Republic of Loose, No Doubt, Postal Service, The Libertines, The Smiths, Snow Patrol, Franz Ferdinand, and Madonna for providing the ideal European Vacation soundtrack ("Look, kids! Big Ben! Parliament!"). Finally, a very special thank-you to Jameson, Southern Comfort, Red Stripe, Kronenbourg 1664, Stella Artois, Kriek, Effligem, Carling, Molson Canadian, Amstel Light, Heineken, and, of course, Budweiser for all their support during this trip. Drugs were not readily available, and you all filled in quite nicely. Way to step up, alcohol!

Sweatin' to the Oldies

Sweatin' to the Oldies
Originally uploaded by the management.

Miss-Shapes London. Notice the copious sweat. Better than my beloved Misshapes, NYC. More later. Sweet Jesus, when will we sleep???

September is...

National Food Safety Education Month, National Alcohol & Drug Addiction Recovery Month, National Preparedness Month, Self Improvement Month, International Square Dance Month, Cable TV Month, National Bed Check Month, National Chicken Month, National Courtesy Month, National Honey Month, National Mind Mapping Month, National Piano Month, National Rice Month, National Papaya Month, Classical Music Month, National Hispanic Heritage Month, Shameless Promotion Month, National School Success Month, Subliminal Marketing Month, National Little League Month, Children's Good Manners Month, Fall Hat Month, and National Gynecologic (Ovarian) Cancer Awareness Month.

Most importantly, September is Be Kind To Editors and Writers Month.

If you keep writing "month" over and over, it loses all meaning and starts to look misspelled.

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!!