Saturday, September 03, 2005


BELCH, by Trip Albacore
Henry (he has no last name - or does he?), a faceless corporate drone for a company of unspecified purpose in a city known simply as City, suffers from malaise of indeterminate origin. All he knows is that his ankles hurt, he feels like he just swallowed an enormous raisin and he can't whistle anymore. One day, while waiting for a bus (what number bus? Wouldn't you like to know?), he meets a charismatic, mysterious 12-year-old, also named Henry (this may well turn out to be significant), who proposes the ideal solution to his problem: a belching contest. What happens next, we can't say, but here's a hint: people end up getting mutilated humorously and the one female character in the book sleeps with everybody until her namesake, the author's junior-year high-school girlfriend, gets an injunction and those parts are edited from the book. "Nihilicious." - Made-Up-Words Montheekly

, by Gad Burlinghame
That house the jaded, thirtyish grad school dropout, would-be writer and chilblains sufferer is renting for the summer - there's something wrong with it. Something in the walls. Something that fills the halls with the stench of total societal breakdown. And bleach. Which may or may not itself be symbolic, but Christ, I hate that smell. I mean, he does. The protagonist. Who is not me.

CRIMP, by Nikk Jiggerhammerer
Jaundiced bibliophile Mr. Ex, aimless and more than a little psuedonymous, drifts into a darkly seductive subculture of people who eat stuff that probably shouldn't be eaten. Liberated at first, Mr. Ex's distanced, ironic sense of elation is shattered when, in a climactic scene almost worth putting at the end of the book, he discovers that the cult's charismatic, mysterious leader is not a figment of his fevered imagination or a projection of the dark underbelly of post-millennial America, but just a balding guy named Morris who wants his money.

VESTED, by Gyp Mercatorus
Furry, adorable little animals are turning up in abandoned shirt factories throughout the more washed-out, recessive regions of the U.S. And they're dead. And if you cut them open, you'll find cute, defenseless little babies in there. They're dead, too. Maybe they have something awful written on their foreheads as well. It'd have to be pretty shocking, whatever it is. I'll get back to you on that.

REMAINDER, by Tick Vulgarimminan
Mr. Teacher, a prematurely jaded substitute teacher at an unnamed middle school in a nondescript locale, finds himself drawn into a temptingly dusky netherworld of mathematical madness when he discovers a set of truly improper fractions that, when said aloud, cause innocent, archetypal people to do the sort of horrifying, edgy things that go on in modern America if you really wanted to look for them. Nothing sexual, though, as that's kinda icky. The story takes a number of dark, sinister and potentially very cinematic turns, leading to the shockingly ironic denouement where thirty copies of the hardcover mysteriously, charismatically turn up on the CLEARANCE table at every Buck-A-Book in post-9/11 America.

GRUMBLE, by Clunt Erasmuscatallion
Purports to be the newly-unearthed journal of an anonymous, possibly psychotic loner descending into delusions and eventually madness, but is really an old text on corn removal with photos of deformed cattle and quotes from old Skinny Puppy records interpolated at random. Don't tell anyone.

*Books may arrive every three weeks, every five, or occasionally almost a month and a half after the previous one. That's just how we are. We can't help ourselves.

Friday, June 24, 2005


101. "Why is it your scabs always smell like pie?" - The Geldlings of Thorndike Terrace, 1946

102. "You're not a real apostle, Walter, and that probably isn't Jesus' neckerchief." - Golgolthan Puke Party, 1974

103. "AAAA-OOOO-GAHH! (eighteen-second belch)" - The Life and Times of Madame Curie, 1957

104. "Placenta! Placenta everywhere!" - Dolts of the West, 1977

105. "Do it! Mispronounce 'noblesse oblige' again! I fucking dare you!" - The Elocutioner, 1986

106. "Don't worry about it, Phil, it's East Parsippany." - The Town With One Chinese Family Living in It, 1975

107. "Nah, it wasn't Beauty. 'Twas the plunge from the very tall building that killed that friggin' ape." - King Kong (directors cut), 1933

108. "You had me at 'sucking chest wound'." - Open Heart, Open Pneumothorax, 1997

109. "That capybara molested my sheltie!" - Confused in the Wild, 1987

110. "You know how to make a motorboat sound, don't you, Stu? You just put your lips together and... bbrr-brr-ap... wait a second, maybe you should moisten them a little first..." - To Have and Have Not and Then Get Some of It Back Again With the Insurance Money, 1938

Monday, March 28, 2005

Has it really been over a month and a half since my last post? Has nobody really noticed nor cared? Hey, 's life. I'm sure that one of my attempts to rejuice my creative energy will work one of these days (failed: pseudoephedrine chloride and gingko biloba cocktails, 70s-vintage CIA testicular-jumper-cable interrogation kits, primal yawn therapy with Arthur Janov's slacker grandson; yet to be tried: standing outside in a thunderstorm wearing copper-coated loafers reading Advertisements for Myself with my keys in my mouth), but until then, a little news for anyone interested: Radium Crass is back on the air. And here's what's been added to the playlist since its return:

1. Les Savy Fav - "New Teen Anthem"
2. Bongwater - "David Bowie Wants Ideas"
3. Mothers of Invention - "Absolutely Free"
4. Mars - "CATS"
5. Rema-Rema - "Rema-Rema"
6. Negativland - "That Darn Keet"
7. Tape Beatles - "These Are Our Radio Voices"
8. Shellac - "Dog and Pony Show"
9. Animal Collective - "Who Could Win a Rabbit"
10. Redd Kross - "Blow You a Kiss in the Wind"
11. Legendary Pink Dots - "A Strychnine Kiss"
12. Lenny Bruce - "Taking Requests/Hip Diseases"
13. Pere Ubu - "49 Guitars and One Girl"
14. The Jam - "That's Entertainment!" (demo version)
15. George Brecht - "Comb Music (Comb Event)"
16. Wire - "Marooned"
17. Death From Above 1979 - "Romantic Rights"
18. Sir Stanley - "I Believe I Found Myself"
19. Pulp - "Pencil Skirt"
20. Onieda - "Privilege"
21. Colin Blunstone - "Misty Roses"
22. Sloan - "I Hate My Generation"
23. Guided By Voices - "Everywhere With Helicopter"
24. Flipper - "I'm Fighting"
25. Fiery Furnaces - "Quay Cur (solo acoustic)"
26. Siouxsie and the Banshees - "Christine"
27. Mouse on Mars vs. Mark E. Smith - "Cut the Gain"
28. M83 - "Noise"
29. Cardinal - "It Turns on in a Circle on a Pedestal"
30. 13th Floor Elevators - "Tried to Hide"
31. Game Theory - "Never Mind"
32. The Arcade Fire - "Haiti"
33. Scharpling and Wurster - "The Gorch Yells at Liedra Lawson"
34. Lush - "Scarlet"
35. Gervais & Merchant - "Animal Facts"
36. The Zombies - "Don't Cry For Me"
37. A.C. Newman - "Secretarial"
38. McLusky - "Clique Application Form"
39. Felt - "Ballad of the Band"
40. The Specials - "Man at C&A"
41. Colin Meloy - "Sister I'm a Poet"
42. Albert Brooks - "Another Kooky Krazy Kall"

Lots more of the black metal and Tuvan throat singing I've staked my narrowcasting reputation on, in other words. Tune in, won't you? At least long enough to give the station a rating greater than two stars? Hey, my ego's suffered enough lately...

And oh, yes, there's a new issue of The High Hat online. This fact brings further shame to my household, since, in spite of my nominal perch high on the masthead, I had, once again, almost nothing to do with getting this issue written, edited, coded and out. No doubt an "editorial meeting" reminiscent of Joe Pesci's final scene in Goodfellas isn't far behind.

Friday, February 04, 2005


Rumor has it that is soon to be no more, which means that the following, out-of-context posts from said message board would likely be forever lost in the cybermists without this act of loving rescue and restoration. Again, don't worry if they make little-to-no sense. Instead, think of them as free-form prose poetry fit for declaiming sotto voce at your next troglodytic hipster soiree.

found somewhere in the gutter of the Internet:
Thank you for that jpeg of renowned TV smirker Joyce Lympfrist. Like you, I have for years been singularly tickled and delighted by the possibilities of the female form enwrapped (as I, too, am enrapt) in burlap. O, the years of transcendent manual manipulation at the mere memory-shadow of a dewy lass bemoistening that coarsely-woven sack of jute in which she is so rapturefully becased! All those hundreds, nay thousands, nay three flaxen, hempen ingenues I have personally besmirched with mine own soul-gloop, winched up from the well-pits of the smithery wherein the very railroad spikes of my empurpled passion are heated and hammered, much as my own erections were under the tender brutalities of the wittily inventive street gang I accidentally stumbled into one grape-sotted night in Malaga. Perhaps that is why I consider such sack-laden maidens to be works of art, given that my own epididymis now resembles a interesting but failed experiment in cubism.
(April 16, 2004)

If i was a cereal killer i would be Cap'n Crunch.

Captain Bartholomew Sucrosa Crunchovsky was a thrice-decorated Navy man during the Vietnam conflict (receiving a Medal of Honor, a Purple Heart, and a Green Clover) until he contracted a dose of syphilis from a Thai prostitute, which he left untreated until he went mad, his crunchberries shriveled, and he was kicked out of the Navy (official reason: a "dishonorable discharge").

Embittered and crazed, he returned to the States, took up residence in an abandoned factory in Battle Creek, Michigan, and gathered a cult of disenfranchised loners, freaks and layabouts, including such notorious-in-their-own-right figures such as Sonny "the Cuckoo Bird" Huchins, the pedophilic Bernard "Trix" Rabbitt, and the infamous incestuous homosexual triplets, Jerome ("Snap"), Daniel ("Crackle") and Mervin ("Pop") Khrispeez.

For a horrifying summer in the early 70s, unsuspecting families were sent colorfully designed packages with the message "FREE PRIZE INSIDE (while supplies last)!" scrawled on the front in what appeared to be either blood or Red Dye #3. When opened, the horrified recipients discovered the chopped-up, sugar-coated remains of various missing persons in the area, including noted Quaker Jedidiah Oates, young Marky Maypo, and 300-pound former boxer Sugar Bear Robinson. After a prolonged shootout between Crunchovsky's minions and FDA officials, the crazed Captain was captured, jailed, and sentenced to 8 essential life sentences in San Quispenquake Federal Penitentiary, where he remains to this day.

kill count: 78% of the recommended daily allowance of murderous mayhem

Find what cereal killer you would be, Take the Cereal Killer Quiz now! Or don't. We don't give a good goddamn. Why don't you get back to work, slacker?
(March 16, 2004)

I was just wondering if perhaps they did different versions of that (Britney Spears/Bob Dole) Pepsi spot for different regions. We got Dole up here, you got Haig (gazing down at his crotch: "I am no longer in charge here"), the South got Strom Thurmond urging the vision on the TV screen to bend over and squeal like a piggy, a couple of stations in the Midwest got the one Agnew filmed just before his death, mumbling something about "slavering shish-kabobs of sexed-up soft-drink shilling," etc.
(June 7, 2004)

I think it's high time Iggy (Pop) starts licensing other songs for commercial use, as "Lust for Life" is starting to grow a little stale. I suggest "Cock in My Pocket" for Taco Bell's new mini-spicy chicken wraps and "(I'm Living on) Dog Food" for an AARP PSA.
(May 23, 2004)

(May 13, 2004)

Insulting names, now available royalty-free:
1. Cap-snaffler
2. Pastry stuffer
3. Gordon
4. Heedless jolthead
5. Undercooked turnover
6. Caulk succoror
7. Swordfishtrombonehead
8. Slightly irregular 100% Polypro government issue weight bottom
9. Michael Moriarty
10. PG tip
(March 12, 2003)

Friday, January 28, 2005


From the "I Spit on Your Groove" folder at, inspired by the lists compiled on the blogs of my betters. (For some reason, I can't make links work in my posts today, so just check to your left for "Ludic Log," "From Here to Obscurity" and "The Vitamin B Glandular Show" and poke around.) If some of these don't make sense, well, a) you hadda be there, and b) I was there and I don't think I still get 'em all, either. Oh, and some of them make sense but aren't particularly - what's the word I'm looking for? - funny. Such is life.

Billy Ray Osiris
Zig Ziglar Sputnik
Scientologist Dior
Tubular Limicolae
Fecal Colorforms
The Hunan Reague
Stiff Little - Eek! Those Aren't Fingers!
Cinderella Backfat
Tao Jones and the Buddhist Junkies
Hot She-Male-on-He-Female Action
Spokesmodel for a Generation
Pat Ben-Fong-a-Tarres
United Colors of Benetar
Syndrome of a Down
Butterfly McQueens of the Stone Age
Peter, Beg Vlad
The Scarlet Pimp, Ernell
The Don't-Ask-Don't-Teletubbies
Full Metal Jacket and Matching Slacks
Def Limbaugh
The Exterminating Angler (less a band name than the perfect title for the world's first "extreme fishing" program...)
If Fatty Arbuckle Preferred Cans
Crosby, Stills, Nash, We Were Soldiers Once and Young
Sangre de Flatus
The New Christy Menstruals
Eunuchs With Tunics
Chanukah Geld
Another Bad Croatian
Thunder Choad
Some Loathsome Bread, a Juggalo's Whine, and WOW!
The Banshee Screams For Juggalo Meat
Gummo Marxists
Rand on the Bun (From the world's first Objectivist fast-food chain, A&W is A&W! Enjoy unlimited free refills from our soda fountainhead! Note: no man has the right to initiate any money/food transaction. The task of all customers is to perceive the food, not to eat it.)
Charles Atlas Shrugged (While Tightening His Muscles For That All-Important Dynamic Tension)
Genereal Disease
Temp-to-Perm Rimjob
High Colonic Youth
Near-Sighted Lemon-Scented McKinley
Thurman Manson
The North American Man-Dingo Love Association
Black Shabbos
Minnesota Fats vs. Virginia Slims
Van der Beek Generator
The Kenny Jihad
George Ringo II
When People Like Wayne Shorter Lived Near Patty Waters
Matzoh the Hoopleh
Freudian/Gordian Slipknot
West Ham United With West Egg
Jesus Christo T.P.s Golgotha
Fashionably Latent
Willa Catheter
The Zyklon B-52s
Arbeit Macht Fries
Boogie Chilblains
Upward Motility
Kitsch 'N Sync
Chick Corea Digs Korean Chicks
333: The Semi-Christ
Mormon Nailers
Umberto Eco and the Bunnymen
Vladimir Whoopingkov
The African-American of the Narcissus
Sod Off, Shotgun
(British pro-gun control band)
Steve McQueen's Reich
Freeping at the Freeper's Ball
The Enoch Woolite Orchestra
LeAnn Rimes and Armand Schaubroeck Steals
Charlie Lower-Middle-Class (The Aluminum Fox)
Elfman and Little Boy
Eeyore Saarinen
The Atelier 5ive
In I Go, Jones
Unindicted Co-Conspiritus Mundi
The Grenadine Guards
The North American Man-Boy Trade Agreement
Provided You Receive The Etching, If You Get The Picture
Bodacious Cantatas
Piss Off, Columbus
Bonfire of the Manatees

...and the following, lesser-known Beatles tribute bands:
I Wanna Hold Your Other Hand
Somewhat Less Magical Rather Lacking in Mystery Tour
Juan, Pablo, Jorge & Gringo
Happiness is a Warmed-Over Gun
While My Guitar Hacks Up Chunks of Lung
You Never Give Me Your Portion of the Door Receipts
Oh, So That's Why We Don't Do It in the Road
If I Needed Someone, Well, I Wouldn't Be Playing in This Crappy Cover Band, Now Would I?

Thursday, January 20, 2005


What with nothin' going on but the rent garments (and wrung hands and gnashed teeth and...) in my waking life, I am now forced to dredge my subconscious to provide what fleeting interest this online diary of a maddening man may have. Hence, for all you somnulence fans out there, a synopsis of last night's dream:

I find myself in the middle of a large crowd in the lobby of a movie theater (all pristine Kubrickian white walls, gleaming surfaces and what appears to be fiber-optic popcorn), gathered to catch the five-minute teaser for the long-awaited comic-book epic, The Yowling Fantods and the Prickly Clams of Xylocaine B. After no small amount of jostling among the capacity crowd (with one poor soul somewhere in the middle crying, "Get off me! I'm here to see Tangled Up in Jute!"), we eventually make it into the cavernous auditorium and seat ourselves raucously. The house lights dim and a roar comes up as the giant convex screen before us is filled with a rapid-fire, quick-cut montage of our favorite comic-mag heroes made flesh at last - Octoplatypus, Professor Sterno, Philip S. MacCandress, Esq., Billy Ray Cyrus as a Girl, That Green Fellow - a montage that lasts all of fifteen seconds before the screen goes black and the bombastic score falls dead, replaced after a few, uncomfortable seconds by the image of the film's director, slumped against a wall with a troubled look in his eye. He's not identified on-screen, but I recognize him immediately from his trademark black suit, graying tuft of hair, gaunt, slightly pinched features and the cigarette he's holding with a peculiar sort of Euro-Canuck affectation. Surprised, I cry out: "Holy shit! That's Ken Finkleman!"

Hundreds of glares turn in my direction, all bearing that mixture of contempt and bewilderment I've come to know so well. Outburst aside, it's obvious that no one has the slightest idea who I'm talking about (nor, probably, should you, unless you're Canadian, a bad-eighties-movie aficionado nonpareil, a PBS junkie or someone who's read the two previous abortive attempts at Finklemania on this very blog - briefly, Finkleman is a Canadian writer/performer who made quite a lucrative living in Hollywood by writing the screenplays for some of the most cynically commerce-driven drivel of the 1980s {Airplane II: The Sequel, Grease 2, Who's That Girl?} before retreating to Toronto and becoming a national hero in the mid-nineties via his hilariously dark-humored satire of network politics, The Newsroom, the success of which evidently went to his head in a major way, pent-up auteurist dreams he'd been holding on to since at least
Head Office exploding into things like the 8 1/2 homage that dominated the last three episodes of The Newsroom's original run, followed by further short-run series {More Tears, Foolish Heart, Foreign Objects} that utilized pretensions and hilarity in increasingly unbalanced proportions, sending his TV alter ego, George Findlay, deeper and deeper into some rarified trough of idealized self-loathing that suggests something deeply imbalanced in his character [and his character], finally coming full circle [well, okay, not quite full circle, as he's not responsible for giving Maxwell Caulfield work again or anything] with another season of The Newsroom this past year, which I haven't seen yet but I'm led to understand that somebody dies in each episode. Did I say "briefly"? At least I got this far without resorting to footnotes this time...). Finkleman clears his throat, a Sensurroundish rumble in the triskaidekaphonic theatre that snaps everyone back to wary attention. "Uh... that's all I came up with," he mumbles, his gaze unable to meet ours. "I don't know exactly what happened. I fought hard to get this job, only once I did... Put it this way; in Hollywood, the deal is the sex. Making the movie is like trying to get the girl out of your apartment afterwards.* So, at least I can explain what I was hoping to do. I, um, I wanted to, well, deconstruct the genre, turn it into something more submersible (did he mean "subversive"? No one seemed to know, notice, nor care), something with a touch of Borges, a little Satyricon, maybe, or maybe if Mordecai Richler and Atom Egoyan had collaborated on an episode of Mr. Dressup..."

He starts to tremble slightly and a tremor creeps into his voice as he continues, suddenly unable to complete sentences. "And I'd... Ontario existentialism... Nights of Cabiria... Italo Calvino... Al Waxman... parchment beef... Parthenon Huxley... Miniver Cheevy... John Haslett-Cuff... magical realism... Williams-Sonoma... Satie... poutine... Brecht..." That last word comes out as a brief choking hack and he falls silent, slouching even further against the wall, staring balefully at an indistinct point somewhere to the right of the camera, blowing misshapen smoke rings in its direction with an enigmatic half-smile on his face (the left half) until the five minutes runs out. Instead of the usual bombastic-fanfare-accompanied "COMING SOON" at the end, the words "Do Not Use" appear, backed only by the thin, lonely buzz of a reel running out.

The lights come up and I realize that the entire audience has cleared out; all, that is, but the young hipster couple asleep a few seats down. I nudge them as I walk past and they jerk awake, starled. "Oh! I can't believe we fell asleep before it even started!", one says (I'm not sure which one because they're both moving their mouths and neither is in sync with what's being said). "We've been waiting for this for years! So - what'd you think?"

I look at them for a long minute, then break into a smile. "It's gonna be great," I say.

*An actual quote. My dreams are nothing if not meticulously researched.**

** Ah, shit.