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
PUBLIC SELF-CANNIBALISM IS A GOOD IDEA:
Rumor has it that peoplesforum.com 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").
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)
12 TREES OF BEEF HEADS
10 TREES OF SHIN BONES
20 TREES OF COD FAT
200 LBS. OF BEEF LIVERS
200 LBS. OF BEEF HEARTS
2 50 GALLON BARRELS OF LUNGS
2 50 GALLON BARRELS OF MILTS
8 HIND QUARTERS
8 LAMB'S HEADS
1 PIG
12 PIG'S HEADS
20 GALLONS OF BLOOD
100 BALES OF SAWDUST
25 LBS. OF HUMAN HAIR
600 YARDS OF LINGERIE FABRIC
900 YARDS BUTCHER PAPER
1 GALLON OF STRANGE MOODS PERFUME
48 YARDS OF PLASTIC SHEETING
24 FOAM RUBBER PILLOWS
(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)
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)
12 TREES OF BEEF HEADS
10 TREES OF SHIN BONES
20 TREES OF COD FAT
200 LBS. OF BEEF LIVERS
200 LBS. OF BEEF HEARTS
2 50 GALLON BARRELS OF LUNGS
2 50 GALLON BARRELS OF MILTS
8 HIND QUARTERS
8 LAMB'S HEADS
1 PIG
12 PIG'S HEADS
20 GALLONS OF BLOOD
100 BALES OF SAWDUST
25 LBS. OF HUMAN HAIR
600 YARDS OF LINGERIE FABRIC
900 YARDS BUTCHER PAPER
1 GALLON OF STRANGE MOODS PERFUME
48 YARDS OF PLASTIC SHEETING
24 FOAM RUBBER PILLOWS
(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
Thursday, January 20, 2005
VAPID EYE MOVEMENT:
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.
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.
Saturday, November 27, 2004
OBSCURE JAZZ NICKNAMES OF THE '40s & '50s:
The Velvet Tackhammer
Ol' Chumthroat
The Anthropomorphic Knish
Lady Eunuch
Janitor-with-a-Drum
The Special Prosecutor of Love
The Malfunctioning Baler
Kid Vitiligo
The Stammering Inuit
Not Available in Michigan
Hubris Personified
Hank
Ol' Chumthroat
The Anthropomorphic Knish
Lady Eunuch
Janitor-with-a-Drum
The Special Prosecutor of Love
The Malfunctioning Baler
Kid Vitiligo
The Stammering Inuit
Not Available in Michigan
Hubris Personified
Hank
Thursday, November 11, 2004
ON OTHER BLOGS TODAY (3):
(content guaranteed 100% not-made-up-by-me)
I solemnly make a promise to you.If i ever happen to be catching multiple homes on fire in the beverly hills area and have enough gasoline left over as im walking to home depot to attempt to shoplift a ceiling fan,ill be reminded by the piercing fucking ring tone playing American Idiot from an a list celebrity and i will simply offer ashlee simpson for example, a box of untampered cabinet handles,attempting to get her to follow me out into the remote hollywood hills,then i will proceed to burn her.To burn her oh so badly,and i will have no regrets in my blood.And then i will go home and make 142 sandwiches with the main ingredient being a washcloth and the blood of a deer.See were all a bit fucking nuts arent me.My point exactly.
I solemnly make a promise to you.If i ever happen to be catching multiple homes on fire in the beverly hills area and have enough gasoline left over as im walking to home depot to attempt to shoplift a ceiling fan,ill be reminded by the piercing fucking ring tone playing American Idiot from an a list celebrity and i will simply offer ashlee simpson for example, a box of untampered cabinet handles,attempting to get her to follow me out into the remote hollywood hills,then i will proceed to burn her.To burn her oh so badly,and i will have no regrets in my blood.And then i will go home and make 142 sandwiches with the main ingredient being a washcloth and the blood of a deer.See were all a bit fucking nuts arent me.My point exactly.
Friday, November 05, 2004
Tuesday, November 02, 2004
Okay, people, you know what today is and you know what to do. I've already sent in my absentee ballot, and, of course, this blog officially endorses James Harris and Margaret Trowe of the Socialist Workers Party*. We're going all the way to .0000000001% of the vote this year, comrades!
* Not to be confused with Bill van Auken and Jim Lawrence of the fucking Socialist Equality Party. Splitters.
* Not to be confused with Bill van Auken and Jim Lawrence of the fucking Socialist Equality Party. Splitters.
Thursday, October 28, 2004
ON OTHER BLOGS TODAY (2):
(content guaranteed 100% real)
people of this world
dont u hate it wen plp write all over ur pictures and they make funny signs and weird signs u dont undrstand which makes u more confussed then u dont know why they are doing it and u tell them 2 stop but they dont, and u dont know why eni one would deface ur own drawings like that and then u wonder why u drew them in the 1st place and then u start to think well if they are drawing on them they cant be that good eniway so why does it matter, it just gets worse and you hav all this going on in your mind and then u hear th voise of the steak role man and ur mind suddenly stops ubruptivly and u wait then u turn and head out that way2wards the steak role man. 4the rest of your life you never remember the 7 minutes you took contemplating all of this and how much of a complete and utter waist of time, energy and probably sum space?( i dont know maybe u got in sum1s way) thats just how we are, i mean really what can we really do in 7minutes? we could wash the dishes, phone someone, polish our shoes, take a shower, pump up your bicycle ties, i dont know but half those things are boring and dont really matter. Or in that space of 420 seconds we could have told about 3 plp or more about the name of Jesus Christ, briefly but o it matters it really dus. those small things Do count so we should get our act together and sort it out!Wednesday, October 27, 2004
THE CURSE OF THE WHAMBINO:
I just realized something.
The Boston Red Sox last made it to the World Series in 1986.
I moved to Massachusetts in the summer of 1987.
I fled Massachusetts for the West Coast six weeks ago.
To Red Sox fans everywhere, therefore:
You're welcome.
(I promise to stay out of the Commonwealth at least until after the election.)
The Boston Red Sox last made it to the World Series in 1986.
I moved to Massachusetts in the summer of 1987.
I fled Massachusetts for the West Coast six weeks ago.
To Red Sox fans everywhere, therefore:
You're welcome.
(I promise to stay out of the Commonwealth at least until after the election.)
ON OTHER BLOGS TODAY:
(content guaranteed 100% real)
todae less0ns quitee short bahh ?
yahh . coshh g0t fire drill .
who0pie . sho fun de okie .
i was with liJian at the front gate dere .
then we were supp0sed to erm .
prevent any parents or reporters
into the sch0ol . uh huh `
then got this set of parents lahh
pretend to have children injured .
then tried to barge in okie .
wahh . me liJian felt the weight of them .
they kept pushing the gate lehh .
sh0 farnie . they made a big scene .
then neighbours were lo0king .
c0uldnt help laughing like crazy .
even the parents were laughing
when tobias wasnt dere lahh . grinns`
the sec 4s sh0 farnie lehh .
kept wanting to c0me into the sch
to sturdie lahh of coshh .
but can0t mahh . winkks`
sho they stayed outside with us
then zehou go0d soul gave me choc
whole bar lehh . smiles` thanks arh .
marcus t0o . gave me sweet . yahh .
but me and liJian enjoyed ourelf lahh .
can l0ck people outside . prisoners .
evil ehh . grinns` ow kept scolding them .
ask them go somewhere else first .
but when they came backk arh
haven finish the drill yet . wahh .
then they complain sh0 muchh .
todae less0ns quitee short bahh ?
yahh . coshh g0t fire drill .
who0pie . sho fun de okie .
i was with liJian at the front gate dere .
then we were supp0sed to erm .
prevent any parents or reporters
into the sch0ol . uh huh `
then got this set of parents lahh
pretend to have children injured .
then tried to barge in okie .
wahh . me liJian felt the weight of them .
they kept pushing the gate lehh .
sh0 farnie . they made a big scene .
then neighbours were lo0king .
c0uldnt help laughing like crazy .
even the parents were laughing
when tobias wasnt dere lahh . grinns`
the sec 4s sh0 farnie lehh .
kept wanting to c0me into the sch
to sturdie lahh of coshh .
but can0t mahh . winkks`
sho they stayed outside with us
then zehou go0d soul gave me choc
whole bar lehh . smiles` thanks arh .
marcus t0o . gave me sweet . yahh .
but me and liJian enjoyed ourelf lahh .
can l0ck people outside . prisoners .
evil ehh . grinns` ow kept scolding them .
ask them go somewhere else first .
but when they came backk arh
haven finish the drill yet . wahh .
then they complain sh0 muchh .
Tuesday, October 26, 2004
Sad news: John Peel is dead. Stream BBC radio's tribute here and download his favorite song of all time here (October 26 entry) (and bookmark the page while you're at it). No moment of silence, please - a minute of Extreme Noise Terror would be more appropriate, which averages out to about five songs.
Good news: My book is out! (Well, mine and about seventy-five other people.) It's supposed to be, anyway. I think it is. Maybe. Yeah.
Good news: My book is out! (Well, mine and about seventy-five other people.) It's supposed to be, anyway. I think it is. Maybe. Yeah.
Monday, October 25, 2004
OTHER MUSICAL GUEST MISHAPS IN "SATURDAY NIGHT LIVE" HISTORY:
November 20, 1976 - Paul Simon catches a glimpse of his bald spot on a studio monitor and abruptly aborts "Still Crazy After All These Years," going on a violent rampage with his acoustic guitar and a sharpened tuning fork, mortally wounding two stagehands and severely impairing Chevy Chase's ability to make people laugh. Livid, producer Lorne Michaels punishes Simon by banning him from performing on the show for six days.
October 20, 1979 - Bob Dylan surprises fans by converting to Islam, then Hinduism, then Zoroastranism, then briefly becoming a Druid before re-converting back to Christianity during his performance of "Gotta Serve Somebody." He's said to have changed the lyrics as he went to reflect each conversion, but no one's quite sure.
December 7, 1985 - An uproar arises when it's discovered that Mr. Mister does not actually perform, NBC having outsourced their slot to a less-expensive group of migrant musicians, Señor Señor. Reps for SNL promise that the real band would perform the following week.
December 14, 1985 - An uproar arises when it's discovered that Mr. Mister actually performs.
May 13, 1989 - Fine Young Cannibals eat three babies during the bridge of "She Drives Me Crazy." Attentive viewers will notice a marked change in tempo.
February 18, 1995 - Hootie blows a fish.
November 8, 2003 - Sinead O'Connor climaxes her powerful a capella rendition of the Coasters' "Get a Job" by dramatically ripping up pictures of Pope Innocent VII, Alexander Pope, Ron Popeil and Po from Teletubbies. Despite the provocation, the incident results in no calls or letters of complaint, mostly because the Saturday Night Live she's performing on is taking place in her attic for an estimated worldwide audience of her three cats. Cast members Gail Matthius, Tim Kazurinsky, Rich & Anthony Michael Hall, Morwenna Banks, Dean Edwards and Beth Cahill resign in protest. Joe Piscopo offers to stay.
October 20, 1979 - Bob Dylan surprises fans by converting to Islam, then Hinduism, then Zoroastranism, then briefly becoming a Druid before re-converting back to Christianity during his performance of "Gotta Serve Somebody." He's said to have changed the lyrics as he went to reflect each conversion, but no one's quite sure.
December 7, 1985 - An uproar arises when it's discovered that Mr. Mister does not actually perform, NBC having outsourced their slot to a less-expensive group of migrant musicians, Señor Señor. Reps for SNL promise that the real band would perform the following week.
December 14, 1985 - An uproar arises when it's discovered that Mr. Mister actually performs.
May 13, 1989 - Fine Young Cannibals eat three babies during the bridge of "She Drives Me Crazy." Attentive viewers will notice a marked change in tempo.
February 18, 1995 - Hootie blows a fish.
November 8, 2003 - Sinead O'Connor climaxes her powerful a capella rendition of the Coasters' "Get a Job" by dramatically ripping up pictures of Pope Innocent VII, Alexander Pope, Ron Popeil and Po from Teletubbies. Despite the provocation, the incident results in no calls or letters of complaint, mostly because the Saturday Night Live she's performing on is taking place in her attic for an estimated worldwide audience of her three cats. Cast members Gail Matthius, Tim Kazurinsky, Rich & Anthony Michael Hall, Morwenna Banks, Dean Edwards and Beth Cahill resign in protest. Joe Piscopo offers to stay.
Monday, October 18, 2004
The past couple years have been quite astounding, never-thought-I'd-see-the-day times for the music geek. Mission of Burma reforms. Brian Wilson finishes Smile. The return of Slint. But this, my friends, takes the cake, the frosting and the stand it's sitting on. The über-indie Loch Ness Monster has apparently been sighted, in Scotland, and there's even photographic evidence.
I give you...
Jandek.
Live.
(That's him on the right. And, just in case you aren't so snivelingly hip that you're given to arguments with record-store clerks along the lines of "Dude totally sold out after Telegraph Melts, man!," this page should give you some indication why approximately eight people worldwide are so shocked and amazed right now.)
Tomorrow: XTC tour dates and my review of the new My Bloody Valentine album, featuring Syd Barrett on guest vocals (first 1000 copies come with a handwritten letter of apology from Mike Love for being such a schmuck for the last forty years).
I give you...
Jandek.
Live.
(That's him on the right. And, just in case you aren't so snivelingly hip that you're given to arguments with record-store clerks along the lines of "Dude totally sold out after Telegraph Melts, man!," this page should give you some indication why approximately eight people worldwide are so shocked and amazed right now.)
Tomorrow: XTC tour dates and my review of the new My Bloody Valentine album, featuring Syd Barrett on guest vocals (first 1000 copies come with a handwritten letter of apology from Mike Love for being such a schmuck for the last forty years).
Saturday, September 18, 2004
Reportedly, the 0.74 regular readers of this blog have evinced something akin to concern (though mild, fleeting curiosity has reputedly renounced its kinship after that ugly Easter dinner two years ago) as to be whereabouts and attendant well-being over the past several months. (For further reading, please refer to "whuts w/ u, man? :(" from The Collected Instant Messages of William Ham, Vol. I, 2 pp., 2004.) I can now break my self-imposed silence of several weeks to assure you that, apart from the simultaneous supernova-like collapse of several romantic assignations, the surreal performance review at my now-former retail job that climaxed with a hearty round of mutual biting, and the sudden change in temprament in my six-year-old son whereby his affections for me have come to be expressed in a manner reminiscent of Joe Don Baker in Walking Tall, all of which has necessitated an unannounced fleeing of the state that can be likened to a combination of the Kindertransport, the Underground Railroad, and Dick Clark's 1966 Caravan of Stars (minus the sociopolitical underpinnings of the first two and sharing only the bass player from Paul Revere and the Raiders with the latter), everything has been just fine.
As I write this, I am about to embark on the final, unshaved leg of my journey, sitting on the tarmac at MacGuffin International Airport in a known desert town and tourist mecca I can only, for legal reasons, refer to as "Vos Legos, Nongrata." (My attorney hasn't been well for some time.) For the past nine hours of my layover, I have gorged myself with the sumptuous repast of Vos Legos' cultural institutions, of which its world-famous Longest Off-Duty Taxi Queue In the World was merely the beginning.
For those whose experience with Vos Legos is restricted to the poetic paeans of the bards of the city (Presley, Eszterhas, Urich), the tone and character of that Shining City on a Flat, Low-Altitude Hill Comprised Solely of Sand have undergone more changes than my son can shake an enormous piece of oak at. It's no legally-actionable mistake that it's been hand-picked by the current administration as the location for the new Library of Congress, In-Flight Magazine Division (scheduled to open in the spring of 2007 and to burn down mysteriously in late August, 2009), as Vos Legos has become the epicenter of a new sophistication that makes the quotidian look utterly plebeian and vice-versa. The twice-daily show currently playing at the Stardirt, The Defenestration of Prague - NUDE!, has elevated the level of area entertainment single-handedly, if the way the gentlemen in the matinee audience were showing their appreciation is any indication. Forthcoming events, such as Siegfried and Freud: On Sequins and Their Relation to the Subconscious, The Trojan She-Males, or Helen IS Troy, and Bubbles McKagan and Some Artfully-Utilized Grapes Explain the Treaty of Versailles, are sure to to take Vos Legos' newfound commitment to the fine arts and find a safe place for it where the cat can't knock it over.
And even the other two activities synonymous with Vos Legos have undergone a major makeover. Wait here while I look up what they are.
Oh, yes.
On the surface, nothing has changed: slot machines still dot every inch of the landscape, blackjack dealers still wield more influence than most politicians, and the Great Chain of Being is still governed by the spin of the roulette wheel. (Just don't put all the chips of civilization on Red 23 this time, goddammit.) But gambling has taken a new turn in the last few years; while money remains the currency of choice in many of your more traditional wagering dens, a new breed of casino has been proliferating along the Vos Legos Strop. At the Gilded Collander, located in the palatial utility closet of the RKO Grand Motor Court, high rollers come from all corners of the world (editor's note: being round, the world does not have any actual corners) to lay down their sense of personal well-being to the whims of Lady Luck. During my brief stay, I witnessed an elderly couple from Montana parlay their mild fear of young minorities into a full-blown paranoia of Hispanic street gangs rampaging through their retirement community in just twenty minutes at the craps table. A wide-belted Texan of my brief acquaintance squandered all his self-esteem and sent a young podiatrist's assistant from Queens home with his family fortune in blustery bonhomie in a high-stakes game of Fish in the VIP Room. And to witness the desperation in the face of an out-of-his-element emigre from Switzerland, which was then confiscated by the floor manager, is to stare into the face of the abyss, or at least of a foreigner with his worry lines freshly stripped off by a casino employee.
There's more, of course - the story of my side trip to Nongrata's world-famous Quick Draw Ranch, where high-priced courtesans cater to the whims of extremely premature ejaculators by timing their faked orgasms to when you're still halfway down the walkway, deserves to be told as soon as I come up with a name that'll look good in quotes to avoid embarrassment - but it will have to wait for now. I'm being told to get the hell off the tarmac and into a plane and, frankly, I'd better split this town as soon as possible. I got a little carried away back at the Collander, and now I owe the mob a sizable debt of gratitude.
As I write this, I am about to embark on the final, unshaved leg of my journey, sitting on the tarmac at MacGuffin International Airport in a known desert town and tourist mecca I can only, for legal reasons, refer to as "Vos Legos, Nongrata." (My attorney hasn't been well for some time.) For the past nine hours of my layover, I have gorged myself with the sumptuous repast of Vos Legos' cultural institutions, of which its world-famous Longest Off-Duty Taxi Queue In the World was merely the beginning.
For those whose experience with Vos Legos is restricted to the poetic paeans of the bards of the city (Presley, Eszterhas, Urich), the tone and character of that Shining City on a Flat, Low-Altitude Hill Comprised Solely of Sand have undergone more changes than my son can shake an enormous piece of oak at. It's no legally-actionable mistake that it's been hand-picked by the current administration as the location for the new Library of Congress, In-Flight Magazine Division (scheduled to open in the spring of 2007 and to burn down mysteriously in late August, 2009), as Vos Legos has become the epicenter of a new sophistication that makes the quotidian look utterly plebeian and vice-versa. The twice-daily show currently playing at the Stardirt, The Defenestration of Prague - NUDE!, has elevated the level of area entertainment single-handedly, if the way the gentlemen in the matinee audience were showing their appreciation is any indication. Forthcoming events, such as Siegfried and Freud: On Sequins and Their Relation to the Subconscious, The Trojan She-Males, or Helen IS Troy, and Bubbles McKagan and Some Artfully-Utilized Grapes Explain the Treaty of Versailles, are sure to to take Vos Legos' newfound commitment to the fine arts and find a safe place for it where the cat can't knock it over.
And even the other two activities synonymous with Vos Legos have undergone a major makeover. Wait here while I look up what they are.
Oh, yes.
On the surface, nothing has changed: slot machines still dot every inch of the landscape, blackjack dealers still wield more influence than most politicians, and the Great Chain of Being is still governed by the spin of the roulette wheel. (Just don't put all the chips of civilization on Red 23 this time, goddammit.) But gambling has taken a new turn in the last few years; while money remains the currency of choice in many of your more traditional wagering dens, a new breed of casino has been proliferating along the Vos Legos Strop. At the Gilded Collander, located in the palatial utility closet of the RKO Grand Motor Court, high rollers come from all corners of the world (editor's note: being round, the world does not have any actual corners) to lay down their sense of personal well-being to the whims of Lady Luck. During my brief stay, I witnessed an elderly couple from Montana parlay their mild fear of young minorities into a full-blown paranoia of Hispanic street gangs rampaging through their retirement community in just twenty minutes at the craps table. A wide-belted Texan of my brief acquaintance squandered all his self-esteem and sent a young podiatrist's assistant from Queens home with his family fortune in blustery bonhomie in a high-stakes game of Fish in the VIP Room. And to witness the desperation in the face of an out-of-his-element emigre from Switzerland, which was then confiscated by the floor manager, is to stare into the face of the abyss, or at least of a foreigner with his worry lines freshly stripped off by a casino employee.
There's more, of course - the story of my side trip to Nongrata's world-famous Quick Draw Ranch, where high-priced courtesans cater to the whims of extremely premature ejaculators by timing their faked orgasms to when you're still halfway down the walkway, deserves to be told as soon as I come up with a name that'll look good in quotes to avoid embarrassment - but it will have to wait for now. I'm being told to get the hell off the tarmac and into a plane and, frankly, I'd better split this town as soon as possible. I got a little carried away back at the Collander, and now I owe the mob a sizable debt of gratitude.
Tuesday, August 31, 2004
Wednesday, August 18, 2004
Well, hey, in lieu of compelling new content, howzabout a bittersweet outlay of evidence in re: how prolific I used to be? It seems that my ex-employers at Lollipop magazine were kind enough to construct a page containing links to most of the features I, my rock-crit pseudonym, my pseudonym's nonexistent 14-year-old brother, my pseudonym's pseudonym (and, in the case of the haiku reviews, my pseud's pseud's pseud), composed for the mag during my last two years of quasi-gainful employment there. And shock/horrors, not a whole lot of it sucks outright. Some of it's even pretty good. There are some embarrassments as well, but I'm not telling you which ones I think they are. And I do find it most interesting that I composed a piece filled with the purest self-loathing and anguish during what comes to mind now as my peak-to-date of productivity and creativity. Anyway, poke at these aged entrails if it suits you.
Tuesday, August 17, 2004
Okay, I'm back, sort of. Probably not best to give too many details about the elapsed time 'twixt posts (not when prying eyes are smiling) - suffice to say, the kidney stones that attacked me a week and a half ago served as light entertainment by comparison to everything else. (When your cheeriest recent moment involves you lying supine, pharmed-out to the max on Percocet just enough to reduce the burning pain in your side to Zippo-strength, and ruminating on what a great band name "Renal Colic" would be, well, that's just nutty.) But fear not, gentle reader - any further entries in this slowly-rolling web log will be free of self-pity, corked whine and primal screech. The byword here - hell, the very mandate - is now and shall forever hereafter remain simple, unadulterated, capital-F lowercase u-n Fun.
Which we'll get to soon. I'm ten minutes late for my daily self-flagellation and psychological auto-abuse appointment, then it's an hour of lacrymose wailing before work. I'm a busy man.
Which we'll get to soon. I'm ten minutes late for my daily self-flagellation and psychological auto-abuse appointment, then it's an hour of lacrymose wailing before work. I'm a busy man.
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