BYE, GEORGE...

George Carlin was one of the formative influences of my youth, largely because, as with most formative influences, he happened to be there at the time. My father, the guy I get my sense of humor from (so blame him), had a pretty decent collection of comedy LPs back in the seventies. One of my earliest memories, in fact, is of standing frozen with horror in the bathtub listening to Tony Hendra's imitation of John Lennon's primal scream shrieks (as conceived by Michael O'Donoghue) as Dad played the first National Lampoon album, Radio Dinner, in the next room. As I got a little older, I used to sneak that record, along with the first few Cheech & Chong albums, out after school before the folks got home and giggle surreptitiously at all the drug and sex jokes I barely understood and smirk pseudo-knowingly at the political stuff I understood even less. (In fact, I listened to Radio Dinner again not long ago and I still don't quite get "Profiles in Chrome.") Later on came the Steve Martin albums that Mom dutifully bought him every Christmas, which were great gateway drugs for my nascent comic sensibilities - goofy and silly enough for an eight-year-old to appreciate, with a detatched, ironic undertow that gradually revealed the machinery underneath as I got older. And then there was that trio of records with that slightly crazed-looking longhair on the cover, contorting himself in wacky poses, looking out at me with a glazed, goofball gaze, and simulating sticking his middle finger deep into his nose shirtlessly seated in front of a blackboard. Those three releases - FM & AM (1972), Occupation: Foole (1973), and especially the one that came between them, Class Clown (1972) - were the first stand-up comedy records I ever heard (though I think we had a stray Bill Cosby collection floating around somewhere, too), and it's safe to say they warped my mind and got into my bloodstream with insensate speed.

The big hook, of course, was the final track on the second side of Class Clown, the bit advertised with a big red mock-disclaimer on the cover: "Warning: This Record Contains Seven Words You Can Never Say On Television. Hearing It Could Infect Your Mind, Curve Your Spine And Lose The War For The Allies." Again, I didn't entirely grasp the whole message - I looked in my atlas and couldn't figure out what country these "Allies" come from - but I knew there was a big, overhanging branch full of forbidden fruit in those grooves, in the form of naughty words, and what eight- or nine-year-old could resist that particular allure? Heck, the word "poop" still sent me into convulsive giggles. And I just knew this crazy guy was playing with much heavier artillery than that. So, one afternoon when there was no one else in the house, I carefully removed Class Clown from the wire rack underneath the Sears Silvertone (noting its position among the Simon & Garfunkel, Bob Lind and Neil Diamond records so I could return it without getting nabbed), set the volume knob just under "one," gingerly lowered it onto the turntable, dropped the stylus onto the appropriate groove, and, trembling slightly in dry-mouthed, transgressive glee cut with loads of apprehension, crouched down and put my ear to the woofer in the giant right speaker. I hear a slightly spacy preamble about words, thoughts being fluid, whatever, c'mon, man, get to the swearing before Mom gets home! Then, heading into the subject at last:

"There are four hundred thousand words in the English language... and there are seven of them you can't say on television. What a ratio that is! Three hundred and ninety three thousand, nine hundred and ninety three... to seven. They must reeeeallllly be bad. They'd have to be outRAGEous! To be separated from a group that large!"

Yes, yes, they are! Get to them already!

"Ya know the seven, don't you, that you can't say on television?"

Well, I'm pretty sure I know three or four of them... Okay, deep breath, here they come...

"Shit, piss, fuck, cunt, cocksucker, motherfucker, and tits!"

YES!!! I exploded! Shivering with goose-bumptious joy! Shoulders shaking! Trying to hold back that geyser of giggles that started gushing out, for fear that one of the neighbors, or maybe the teacher who had driven by the house one night and busted me to my folks the next day for having the TV on in my room after ten watching a show I didn't really understand either but I could tell was pretty naughty itself called Monty Python's Flying Circus (something faintly ribald about its very name to my unformed mind), would happen by and overhear, after which I'd get sent to some institution for pre-teen miscreants where I'd have my mouth washed out with Irish Spring every hour on the hour and cane-whipped twice a day and wind up ceremonially immolating my 35-cent Alfred E. Neuman poster until I straightened up and flew right. It wasn't just the words themselves - well, no, it was the words themselves, as I could only say with authority what the first two of them actually meant and I had a vague but growing suspicion about the last one, but it was also the beautifully arranged, rhythmic manner of their speaking, so musical, the scat at the root of scatology. Such a wonderful, even joyous, sense of release there, unleashing that current of taboo syllables! And once the initial thrill wore off, a further realization - what's the big deal? I played it again immediately afterwards and soaked in the message, spelled out as clear as the day I had closed the rec-room curtains to hide from: "(There are) no bad words. Bad thoughts. Bad intentions. And words!"

Well...yeah! Right! Words are...just words! An epiphany! My first of the week! (My second was a day or two later, when I tried to put my newfound understanding into practice and got disabused of it in no uncertain terms by my dad, the very guy whose stash I'd purloined it from. He never hit me; he never had to. His look was enough to send me, cringing, to my room to hide for the rest of the day. The gap between idealism and reality was delineated then, and that right quick.)

I kept coming back to those records frequently after that, reveling in not just the "strong" language but the language itself, the absurdity of phrases we all take for granted ("'jumbo shrimp' - like 'military intelligence,' the words don't go together, man"), the torrents of meaningless cliches and non-sequiturs rushing by us in mainstream discourse (his game show, DJ and newsman parodies), a rich vein of observational humor that extended to the silly rules and rituals we grow up with (his epic reminiscence about growing up Irish Catholic on Class Clown being one of the best examples) and even to something as insignificant as the sound you make when you swallow.

He even led to my first comedy performance - I found a promotional 45 of one of his news routines (the one that kicks off 1975's An Evening with Wally Londo Featuring Bill Slaszo), memorized it, and stole it more or less in toto for my 4th grade talent show to huge response. I even somehow managed to pass Carlin's work off as my own, though in retrospect I'm sure my teachers had to have been a trifle dubious that a ten-year-old came up with lines like "Terrorists blow up Central America and leave a note."

From then on, Carlin remained a comedic eminence grise, even if I wound up drifting away from him in favor of his own influences (Lenny, Mort) and delving into the harder, rawer stuff proffered by both contemporaries (Pryor) and followers (Hicks). I even, sadly, found myself taking the man for granted. Oh, I happily parked in front of the set for his tri-annual-or-so live HBO specials, appreciated his thoughtful, articulate talk-show appearances and print interviews, and smiled at his periodic movie cameos (perhaps the only non-cringeworthy thing in Kevin Smith's Dogma - where he, appropriately, played a short-tempered, foul-mouthed cardinal - was his growling delivery of the line "All right - mistakes were made"). Heck, I think I even watched his Fox sitcom once. But for too long, Carlin seemed to be just there, a weathered landmark on the landscape, a usually amusing but hardly revolutionary figure given to more and more insignificant observations delivered in a querilous, burned-out singsong. (Rick Moranis' impression of him on SCTV captured - somewhat meanly, but not inaccurately - this wheel-spinning image of the man.)

Silly me, really. I barely noticed how, once he cleaned up his coke habit and started his comeback in the 80s, he gradually, even subtely, started interlacing his act with more barbed social commentary, to the point that, by the turn of the millenium, he resembled nothing so much as a hyper-curmudgeonly prophet of doom, stalking the stage clad in black and delivering more concentrated venom at a stretch than a busload full of Bill Hickseses. (His 1999 HBO special, You Are All Diseased, all but singed my eyebrows.) He mellowed slightly after that, but still kept the skeptic's faith up to the end - his "Modern Man" bit from a few years back showed that he lost none of his ability to process the vagaries of contemporary jargon into a dazzling crazy-quilt ("I'm a hot-wired, heat-seeking, warm-hearted cool customer; voice-activated and bio-degradable. I interface with my database; my database is in cyberspace; so I'm interactive, I'm hyperactive, and from time to time I'm radioactive. Behind the eight ball, ahead of the curve, ridin' the wave, dodgin' the bullet, pushin' the envelope..."), and his last special, It's Bad for Ya, though not quite as scorched-earth as before, ranks with some of his best work.

And now he's gone, at age 71. Sad, certainly, but not tragic - he leaves behind the most full-bodied testament to the art of stand-up; a varied, variable, but always forthright and honest path through the thickets of contemporary society, untempered by commercial considerations and the sickening bugaboos of timidity and political correctness. Comedy fans and comedy creators owe an immense debt to the man - he's certainly been an inspiration to me (I mean, Christ, look how long this fucking blog post has become!) and, if I feel sad right now, it's mostly because, as everything spirals ever faster around the drain, I have the strong feeling that he'd regret missing the show. Rest in shitting, pissing, fucking, cunting, cocksuckering, motherfucking, titting peace, good sir.

The obligatory YouTube embeds - first, the early but still-hilarious "Wonderful WINO" routine, as performed by a clean-shaven, short-haired Carlin on The Hollywood Palace in 1966 (hosted by Jimmy Durante!):



Next, Carlin doing his "God" routine on The Mike Douglas Show - interestingly, more or less the same routine that got SNL its very first outraged phone calls when he performed it on its debut a few months later, but presumably didn't raise many housewife's eyebrows when he did it in the middle of the day:



And finally, a more-or-less random ten minute chunk of You Are All Diseased. Safety glasses recommended:



* * * *

On the brighter side of things, I'm happy to announce that my pal and colleague Hayden Childs' entry in the oft-excellent 33-1/3 series of books, Shoot Out the Lights, is out now. It's great; you should get it. And hey, my name's in it, too! Thanks, buddy!

PIT-TAY PAR-TAYY!!!:

Oh, lordy, am I depressed. I'm stuck in this go-nowhere, do-nothing area (geographical and otherwise) for the forseeable future with little money and precious few prospects of getting out of this miserable job I have that's causing me constant lower back pain along with the pre-existing agita. I'm creeping ever-closer to forty, my longtime deadline for making something of myself (should I add a "485 Days Until I Give Up" countdown clock to this blog? That'd be fun, right?). I'm seething with barely-suppressed rage all the fucking time anymore. And I'm going on four straight years of being pretty well and truly creatively blocked. Reading those Bill Murray divorce allegations didn't help (though, having already heard some unpleasant rumors and second-hand accounts that suggested the man isn't the all-around swellster us fans rather hoped he was didn't tarnish a hero irreparably the way the Woody Allen Incident did back in '92 - well, not irreparably, exactly; I wound up getting over it just in time for his movies to start to suck), nor did the message from the person I won some vintage humor mags from on eBay stating that she can't send the goods off right away because her 18-year-old daughter had just been fatally stabbed. And this fucking chest cold won't go away. So, I'm forced to exercise my nuclear option, the only thing that cheers me up regardless of circumstances, and I hope it may serve the same function for you in your own individual midnight hour.

"You can do euthanasia on a dog, but this old woman? I'd be sent to prison. Where's the justice in that?":

A great find here: the original pilot for Chris Morris' brilliant British satire series Brass Eye (here called Torque TV), containing about five minutes of material that never made it to the first broadcast episode, "Animals."



And hey, if you like that, why not try another twisted brainwrong from this one-off man mental, epsiode one of the peerless news parody The Day Today (also featuring the oft-great Steve Coogan and Patrick Marber, the guy who wrote Closer and Notes on a Scandal)?

Driven by the desire to be as trendy as possible, I've uploaded a set of tunes to Muxtape.com. (Originally, it was going to be a collection of my homemade mash-'em-ups and primitive comedy bits, but for some reason, they'd only allow me to upload one.) Like the world really cares, right? As if anybody's even checking this fucking never-was's fucking fucking blog to see if he's re-fucking-learned to write a fucking sentence, much less decided to fucking share a portion of his out-of-fucking-touch peaked-in-'8fucking8 musical taste with .000000000000000001% of the fucking fucking fucking entropy-ridden fucking planet?

So, hey, enjoy.

WHAT'S ON TV RIGHT NOW:

(The following is the text for the "bit" [a little radio jargon there; consult your dictionary] I "performed" on this past evening's Wow & Flutter program. Probably more humorous spoken than read, and the very last entry was a desperation move in search of an ending written approximately thirty seconds before I went to air with it, but it's content, and that's what matters.)

In the interests of full disclosure, Wow & Flutter grudgingly presents "What's on TV Right Now."

The Ohhh! Channel's True Crime series continues with "Heartbeat, It's a Lovebeat in the Kneecaps with a Fungo Bat If You Don't Pay Your Vig," the story of the bloody reign of Tony DeFranco and the DeFranco Crime Family. That's followed by another edition of the popular game show "Who Wants a Piece of Me?"

On Cinemax, "The Pleasure Siphon" presents a unique two-parter combining recent political history with simulated intercourse. First up, what might have happened if Watergate co-consipirator John Dean were a lusty, busty co-ed in "Moist Ambition," then an S&M-flavored romp through the Ford administration with "Whip Ignatius Now."

Sucker, the kid's network for adults only, presents Skippy Keitel in Bad Crossing Guard.

On channel 7 right now, a repeat of "American Gladiolas," featuring another exciting evening of competition featuring a variety of muscle-bound, leotard-wearing athletes beating the crap out of one another with flowers.

Public Domain Movie Classics brings you part three of its series, "Sam Peckinpah: the Lost Years," spotlighting work the famed director did during his exile from Hollywood in the late 1970's. Tonight, an episode of his little-known Saturday-morning cartoon "Straw Puppies" and the commercial he directed for the then-new fast-food restaurant Wendy's, complete with the short-lived slogan suggested by the director, "Hot and Juicy...Like a Mexican Whore."

And finally, on the Paranoia Channel, there's someone - wait, just act natural, pretend like you're looking for your remote, god, no, he's looking right at you, oh, Jesus, he...

HEY, CHECK IT OUT...

As I continue my slow, gout-ridden-snail-like journey towards regaining my writerly mojo and having something to show for it, I found a whole list of bad (and rather outdated) song/book/movie/ movie-based-on-book-adapted-from-song titles to share with the (lower) class. Endure.

Don't Let Your Son Go Down On Me

I Saw Mommy Gassing Santa Claus

North Pole Terminus: The Santa Klaus Barbie Story

The Executioner's Free-Form Spoken Word Piece With Atonal Saxophone Accompaniment

E-Manuel: The Loves of a Computer-Generated Mexican

The Dogs of War Take Gainesburger Hill

The Hills Have Conjunctivitis

The Texas Chain Letter Massacre ("This fall, postage... is due. ")

Crouching Tiger, Smitten Drag Queen

Consummating the Annulment

Superfly DOA

The Importance of Being Ernest, starring Jim Varney, with Gailard Sartain as Algernon "Vern" Moncrieff

Matrix Reassigned

...and God Prorated Woman

Al Czervik and Judge Smails Fistfight in Heaven

Leading With My Nose: The Michael Jackson Story

The Art of Massage by Moulty

Get in the Van by d. boon

The Rise to Prominence of the Dave Matthews Band, or When Cooler-Heads Prevail

BLACK ARMBAND TIME...

Dave Day of the Monks has died. Damn. An on-air tribute will be in order next week. And perhaps we will have the answer to the question, "Does the bald spot from a tonsure grow back after death?" Through your tears, dig:

ALL RIGHT, ALL RIGHT, HERE'S SOMETHING AT LEAST:

RADIO PSA (:60)

FADE UP on easy-listening instrumental, voices overlaid.

VOICE #1: I like softcore.

VOICE #2: I won Robert Conrad's autograph on eBay.

VOICE #3: I've seen Krull seven times.

VOICE #4: I lasted almost eight minutes once.

VOICE #5: A girl smiled at me on the commuter rail one morning.

VOICE #6: I've had a letter published in Maxim.

VOICE #7: Most dogs seem to like me.

MARTIN SHEEN:* They're our country's overlooked majority. Scarcely remarked upon because they're so unremarkable. They're the slightly below-average men of America. And without them, society would be a somewhat similar place. They're your hardware store assistant managers, your sports drink enthusiasts, your Hyundai owners. They're the people who keep "According to Jim" on the air. And they're tired of being ignored, but really rather resigned to it. For mere pennies a day, you can help them maintain that extra fifteen pounds around their waist, pay for the upkeep of their moderate amount of back hair, keep them saying things like "How's it hangin'?" and "Boy, that Bill Engvall sure is funny." Your support can help. But don't worry if you can't. They're not all that concerned about it. The painfully average men of America - they're not going anywhere.

ANNOUNCER: Paid for by three guys nicknamed "Buddy."

* Note - he's probably not available, so call his brother Joe. You can probably get him when Zombiegeddon II is finished filming.

OKAY, THEN...

Trying to get back into the habit of posting on my blog(s) here - chipping away at my debilitating writer's block bit by excruciating bit. (I am once again shamed/pleased to note the arrival of the latest issue of The High Hat, which, once again, I had less than nothing to do with, though the editorial board has kindly allowed my name to remain on the masthead for the nonce. I'm actually trying to write a piece or two for the next full issue as we speak, and fully intend to have it/them drafted before I even pitch them to avoid the repeated embarrassments I've suffered previously, but not a word to the eskimos. Anyway, read it, it's good.) But oh, agh, whelp, not much of gravity or import to impart here yet again, so another bizarre YouTube clip will have to suffice in lieu of content. Did you ever wonder what it would be like if David Soul and Paul Ryder (Happy Mondays) had collaborated with a man in puppet drag on one of the Fall's greatest "hits"? Well, frenz, wonder no longer...

CAN - YOU DIG IT?:

Awright, if I can't quite bring myself to type a few coherent sentences to re-establish this long-dormant blog, I can at least start back up by more currently-popular means: embedding YouTube videos to make up for lack of anything to actually, y'know, say. Starting here.

REBOOT (TO THE GROIN, MAYHAP):

All right, goddammit, I've let this blog (and virtually everything, writing-wise) lay dormant and frustrated for a good eighteen months now, months that have been noteworthy for internal and external vacillations best typified as an emotional roller-coaster inside a psychological Tilt-a-Whirl overlooking a physiological, um, guy who guesses your weight or something. Anyway, enough of that. I'm serving notice as of now that today marks the rebirth of Logonorrhea!!!, as a receptacle for sundry musings, mutterings and meanderings, and perhaps even the occasional opinion, should I have one. Let the cyberspatial blogospherical webiverse ring out with my gloriously strangled cries!

But, ehhh, not just now. I'll get to it later...

HIPLY TRANGRESSIVE NOVEL OF THE MONTH* CLUB UPCOMING SELECTIONS:

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

DRAINED, 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.

THE MOVIE QUOTES THAT DIDN'T QUITE MAKE THE AFI LIST:

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

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.

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").

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)

WORST POSSIBLE BAND NAMES (1):

This summary is not available. Please click here to view the post.

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.

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

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.

UNTIL I CAN GET IT TOGETHER TO WAX (OR WANE) ELOQUENT ON THE SUBJECT, THIS WILL HAVE TO DO:

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.

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!

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.)

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 .

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.

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.

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).

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.

Mistah Crass, he dead.

Looks like, in my efforts to reclaim the blog name on the top of the page by changing my template, I have succeeded in destroying all my links and erased all previously-stated comments. Sorry, folks - Phil Nugent's comment from today was quite a funny one, too.

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.

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.

Exhausted. Wrung out. Depressed/despairing. Finished. Giving up. You kids enjoy yourselves.

I THINK I KNOW WHERE WILLIAM S. BURROUGHS' GHOST LIVES THESE DAYS (LANGUAGE IS A VIRUS, INDEED...):

Actual text of an e-mail received by me this morning:

"Bruto Assassino Sonofabeetch piece of shit" Sophia struggled wildly, to her satisfaction getting several solid kicks in and she felt that she was on the verge of breaking free but then someone else g t even their combined efforts came to naught. The camel sighed pleasurably. precise mathematical wave moment must be found and accessed, "Proving that there is no Plan, and that the universe does exist at random." design to Pegasus, we can increase energy output by 25," Alkema That looks like Hebrewyes, it looks familiar. writers and a new series of works by Vietnamese writers. "About time," the Fhrer said ungraciously. Fullerton 7145299525, Irvine 7145819699, Mission Viejo 7148379677, Simi Valley Other Online Magic Shops he followed me around from the minute I was maybe we can set up a chat, if you have aol instant messanger my screen name is DeanNBuffie. Hope I can be of some help.: Buffie Re: looking for scholarships mujeeb 01:56:35 10012003 know you had a ped versus m.v. when I brought him""Regardless," Lorna said. "I can't help you with Grynbaum. He died exactly as it looked.""Any idea what made the cuts""Something with three points," Tips for Parents and Children Using the money." parents here.But everything changes when Harry is summoned to attend an infamous school for wizards and he begins to discover some clues about his illustrious birghright.From the surprising way he is breathing disorder that causes chronically interrupted sleep) and as an option to treat syndromes like multiple sclerosis, where fatigue is a big problem, Walsleben tells WebMD. The only caution: mod http:new.usps.comcgibinuspsbvscriptscontent.jspBmailing101C9894D19026 She drew in a deep breath and took a You will also be able to visibly transform a silk into a cane. peace. A peace settlement that could not be lived with was created. We did Maybe Shelley wanted to get the paperwork done fast, before I changed my mind. 38528 like that. And then I noticed his eyes. They were getting very intense when he I need a schoolarship Salah Hammad 11:14:50 10302002 produces, vanishes items they want us to fight each other. Don't you see That's how they t of your life, can we" all around them. The air was filled with hooting cries...one of the dragons was hoove all of us to start working on a Magic Dictionary Back in the day Kevin had some very cool, very twisted material, including the Adams Family act... granted, I know what you mean by todays pov on service in the Peace Corps. She's in Samoa (that's in articulate.One of myears is clogged up with wax, and BarnesNoble.com Venus in Furs vent like the conclusion of the Gulf War against Iraq to make it worth the Others' while to fix something complex like arranging for a particular team to win the football Premiership title. jagPenguinJoined: 09 Nov 2003Posts: 4 by Nova Development Show respect least she was pleasant enough in that her caustic sarcasm was totally absent, Catch gratification is so common to their illusions: she was weak. The Kind have no place for the weak, the powerless, natural events but rather the richness and wisdom of humanity played out in a Your Personal Messenger 3116 Printer Features motivate your children to keep reading. I approve this, Keeler asked, How will you guarantee our safety An andoroid assessments were administered to all subjects before and after the study ly straight. The colonel was in Communications, and he was kept busy day and night transmitting glutinous messages from the interior into square pads of gauze which he sealed meticulously and delivere supply lasts. I didn't say a word. I just stood there grinning, "While they count up what it's cost them to date" Large Size a. Neutral Monism: thousands of people everywhere. I was thinking how Balducci and I had walked phenomena. From a certain two quarters of their new fiscal year when more money is generally available. produced by it, of which mankind forms a part. great show but they Pro Engineering Inc ....... General ............... 6137383864 nbspnbsp"But, I could arrange for you to watch a television. Everything that I have written can be rewatched on the TVs. All you would have to do is ask the TV to play what you would like, and it will Portrait of Houdini (Monticup Collection) Well, okay. She studied his face; he seemed to the reader. I also feel that by the authors writing in the story that maybe he had been betrayed sometime in his life. The reason I feel this way is because the animals in the book follow the rule on a nearby hill, and they watched the Knight stomp away into the forest with einstall Acrobat 4.0 which works much better. What will I need to remember for a discussion Do I agree with what is being ceramic material. In this case, when the arm is cocked to throw the knife, the Direct Help serving Connecticut, U.S.) is an entirely new way for onesided moments by the ego's own activity, this identity comes to be for the

SHIT FROM AN OLD NOTEBOOK (3):

(Don't know when this was written, for what purpose it was intended, or indeed why I'm retyping it here. Enjoy.)

Scene: restaurant. X & Y in mid-conversation; food has just been served.

X: ...Oh, for crying out loud... Waitress! Waitress!

W: Is everything okay?

X wordlessly gestures towards plate.

W looks, shakes her head - she has no idea what he's gesturing about.

X raises his eyebrows emphatically, gestures again.

W: I'm afraid I don't...

X: Look at my plate. You remember my order, don't you?

W: Yes, of course. T-bone steak, medium well, garlic mashed, zucchini circles, medium coke, light ice, hold the parsley. The Saturday special.

X: Mm-hmm. Now look at my plate.

W (scrutinizing it for a second): Is it dirty, or...?

X: No, not the actual plate! What's wrong with the order?

W: I don't... I have other tables, you know.

X: The entree. What's the matter with the entree?

W: It's cooked the way you like it, isn't it?

X: Jesus god, yes! You don't see what the problem is? You really don't see it?

W: No, I'm afraid I don't.

X: The bone is not shaped like a T.

Pause.

W: Um, what?

X: It's a T-bone steak, right? That's what was listed on the menu, that's what I ordered - but that's not what I got.

W: So... the bone is the wrong shape?

X: Goddamn it, yes! That doesn't look the slightest bit like a T, does it? I mean, this is a decent restaurant most of the time - you earned those two stars honestly - but this, this is no good.

W (slowly, with mounting disbelief): Because the bone isn't shaped like a T.

X: Grrr! Yes! I come in here, I order a T-bone, I want a T-bone! I didn't see an "L-bone" listed on the menu! I'm a strong believer in truth in advertising and I know when I've been scammed. I order a T-bone, and that's the letter of the friggin' alphabet I want my bone to be shaped like! You might be able to pass off an "L-bone" or an "S-bone" to the rubes, but I'm local, baby! Lived here all my life! And in spite of the poor educational system in this country, I can read quite fluently. And I'm not reading "T-bone" right here!

Y: You know, from where I'm sitting, it almost looks like a cursive "T." You know, a little more flowing...

X: A cursive T? What am I, French? I don't want any pretentious calligraphy on my goddamned plate! I want a decent, angular, all-American T. Now take this back and bring me what I ordered! Now!

W (sarcastically, even for a waitress): Yes, sir!

X (calling after her): And make sure it's a capital T! I don't want any lowercase bones at these prices!

CRYPTIC UTTERANCE OF THE WEEK:

I don't think I'll be able to hear the Cocteau Twins the same way again.

BE CAREFUL WHAT YOU ASK FOR, YOU THREE:

Bad days, bad days. Block'd like I've never been block'd b'fore (as bad as it gets - ideas in mind, no ability to flesh 'em out). One 'ticular assignment, months late, hanging over my head like the shiv of Damo Cleese (John's Japanese half-brother). Grouchy, hateful, envious, jealous of those around me able to perform without breaking a sweat. Stagnating. Atrophying. Need help. Should I just drop the delusion? Give up the ghost? Get on with my life (such as it is)? Leave it to the actual talents? Goddammit. Goddammit. Goddammit.

The good thing about the brand-new repressive media environment? John Waters stands a chance of being gloriously, deliriously offensive again. Seems that his new movie, A Dirty Shame, has been slapped with the MPAA's scarlet letters, dash and number, and God love 'im, he must be proud. I'm hoping this presages the best of all possible scenarios - a) it gets released uncut (and I think it'd be an utter insult if New Line Cinema, the people who helped build his towering edifice of cine-trash in the first place by distributing Pink Flamingos, choked at this juncture) and b) it's the proper (heh) combination of filth and production values the faithful have been waiting for through all of his sorely disappointing output since the nineties. And it may well be - Mink Stole seems to think so. And you can't tell me that this image of goofy ingenue Selma Blair doesn't look, um, promising:



Here's to hoping our man comes through for us on this one - a refreshingly foul gust of giddy bad taste is exactly what this country needs.

CHOOSE ONE BADLY PUNFUL TITLE FOR THIS ENTRY: 1) TINNITUS I'M GONNA ROCK YOU TINNITUS; 2) NEW ADVANCES IN BURMATOLOGY; 3a) MILLER'S HIGH LIFE; 3b) THIS AIN'T MILLER LITE, BUD; 3c) MILLER'S GENUINE CR -- OW! STOP HITTING ME! OWWWWW!:

Roger Miller, Mission of Burma's guitarist/chief songwriter and bottle washer, begins a week-long online diary in Slate. Check it out.

Practically nothing else in the world (macro- or micro-) is going the way it should these days, which is what makes it so heartening to see so many of my personal musical heroes of yore returning to the fray after years out of commission and defying natural law by resolutely refusing to suck. It's not an isolated condition, either - band after band after band, mostly from the artier spasms of the punk movement, adjusting their guitar straps to accommodate their increased waist sizes and somehow spewing out stuff that stands proudly (when even unembarrassingly will do) next to their vintage material.

Burma, then.

The surprising reunions keep on coming - the surviving members of proto-post-punk legends Rocket From The Tombs reunited last year for a well-received tour and the studio album they never got a chance to record in the mid-seventies, Wire (on their third go-round) delivered two EPs and a full-length containing the fastest, most aggressive music they've ever produced, the famously contentious Pixies managed to bury the hatchet somewhere other than each others' foreheads for an open-ended return jaunt, and even the Buzzcocks (a decade into their second wind), the Mekons (who never broke up in the first place) and the Fall (who never did either, though their members keep falling out faster than their lead singer's teeth) surprised even the faithful with their strongest albums in ages over the last year or so. But it's Burma's unlikely rejuvenation that has me by far the most tickled, mostly because it seems almost as big a surprise to the Missionaries themselves as it does to their fans. But then, everything about them was unlikely from the word go - a dense, abrasive and challenging band with a deep pocket of tunes you could shake your fist and drunkenly bellow along with; a completely original sound coming out of a scene (Boston) where gimmicks and stylistic retreads are the order of the day, every day; a rock group without ego clashes, substance abuse problems of note (one of them drifted briefly into alcoholism, realized it, cleaned himself up and carried on) or the merest strain of arrogant posturing, neither rock star (no big surprise, as they never were) nor cult hero (which they most definitely were, though they evidently didn't even realize it until they read the chapter about them in Michael Azerrad's eighties-indie overview Our Band Could Be Your Life); a group that broke up simply to save their guitarist's ears (wisdom the Who have never known). Integrity? Unfeigned modesty? Basic regular-joe likability? MoB's got it in spades, hearts and clubs. There's just no way these mugs should be able to survive in the rock 'n' roll ecosystem, much less pick up where they left off over twenty years ago with faculties intact, and yet they've done it - a trio of fiftyish family/career men getting together for an impromptu jam session in the avant-garage and casually recapturing the vitality they had as kids.

Burma, now.

Their new album (and only their second official full-length studio release, as every reviewer is obliged to mention), ONoffON, is simply every bit as good as it should be - hearing that guitar sound again, that particular melodic bass, those intently pummeling drums, those tape loops and treatments that suck the whole thing up and spurt it back out in new and exciting combinations every time, even those songs ("Dirt," "Hunt Again" and "Playland") that cried out in demo form for a proper studio treatment that never came until now, all of this is purely and deeply satisfying. And while I almost never get personally involved with even the greatest of my song-slinging heroes (they'll only break your heart, kiddo), I feel something whipping up the stagnant leavings of my ashtray heart when I listen to this that can only be described as happiness. And not merely for myself, either, perhaps not even mainly so. I feel happy that Miller has found the fortitude and bravery to put his battered ears to the test again beneath those firing-range earpieces. I feel happy that Peter Prescott is getting a little well-deserved attention after so long playing in excellent combos (this one, Volcano Suns, Kustomized, the Peer Group) that hardly anybody west of Route 128 gave a shit about. I'm even happy for newbie Bob Weston (filling the sound-manipulating shoes of the absent Martin Swope) that he got the chance to muck about with the noise made by his heroes. But above all, I'm happy for Clint Conley - the guy who wrote the biggest "hits" in the Burmese catalogue ("Academy Fight Song," "That's When I Reach For My Revolver," "That's How I Escaped My Certain Fate") surprised and saddened all three dozen of us by being the only MoBster to walk away from the life after the initial split, settling down to a life as a local-TV producer, seemingly never to write another indelible hook again. Now he's apparently making up for lost time bigtime, writing and performing for two bands (the other being Consonant, whose two albums play like a cleaner version of his signature sound and are highly recommended) while still keeping the day job. This is the best kind of success story - a return to form on their terms, with no particular aspirations beyond making music they can be proud of and an agreement to set it aside without regrets or recriminations the moment it ceases to be fun. May the Burmese flag continue to wave for exactly as long as it wants.

NOT PARTICULARLY FUNNY, NO, BUT IT FILLS THE SPACE:

So, how's everybody gonna be spending their Nueve de Mayo? A random sampling of passers-by:

FNORD HYUCKMAN, Cutislaxa, WV - For the first consecutive year, I will be officiating at the annual Neuve de Mayo Pond Fire, where citizens from yards around come and toss their spare flaming rags into the kerosene-coated waters of Condyloma Pond and others come along and stare at it.

YUNIS VARON, Floating Harbor, MN - Binge drinking Clamato juice. Just like every night, I know. But today it's for the troops.

PICK NEIMANN, Nystagmus Gorge, VT - Celebrating the twelfth anniversary of the weekend after my uncle Ellis Van Creveld invented Fauxfu, the world's very second man-made synthetic tofu substitute. Celebrating it the only way we know how. Which always seems to involve sodomy for some reason.

HOLT ORAM, Kernicterus Falls, FL - Same as the day before, I suppose: tirelessly lobbying on behalf of The Constrained Free Speech Amendment. I believe you should be able to say anything you want so long as you say it within a very specific set of verbal strictures. What am I talking about? Two words: two words.

PAPILLON LEFEVRE, Otopalato, GA - Taunting Lutherans.

SCHWARTZ JAMPEL, Iganephopathy Township, CO - It'd be redundant to do anything specific to Nueve de Mayo here in Polyposis County, seeing as it falls smack dab in the middle of our annual "Beat 'Em Literate!" week, where we encourage young folks and the slow-moving to appreciate fine literature by hitting them repeatedly with large leather-bound volumes of Proust. And whenever anybody recoils, traumatized, from the sight of a book thereafter, we remind them that that's more or less how that dude Swann reacted when he ate that cookie. Kind of. It changes every year - I won't give away what we have planned for 2005, but it does involve the Penguin Classics edition of Ulysses and an acetylene torch.

GALLOWAY MOWAT, Ruvalcaba, TX - Playing Russian roulette, only with quoits.

Haven't done this in a while - for my own delectation and your mild irritation, here are the 50 latest adds to the Radium Crass playlist:

1. David Grubbs - "Pullover"
2. Bad Brains - "Attitude"
3. Onion Radio News - "Islamic Fundamentalists Condemn Casual Day"
4. John Fahey - "The Assassination Of Stephan Grossman"
5. The New Pornographers - "The Laws Have Changed"
6. Onion Radio News - "The Long Awaited Baby Boomer Die Off Begins Soon"
7. Sukia - "Me! I Disconnect From You"
8. Bill Hicks - "You Suck"
9. Man Ray - "Interview (1963)"
10. Screaming Trees - "You Know Where It's At"
11. Bill Hicks - "This Is Comedy Hell"
12. Flux Of Pink Indians - "Tube Disaster (first demo)"
13. Young Marble Giants - "Credit In The Straight World"
14. Three O'Clock (Salvation Army) - "She Turns To Flowers"
15. Bill Hicks - "You Will Be The First To Leave"
16. Prefab Sprout - "The Ice Maiden"
17. Stan Ridgway / Stewart Copeland - "Don't Box Me In"
18. Franz Ferdinand - "Van Tango"
19. Tindersticks - "Let's Pretend"
20. Hüsker Dü - "Ticket To Ride"
21. Fall - "Like To Blow (Peel Session)"
22. Soft Boys - "Give Me A Spanner, Ralph"
23. National Lampoon - "Light Your Faith"
24. Buzzcocks - "Sixteen"
25. David Cross - Even Though I Am in the Closet, That Won't Prevent Me from Getting Cheap Laughs at the Expense of Homosexuals!"
26. Natonal Lampoon - "Public Disservice Message: Zip Codes"
27. Richard Hell - "That's All I Know (Right Now)"
28. William S. Burroughs - Ah Pook Is Here: Introducing John Stanley Hart. He Entered The Bar With The Best Intentions"
29. Love - "You I'll Be Following"
30. Cleopatra Wong - "Hearts Will Be Falling"
31. Wire - "Blessed State" (Third Day version)
32. Lounge Lizards - "Harlem Nocturne"
33. SF Seals - "Bold Letters"
34. Tango Argentinos - "Un Chien Andalou (1928)"
35. Blue Humans - "Under Power"
36. Felt - "Jewel Sky"
37. Eric Matthews - "Forging Plastic Pain"
38. Ben Watt & Robert Wyatt - "Another Conversation With Myself"
39. Albert Ayler - "Holy Family"
40. Dos - "Little Doll"
41. Iggy And The Stooges - "Rant #1 (Michigan Palace 10/6/73)"
42. On! Air! Library! - "Feb."
43. The Who - "Great Shakes"
44. The Fall - "Marquis Cha-Cha"
45. from Ni Kantu in Esperanto - "Funga Kanto"
46. The Gist - "Fretting Away"
47. Weekend - "Carnival Headache"
48. Marshall Crenshaw - "Blues Is King"
49. Dion McGregor - "Don't Break the Mailman"
50. Game Theory - "Last Day That We're Young"

The usual, in other words.

Ah, that's better.

First things first: you are aware, aren't you, that Series Two of The Office is out on DVD Stateside? Good. Now go buy it. And here's a chat with the Gervais himself in this week's Onion AV Club.

Now, I realize that just about every pop-cult-savvy hepstah has weighed in - repeatedly, tiringly, indefatigably, adverb-stringingly - about The Office, and I'm certainly as guilty as any in that respect (but isn't it better for the world that touching an imaginary tie and biting your lower lip has replaced "D'oh!" in certain circles? Quieter, at least?), but I've got a few things I'd like to get off my chest before my breastplate cracks and that'll be that (except for when the Christmas specials finally air on BBC America - that'll be the end of it, oi promise):

1. In every interview I've read or heard with Gervais, not to mention his public appearances (and particularly his Golden Globe acceptance speeches), he has unfailingly come off as extraordinarily grounded and level-headed - smart enough to know when to stop milking the Brent cow, tickled but not overly impressed with his success, pleasingly self-effacing, etc. - and yet a lot of people, mostly Brits, have been turning up on various comedy-oriented message boards referring to him using terms like "annoying, arrogant twat" and suchlike. This is not an uncommon occurence, of course - some folks tend to bristle at success and cultural ubiquity, usually out of jealousy or the standard allergic reaction to media oversaturation. But I wonder if something else might not be in play in (getting on) Ricky's case. Whether it was intended or not, the character of David Brent is not merely a good example of the "bad boss," a standard-enough archetype that's shown up in enough comedies to be unremarkable by itself (discounting the fresh levels of ill-hidden vulnerability that he's added to the template), but also the most biting characterization to date of none other than the Comedy Geek himself, the guy that somehow believes that his love of genius laughsmiths alone somehow confers their brilliance onto him. People who keep slipping references to their favorite bits into conversation as if memorizing tiny joke-memes and spewing them out without the crutches of context, timing or originality puts them in league with their heroes. People like - well, people like those of us who worship The Office. What a brilliant stroke - to create a character who reflects worse upon his fans the more devout they become. Could those who sneer at Gervais really be casting aspersions on their own reflections? (Answer at end of post.)

2. While we're on the subject, I need to vent a minor annoyance and follow it with a mild confession. Recently, it was revealed that more adults in the UK recognized the words of David Brent than those of Shakespeare. Pretty sad, you might think - indicative of the short attention span of our media-saturated culture, the overweening lack of literacy, etc. etc. etc. But here's the bigger problem as I see it: he said no such thing! In fact, the misshapen pearls of Brentian wisdom that have been circulating on the 'Net, like on this page, have never surfaced on a single goddamned episode of The Office! Not one! And yet they continue to get quoted in most every piece written on the show these days, article after article after article. After reading a few of these, I was about to rise up in righteous indignation about the laziness and irresponsibility of modern journalists, can't they do research, where are the fact checkers and haven't we learned anything from Stephen Glass and Jayson Blair... then I remembered: I did the exact same stupid thing when I first praised the show more than a year ago. I had done like a lot of people had done and had let the Internet, more specifially the Office quote page at the Internet Movie Database, do my research for me. Now, in my defense, the show was still in its first rotation on BBC America at the time, so I figured the misattributed quote was going to turn up on a then-unseen future episode, and, of all the false Brent quotes, I at least chose the one he was most likely to say. Oh, and nobody gives a shit about anything I say on my blog. That too. That doesn't mitigate my error, I realize. But at least I confessed to it, and if you don't like it, you can, as David Brent would say, "stifle yourself, Meathead."

3. That's put me in a fiesty, daring mood, so let me go on the record with what may be the most controversial statement I'll ever make. Steel yourself, people. I'll give you a line break to prepare.

The American version of The Office may not turn out all that bad.

I know, I know, making a claim like that is tantamount to wearing a "Nader in '04" button to the Democratic Convention, but dammit, I'm going to turn against the tide even if I get crabs up my nose (not the first time that would've happened, but I digress...). Yes, we have a long and unpleasant history of taking decent foreign product and ineptly translating it into Yankese ("Bea Arthur as Basil Fawlty! It can't miss!") and yes, the not-bad Britcom Coupling was turned into a quite-bad US version by the same network responsible for this reduxing just last year, but delusional optimism springs eternal. First off, the guy behind the Stateside remake is Greg Daniels, a man partly responsible for some of the finest comedy on commercial TV over the last fifteen-plus years (King of the Hill, The Simpsons, and what was arguably the true golden age of Saturday Night Live), a man who knows his funny and how to squeeze just the right amount of sap-free poignance out of it. Second, they cast Steve Carell (late of The Daily Show) in the Brent-surrogate role, a truly inspired and oh-so-apropos bit of casting. And third... well, I can't think of a third just now. They seem to be taking a lot more care in transferring it to these shores than they usually do in cases like this, and they're allegedly consulting quite a bit with Gervais and Stephen Merchant in the development process, so, yes, this may indeed wind up a non-disaster, in spite of what absolutely everyone else in the world is saying. If I'm right, well, remember where you heard it first. If I'm wrong, then you're all free to tell me to "sit on it." Just like David Brent would.

(Answer: yes.)

I DON'T KNOW MUCH ABOUT ART OR WHAT I LIKE OR WHAT THE HELL THIS IS, BUT IT'S EASIER THAN WRITING SOMETHING:



(What should we call this? "Mark E. Smith & Nicks" [with a tip of the topknot to the lovely Barbara Manning] seems obvious; what about "Sisters of the Mark E. Moon?" "Belladonn-ah?" "Stop Draggin' My Heart Around, You Maladjusted Little Monkey, You?" "Has Anyone Ever Written 'Elastic Man' For You?" "Fleetwood Manc?" Alternate suggestions more than welcome via the comments link below [in other words, make it look like someone reads this drivel]...)

The winner of the "Count-The-Number-Of-Times-The-Word-'Classic'-Appears-In-Yesterday's-Entry" contest will be announced once we get a reasonable estimate from the inexpensive accounting firm of Cutpricetapwaterhouse.

I've recently been informed that the whole purpose of blogs, beyond the obvious one of hanging your misfortunes, misspellings and malapropisms out for your fellow man to chortle derisively at, is to provide links to things that might conceivably be more interesting than anything you have to offer. And my legal representatives at Shyster-in-the-Box have notified me that I'm way under my quota for the fiscal year. So, here's a few:

Mr. Mike Meets Mr. Bill: In my constant search for bits and pieces pertaining to one of my comedy-writing heroes, Michael O'Donoghue (a man perhaps as well-known for the stuff he wrote that never got produced as for the stuff that did), I happened upon his unbroadcast 1991 pilot for Fox, TV (or, more accurately, about half of it). Sad to say, it's not top-drawer O'Donoghue - as with much of the material he produced in the final years of his life, it's largely lashed together from old material left moldering in his file cabinet, and many of the gags here are rather creaky ("Decapitated" coffee? I'd weep if it weren't for the long steel needles sticking out of my eyes). But I got a kick out of the "Koma" and "Brain Gobblers" bits, the Rutger Hauer scene is a small classic, and there's so little prime O'D accessible in any medium at the moment that I'll take the goods where I can get 'em, even in diluted form.* (Here's a page that gathers together most of the available O'D on the 'Net - some true classics and some, y'know, not-quite-as-true not-nearly-as-classics.) One of the most interesting aspects of TV is that it served as a reunion of sorts of two of the original SNL's most notable black-comic scribes, as the pilot was directed by Walter Williams, the guy responsible for The Mr. Bill Show - if you're a fan of the much-abused hunk of Play-Doh, then you should check out the site from whence this comes, featuring loads of classic material, and not just Señor Guillermo-related either - among others, there's a video he did for the dB's and one of my favorite commercial parodies from SNL's Golden Age. (Windows Media Player required to view all of the above.)

* (Aside to the executors of the O'Donoghue estate - if you're ever looking for someone to compile an anthology of the great man's best work, or just someone you can lock in a room with his files for a week, color me available.)

Lost in the Grooves: A page previewing the book I contributed to is now up, and holy cowshit! Just look at the people I'm gonna be sharing shelf-space with! I mean, Hayden Childs?!? Who'da thunk it!?!

More later...

JESUS SELLS!

(FORTHCOMING SPINOFFS FROM THE HIT [and whip and scourge and torment and nail to a giant T-square] MOVIE OF THE YEAR):

Hey Judas - Distraught over his betrayal of our Lord and Savior (Jason Biggs), Judas (Donnie Wahlberg) attempts to hang himself, but is saved at the last moment by a rip in the space-time continuum (Michael Richards) that thrusts him two millennia into the future, where his brooding good looks and incessant self-loathing put him on the fast track to rock stardom faster than you can say "ridiculous plot contrivance." Before the end of the second reel, Iscariot and the Stick are the hottest young act on the Sunset Strip, despite the fact that he keeps reporting his bandmates to the authorities and none of his groupies will kiss him. It all comes to a head (Christopher Reeve) when, on the verge of signing a major contract, the band plays an industry showcase and an irate audience member cries out "Dylan!" Will Judas wind up embracing musical stardom or resign himself to his bleak destiny in order to save mankind? We'll let you know when all the preview audience comment cards come back.

Freaky Good Friday - Have you ever wondered what would happen if a tear in the fabric of reality caused Jesus and his mother Mary to magically switch places for a day? (If you have, you're guilty of copyright infringement and must surrender to the MPAA within thirty days.) Why is the Son of Man so bent on doing the dishes at the Last Supper? And why does the mother of the Son of Man keep laying hands on all the locals in an attempt to cure their mild colds? Just a few of the wacky mishaps and mixups that ensue in this brutal, unsparing, heartwarming comedy for the entire family. Before the day's out, Mary begins to understand the breadth and depth of her offspring's sacrifice, Jesus gets how tough it is to be a single mother, and we get to see a woman get the crap beat out of her for an hour straight without feminist groups picketing the theatre! Great ending, too - "Boy, Jesus, this certainly has been a trying day for both of us." "Don't worry, Mom, there's a three-day weekend coming up!"

Pilates of the Caribbean - Take one exhausted Roman prefect, add a nutty ripple in the stream of spatial and temporal relativity, mix with a gaggle of scantily-clad modern-day teens on Spring Break in Jamaica ready to teach him the meaning of "Roman fingers" (good thing he washed his hands first!), and what do you get?... You're right, not very much at all, really. But give us a break - our option on the title runs out in six months and we had to come up with something.

(Editor's Note: the forthcoming titles in the straight-to-video Old Testament Softcore series, including Begettin' Some!, Deuteronjeremy, and Go Down, Moses, were not available for review at press time. Thank Christ.)

Y'know, in my foolishness, lack of focus, and general malaise, I do believe I neglected to hep the two or three of you who don't know already to the fact that issue #3 of The High Hat is out. My major contribution to the issue is here - it's nothing special, I don't think, especially compared with some of the stellar performances turned in by our regular caste (no need for links; just start at the top and work your way down - you shan't be disappointed). Oh, and then there's, um, this. Um. Ah. Hmf.

Even the slightest bit curious as to what's playing on This Is Radium Crass this very second? No? Well, here it is anyway (to paraphrase Lorne Michaels, "Information is always acceptable in lieu of ideas")...



More actual commentary coming soon. Honest. Maybe.