New year's resolutions:

- Only drink Robitussin for legitimate cold and cough prevention purposes

- Add excitement to mundane job by replacing random words in audit reports with Hungarian curses

- Stop ending most conversations with the phrase "ah, who the hell cares, we all die in the end anyway"

- Also, quit using the phrase "yeah, that's what SHE said"

- Stop annoying habit of singing or referencing "(Don't Go Back to) Rockville" every time I drive in, around, or past Rockville, MD

- Keep lies on next week's jury duty questionnaire to a legally defensible minimum

- Cut down on habit of strangling hobos to one per month (two in August)

- Practice kindness, understanding and tolerance for all my fellow human beings. Except for Tom Skerritt. Fuck him and everything he stands for. (God, even typing his name makes me want to vomit.)

Oh, OK, fo' reals:

- Pass the goddamned CPA exam, assuming I didn't pass in November

- Continue doomed, pointless search for ----------

- Reduce reflexive misanthropy and cynicism

- Stop procrastinating so much with regards to writing and reading

That oughta be enough for one year. Happy 2004, everyone.

Leonard Pierce of the world famous, much beloved Ludic Log is on vacation for the next two weeks. In the interim, guest columnists are filling his space, and here is my entry - a peek behind the scenes at the cutthroat world of the modern poetry industry.

MP3 - "Regenisraen" by Game Theory. I picked it more for its lovely Simon-and-Garfunkel-by-way-of-Alex-Chilton-with-Big-Star harmonies than anything else, but it's also (kinda, sorta) about Christmas! Hurray for synchronicity!

I've heard the David Bowie and Bing Crosby rendition of "The Little Drummer Boy" on the radio three times during this holiday season. Not on some ironic hipster doofi's college radio show, either, but on normal pop stations playing real life, serious Christmas music. Did I miss some cultural demarcation point here, where the Der Bingle/Ziggy Stardust duet officially switched from bizarre camp curiousity to genuine holiday classic? Will CBS start scheduling its December lineup around the Star Wars Holiday Special? Will Santa's traditional garb be replaced with a Stroh's mesh hat and a "ALMOST HEAVEN NEW JERSEY" vintage t-shirt? Dammit, people, Christmas is a time for serious, tasteful middlebrow entertainment. Save your smirkery for Valentine's Day or Columbus Day.

So, it’s time for another music geek tradition - The Posting of the Year End Top 10 List. Honestly, I’m probably not qualified to create one due to my somewhat lax new CD purchasing this year and my lack of up-to-date knowledge about any and all non-rock genres in 2003. Plus, it’s always difficult to judge anything accurately without some time and distance. If you asked me in 2008, I’d probably have a completely different, much more complete and accurate list. But it’s fun, and I like things that are fun. So here goes, the Vitamin B Glandular Show 10 Bestest Albums of 2003 At This Given Time:

10. The Fall - The Real New Fall L.P. (Formerly Country on the Click). OK, I can probably be accused of fanboy ardor here - the Fall are my favorite band ever, and I can even find much to like about many of the largely abysmal Fall releases of the past decade. TRNFLP(FCotC) is a fine return to early-90’s form - this year’s version of the Fall is the most inspired in years, while MES’ lyrics and vocals have a renewed sharpness and focus.
9. DJ Spooky - Dubtometry. Remix albums generally suck - either they slightly shift everything around to uninspired effect, or they completely eliminate anything that was memorable about the original album in the first place. But Dubtometry reshapes last year’s excellent Optometry into new and interesting forms, using the originals as a springboard rather than a canvas.
8. Mogwai - Happy Songs for Happy People. Haunting, somber mood pieces that linger long after the album is over.
7. New Pornographers - Electric Version. The best pure pop album of the year - hooks and clever melodic ideas thrown off like sparks, covered in a candy-coated sheen. Like four packs of Pop Rocks chased down with a six pack of Coke.
6. Hella - Bitches Ain’t Shit But Good People/Total Bugs Bunny on Wild Bass. Hella delivered a much needed set of electrified jumper cables to the testicles of prog rock with this pair of EPs. Tight, complex, precise, and loud as hell.
5. Pernice Brothers - Yours, Mine and Ours. Another brilliant collection of the heavenly-pop-songs-with-incredibly-sad-and-wistful-lyrics that should (but, alas, won’t) make Joe Pernice a radio staple. Bipolar depression never sounded so good.
4. Radiohead - Hail to the Thief. Yeah. Radiohead. They’re great.
3. Ted Leo and the Pharmacists - Hearts of Oak. Anyone who can make simple, straight-ahead rock-n-roll sound fresh again deserves high praise indeed. Hearts of Oak isn’t revolutionary, but it has everything you want in a rock record - catchy songs, insistent, energetic performance, smart lyrics, and some fine guitar playing to boot.
2. The Rapture - Echoes. Not unlike last year’s Turn On the Bright Lights by Interpol, the Rapture strip mine the seemingly bottomless post-punk sound for inspiration. What could have been an uninspired pastiche is transformed by the Rapture’s incredibly propulsive rhythm section and barbed wire guitar outbursts. “House of Jealous Lovers,” “I Need Your Love” and “The Coming of Spring” are as irresistibly unstoppable as music can get.
1. Wrens - The Meadowlands. The type of album that only could have been made by a band like the Wrens - a veteran band met by mass indifference and record label treachery at every turn - The Meadowlands perfectly captures mid-30’s pre-midlife-crisis directionlessness, wistful regret and resignation like no album before. A deeply felt, rich and rewarding masterpiece that only deepens with each listen.

One of my daily must-visit sites on the information superhighway (or InfSupe, as those of us who like to use outdated catch phrases from 1997 and abbreviate things for no particular reason call it) is 365 Days. It’s a site that provides a new MP3 each day during the year 2003. The selections are odd, marginal audio arcana ranging from old industrial records to incredibly misbegotten celebrity records to outsider music to random recorded bits found on old tapes purchased at flea markets. It’s an incredibly fascinating tour through the soft underbelly of the recording industry - a place of dashed dreams, bad ideas and eccentric brilliance. (Unfortunately, after the year is over, the MP3s will no longer be available at the site. However, they are still plentiful on various filesharing services, and it’s unlikely that the RIAA will sue people for downloading Chris Palestis or Central High School Cafeteria Band mp3s.) Here’s a look back at a few of the most interesting tracks that have been dredged up by the curators of this site:

The Goldwaters, "It's Over Now/Win in '64." Bizarro world folk music by early 60s John Birch Society followers. Imagine a world, if you will, where young conservatives flock around coffeehouses to disseminate the new National Review and organize sit-ins in support of states’ rights. A world where Joan Baez sang the stirring ballad “I Dreamt I Saw John Stennis Last Night” and Pete Seeger was banned from national TV for protesting open-housing laws. Before Bob Roberts and the rise of the hip rebel campus conservative, the Goldwaters paved the way with their earnest diatribes against the Great Society.

Guy Lafleur, "Scoring." Yes, that’s Montreal Canadien great Guy Lafleur talk-singing over a disco beat in this combination hockey instructional record/dance song. Learn to play hockey AND impress the chicks down at the roller rink with your stylin’, French-Canadian-by-way-of-dumbed-down-Eurodisco moves. (And yes, the hockey terminology/sexual innuendo is purely intentional. On another song on the album, Lafleur sings “If it ever came down to it, baby, I’d get my way with my power play.” Two minutes for highsticking and a game misconduct for illegal use of Rohypnol.)

IBM 7090, "Music for Mathematics." Incredibly primitive, repetitive, yet somehow oddly compelling electronic music created by scientists to show off the capabilities of the then-state-of-the-art IBM 7090. Take away Kraftwerk’s synthesizers and force them to play using nothing but old Simon memory games, and…well, it still wouldn’t sound like this, but you’d be in the ballpark. In a similar vein, the "Computer Speech" cut from the same project is worth hearing for the pure weightless, inhuman creepiness of the computerized speech produced by that now-primitive technology. (It’s also where Kubrick got the idea for HAL to sing “Daisy” during 2001: A Space Odyssey.)

Frugal Gormets, "Satan's Blood." Holy fuck, this is disturbing. Two 14 year old kids from the Midwest, infused with a mixture of media violence and fundamentalist anti-Satanic dogma, vomit it all back up in this chilling minute and a half audio collage. The Gormets apparently grew up to be productive members of society, which is almost hard to believe after listening to this demented (and very angry) piece. The concept of “shock” is almost meaningless in this day and age, but this recording manages to at least make the listener draw back a little.

Unknown, "Up Up and Away." A home recording by an unknown girl of the Jimmy Webb/Fifth Dimension song. It’s quite a touching performance, even if her pitch rarely if ever hits any of the intended notes. The whole thing threatens to fall apart during the bridge, but bravely she soldiers on through the atonality. Her wobbly voice evokes an unmistakable vulnerability and sadness that makes the saccharine sentiments of the lyrics that much more poignant.

Leland W. Sprinkle, "The Great Stalacpipe Organ." I can speak firsthand about this one, sort of - I have actually been in Luray Caverns in Virginia and heard the famous, unbelievable stalacpipe organ what’s made from a cavern. It’s a very surreal experience - the sound bounces around the cavern in bizarre and seemingly irrational ways, making you feel like you’re in a horror movie except you can actually hear the soundtrack. White trash guignol. This recording doesn’t quite capture this feeling - unless you had several different microphones at various locations, it probably couldn’t - but it is a moody, creepy bit of organ playing.

(To be continued. In part II - way-way-outsiders, archaic views on sexuality, zany foreigners, and lots and lots of God.)

MP3 - "Dance the Midwest" by the Wrens, from the mighty fine, ignored-by-almost-everyone-except-Pitchfork 1996 album Secaucus. Later this month - why the Wrens' The Meadowlands was the best album of 2003.

It’s time once again for blog filler, or, as I like to call it, “stalling for time because you were too lazy to write an actual entry.”

- One aspect of the Michael Jackson case that has seemingly gone unnoticed is the fact that Michael apparently stole his seduction routine from the dad in Happiness. Why hasn’t anyone roundly denounced Todd Solondz for setting a bad example for androgynous pop singers in their mid-40s? Won’t someone please think of the children?

- Speaking of hysterical pleas in the childrens’ interest, I saw a bumper sticker for one of the candidates for the school board in Fairfax County that read “HUNT 4 THE BEST 4 GR8 SCHOOLS.” What the fuck? Now, let’s set aside the issue of using numbers in place of words a la Prince for a minute. (I did like the candidate’s other bumper sticker, “I WOULD DEMAND MANDATORY APTITUDE TESTING AND NEW TEXTBOOKS 4 U.”) That sentence, in English, reads “Hunt for the best for great schools.” That’s an incredibly stilted, stupid sounding sentence constructed just so they could do the dumb 4+4=8 gimmick. Is this the kind of genius we want deciding the fate of our schools? (Well, apparently so, since after googling I found that Hunt did indeed win a seat on the school board. Oh, Fairfax County, when will you ever learn?)

- I have jury duty next month. When you think about it, registering to vote in the United States is an incredibly stupid waste of time. It puts you in risk of jury duty in most areas, there’s huge statistical odds against one vote ever influencing an election and the winner-take-all system means that your vote is not wanted if your political views aren’t in the mainstream (see: the extremely effective technique of a candidate repudiating “extremists” to prove that he or she is “moderate”). I still vote, mainly because I like to complain about elected officials and voting helps deflect the “well why aren’t you doing anything to change it” retort you get from a lot of people. But the way the system is set up, voting doesn’t really benefit you in any way unless you’re one of those “independent” swing vote suburban soccer moms (or office park dads, or whatever is in vogue in the political consultant field this election cycle).

- I’m against the jury system, and not just because it will cause me mild inconvenience for a day next month. Most people simply aren’t knowledgeable enough about the legal process to make an informed decision about whether or not someone is guilty or innocent of violating a specific law. (Myself included.) There isn’t enough accountability built into the system for jury incompetence, ignorance or neglect of duty. (I realize that the same is true for many judges, which is another problem that will be solved once I become czar and supreme overlord.) It doesn’t seem to me that the advantages of having a jury of your peers would outweigh the advantages of having your case decided by someone who is skilled in law and has to remain accountable to someone. And I think that one of the central theories behind the jury system (that it gives power to the people, and checks the power of judges) has been diluted by the fact that almost everyone in this society views jury duty as a colossal distraction to be avoided if at all possible rather than a serious and important part of citizenship. These and many other viewpoints can be found in my new pamphlet, 8 Points Towards a More Brighter and Wonderfuler America, to be handed out at finer airport terminals all across the country.

MP3 - "Faded Colors" by the Stonemen. One of the seemingly limitless garage/psych bands of the late 60's who released one great single and then completely disappeared into the ether. All I know about the Stonemen was that they were from atlantic Canada and they released their lone single in 1966. "Faded Colors" is most notable for including some of the harshest, ugliest guitar noises you'll ever hear in a pre-1977 rock song.

Thanksgiving is over, which means it’s once again time for three bleak, unremitting months of winter.* I hate, loathe, detest winter. Think about it - what good ever came from winter? Ice hockey, and the fact that it eventually ends and brings on spring, which is clearly and objectively the best season. Now, how winter sucks, let me count the ways: ice on roadways and sidewalks, blizzards, scraping ice off of car windows, chapping, everyone sniffling and sneezing, static electricity, influenza, seasonal depression…need I go on? Clearly, winter blows.

Even worse are people who like winter (or claim to like it - I suspect they’re just perverse, or it’s some new ironic “I like it because it sucks” sort of stance). There people are generally morning people, relentlessly positive go-getters, the type who find it “bracing” to take an early morning jog in subzero temperatures. The kind of perfectly good, well-meaning people that you nevertheless want to club repeatedly with a snow shovel. When the inevitable war between cold weather and warm weather people occurs (and warm people will win, for we are good and pure of heart), and people who love winter are forced to live in camps on the Siberian tundra or the Yukon, we’ll all be much happier.

“But, Brent,” you may ask, “what about the holidays?” Feh, fie and fuh, I reply to you. Christmas is only one day, and besides, it’s a thick candy shell of obligation wrapped around a thin layer of nougaty fun. If Santa came down on his sled with Jesus riding shotgun, shooting toys and candy out of a rocket-powered reindeer’s ass, it still wouldn’t make up for the sheer abject misery of three fucking months of winter’s general suckery.

In conclusion, I hope this short essay has convinced you that action must be taken. Please urge your elected representatives to support new environmental regulations that will increase the amount of atmospheric pollutants produced by modern industry and remove the hated ozone layer that continues to keep global temperatures uncomfortably low. Together, we can stamp out winter in our lifetime. This message brought to you by The National Council of Aerosol, Asbestos and Tire-Burners - Sacrificing Future Generations for Marginal Increases in Our Own Quality of Life - and a generous grant from the Chubb Group.

*Of course, this doesn’t apply for the southern hemisphere or countries that don’t have a thanksgiving. (Or Canada, which puts Thanksgiving in the middle of October for some reason - everyone knows that October is the month when we celebrate the first Europeans who kinda didn’t really discover the new world. C’mon Canada, it’s time to admit that this whole “we’ll do what the Americans do - just slightly different!” thing isn’t working for you. No one watches Canadian football, no one calls it “back bacon,” no one puts gravy and cheese curds on their French fries. Just stop, you’re embarrassing yourself. I say this as a friend, a friend who cares.) All I can say in response is - the Northern Hemisphere rules! U.S.A.! U.S.A.! (rhythmic car horn honking)

Thanksgiving is once again upon us, a time to once again spend one day of the year pretending to be grateful for our miserable lives before returning to our usual daily bitching and moaning. In no particular order, here are a few of the things I am thankful for this year:

- I am thankful that my turn on the national waiting list to get a reality show is down to the low seven figures. In 2035, America’s favorite TV celebrity will be a embittered middle aged white guy who complains about his back and about how today’s kids just don’t appreciate electric guitar feedback.

- I am thankful that George W. Bush pardoned at least one turkey this year. I am disappointed, however, that he did not grant the pardon of a retarded turkey convicted on three counts of manslaughter.

- I am thankful that the screaming, colicky baby in the apartment down the hall can only physically yell for 19 or 20 hours a day.

- I am thankful to have such kind, caring and supportive people on my parole board. Thanks, guys. You've turned our "hearings" into "dearrings."

- I am thankful to live in a country where one man can rise above such limitations as abundant stupidity, academic mediocrity, the inability to express himself clearly, and receiving fewer votes than his opponent to become the nation’s chief executive.

- I am thankful that I have no moral objections to eating animals, so I am not forced to choke down the abomination that is tofurkey.

- I am thankful that even though life is fleeting and devoid of any real meaning, and death stares us blankly in the face every day, threatening to wipe out our tenuous existence into the dull gray void of eternity, this is some damn good pie. Did you use real pumpkin for this?

MP3 - "Gideon's Bible" by John Cale, off of his first solo album Vintage Violence, which I rambled about way back in this blog's infancy. Unfortunately, the massive wave of renewed interest in Vintage Violence that I had anticipated after posting that rave review failed to materialize, so please enjoy a free MP3 of the best song from that excellent album.

The greatest rock critic blog ever.

(Note: If you haven’t seen the final episode of season 2 of The Office, spoilers abound in this entry.)

Well, holy shit, that was depressing. The final episode of The Office (barring the two special upcoming Christmas episodes) paid off the series’ central theme of the isolating, soul-numbing drudgery of modern white collar life in spades. Admittedly, it was a somewhat sharp shift in tone from understated, subtly satirical comedy to heartbreaking pathos, but I don’t think it could’ve ended any other way. Tim’s noble charge at the end - giving up settling for a slightly better position and a perfectly acceptable but passionless relationship for a shot at the brass ring - was doomed to failure from the start, but you have to admire someone momentarily standing up from the gray prison of the office and doing something, anything, to redirect the course of fate. David Brent’s breakdown after his firing was handled brilliantly, forcing the viewer to feel momentary pity and sadness for the poor lug before pulling it away with one of his typically moronic monologues at the end. Brent doesn’t learn anything from his experiences, and one has to figure that he’ll land elsewhere and find an entirely new set of wage slaves to condescend to and irritate. At least Tim has finally shed some of his illusions - David Brent will probably still think his underlings adore and respect him while they mock him behind his back or fantasize about his death.

What set The Office apart from a normal sitcom is its unflinching eye on all of the vagaries and indignities of the modern office, the types of things that most of us would rather not focus on as we try to cheerfully muck through our day-to-day lives without turning to booze, pills or total escapism. The final episode brought that point home with a vengeance. The moral of the series? Not everyone can do or get what they really want, and sometimes the best you can do is shuffle papers under the charge of a unctuous failed comedian and unrequitedly pine for the cute secretary. That’s a pretty harsh piece of truth to swallow in the guise of a situation comedy, and it’s a credit to Ricky Gervais and Stephen Merchant that they were able to put together one of the most searing, indicting bits of social satire of our times while also providing some of the most flat-out hilarious moments in the history of sitcoms.

NEW SADDAM TAPE FEATURES CALL FOR RESISTANCE, SEX WITH PARIS HILTON

A new videotape aired Sunday on the Arabic news network al-Jazeera is believed to show deposed Iraqi leader Saddam Hussein issuing a strongly worded message to American forces in Iraq and having sex with millionaire hotel heiress Paris Hilton.

"I urge all of my countrymen to resist this illegal and immoral occupation. Until the Americans withdraw from our nation, we cannot peaceably accept a new government. A true government can only come from the will of the Iraqi people," stated Hussein.

Hussein then received fellatio and had sex in several positions with Hilton, apparently in the back seat of a military vehicle.

The tape ran 18 minutes and was interrupted several times for cell phone calls from Chicago Bears linebacker Brian Urlacher, Strokes guitarist Albert Hammond, Jr. and former RCC Vice Chairman Izzat Ibrahim Al-Duri.

Despite her apparent ties with the former Iraqi leader, American officials have no plans to question Hilton for any knowledge of Hussein's whereabouts.

"Let's be honest, here. Odds are she was so coked out of her mind that she didn't remember anything, anyway. I mean, we can't really expect her to remember much about any of the guys she has sex with," said Defense Secretary Donald Rumsfeld in a Sunday briefing.

Rumsfeld refused to comment on the persistent rumors of another tape featuring Osama bin Laden, Nicky Hilton and male model Jason Shaw.

The weather has turned cold in this area of the world, so that means it's once again the perfect time of year to listen to sad bastard music. This is "Western Sky" by American Music Club off of their excellent (and lamentably out of print) 1988 album California. Mark Eitzel is one of the masters of writing depressingly beautiful songs without drowning in self-pity or resorting to cliche. "Western Sky" is a damn-near-perfect piece of musical imagery - it evokes empty, wide-open skies and solitary drives down barren stretches of highway in the American west.

CBS recently opted not to air its miniseries about the presidency of Ronald Reagan after charges of bias from the Republican National Committee and other conservative pressure groups. What wasn’t reported was that the RNC proposed several re-written scenes to make the program more hagiographical - pardon me, “balanced.” The Vitamin B Glandular Show has obtained a few pages from the RNC’s version of the Reagan miniseries, which we present to you now as a worldwide exclusive:

(SCENE: Summit meeting, Reykjavik, Iceland. President Reagan and his advisers are sitting face to face with Russian President Mikhail Gorbachev.)

GORBACHEV: We are willing to discuss a 20% decrease in short range and intercontinental ballistic missiles over the next five years, as well as increases in the amount of food sales between our two countries.

REAGAN: Forget it, Mikhail. We demand that Russia dismantle its military, get out of Central America and Eastern Europe and convert to capitalism. What are you gonna do about it, huh? Heard of a little thing called “Star Wars?” That’s right, we have the technology to shoot down your entire nuclear arsenal.

GORBACHEV: Let me discuss this with my comrades.

GORBACHEV (in Russian): It’s over, gentlemen. We cannot defeat this brave and dignified leader.

RUSSIAN ADVISOR #1 (in Russian): Damn this missile defense shield! It is impregnable! We will never defeat the Americans now!

RUSSIAN ADVISOR #2 (in Russian): If only Walter Mondale were in that chair - then we could crush the Americans. But we will never defeat Ronald Reagan. We must surrender on their terms.

GORBACHEV: Very well, Mr. President, we accept your demands.

REAGAN: Oh, yeah, one more thing - say I’m your mama.

GORBACHEV: (sighs) Very well. I’m your mother.

(REAGAN high fives James Baker and George Bush)

(SCENE: The Oval Office. REAGAN is flanked by senators and congressmen from both parties.)

REAGAN: I am proud to sign into law this budget for 1987 which will provide the United States of America with a record $100 billion surplus. This administration has succeeded in completely wiping out our national debt while cutting taxes for everyone. We have also wiped out poverty and created untold economic growth through supply side economics and capital gains tax cuts.

TIP O’NEILL: I just want to apologize to you, Mr. President, for ever doubting your economic policies. I was wrong - giving tax cuts to the wealthiest Americans is the only way to improve the economy.

(Former President Jimmy Carter enters the room.)

JIMMY CARTER: I know I wasn’t invited to this press conference, but I just wanted to take this opportunity to say what an incredible failure I was as president, and how thankful I am that Americans elected this wonderful, visionary leader instead of me.

REAGAN: Thank you, gentlemen, but we can never rest as long as there’s an industrialist or Wall Street bond trader who has to pay a nickel of his hard earned money to the IRS.

(SCENE: Bitburg Military Cemetery, Germany. President Reagan is about to lay a wreath in a cemetery containing the remains of Nazi stormtroopers.)

NAZI #1 (in German): The American president is about to glorify the dead of our fallen war heroes.

NAZI #2 (in German): Surely this will bring great glory to our cause!

(REAGAN tears off flowers on wreath to reveal a Thompson submachine gun.)

REAGAN: That’s what you think, Fritz! Eat lead, Nazi scum! (REAGAN mows down a line of Nazi soldiers, then turns over a Nazi tomb to reveal a hidden fortress. Several dazed American prisoners of war emerge from the wreckage.)

REAGAN: Come on, men. Follow me…to FREEDOM! (An army helicopter swoops down to lead the men to safety.)

POW: Thank you, Mr. President. However can we thank you?

REAGAN: I’m just doing my job, soldier. That’s why the American people elected me - to lead the nation, cut the red tape caused by those bureaucrats in Washington, and kick a little Nazi ass.

This blog shall rise from the ashes with new updates in mid-November. In the meantime, please enjoy these fine web-based products:

- Naked Lunch by William S. Burroughs and Incidences by Daniil Kharms.

- Some great streaming radio stations from Live365:
This is Radium Crass (a mix of skewed pop, experimental noise and comedy)
Left of the Dial (alternative/modern rock/indie/blahblah)
Radio Club 870 (pre-/no prefix-/post-punk)
Turn Me On Dead Man (psychamadelic/garage freakouts)

- The 365 Days Project - an MP3 each day of outsider music, weird religious tracts, celebrities embarrassing themselves, and other aural curiousities. (More, oh much more, on this when I return.)

- If you haven't yet, check out the sites linked on the right. Lots of smart, insightful, funny commentary inna blog style.

Haven't posted a new MP3 in a while, so here's the MP3 of the fortnight or month or whatever unit of time it's been since the last one - the original version of "Dazed and Confused" by Jake Holmes. This version is actually better than the more famous Led Zeppelin version, in my opinion - it's more tense and builds dramatically through the song with a seething intensity that's missing from the great but overwrought Zeppelin rendition.

The Continuing Adventures of Ralph Pruitt, The World’s Last Honest Man

“So, Ralph, how was your weekend?”

“Miserable. I spent all weekend sobbing profusely and drinking Tanqueray straight from the bottle. At least I blacked out for most of Sunday, but when I awoke, I resumed my constant screaming, pleading for the release of the death that will not come.”

“Oh.”

“How about you?”

“Oh, pretty good. Watched the game yesterday, saw ‘Veronica Guerin’ with the wife.”

“How was that?”

“Better than you’d think, actually.”

A few impromptu thoughts on the base-ball matches of the past week:

- It goes without saying that Grady Little is a dope. I watched the fateful 8th inning unfold with shocked disbelief, amazed that Little would let Pedro Martinez die on the mound as Yankee after Yankee pounded his movement-less breaking stuff and dying fastballs all over the stadium. This is an old Red Sox tradition of stupid managerial decisions - from starting Denny Galehouse in the 1948 playoff game to Don Zimmer mismanaging the pitching staff in 1978 to John McNamara not putting in a defensive substitute for the immobile Bill Buckner in 1986. That's why I hate this "Red Sox are cursed" business - when you keep bashing your own fingers into a pulp with a hammer, no sensible person blames it on "The Curse of Home Depot."

- The Steve Bartman incident just goes to show you what White Sox fans have been saying for years - Cubs fans, by and large, are more interested in grabbing souvenirs and downing Old Styles than actually following a winning club. Maybe a near miss like this will finally shake Cubdom of that whole goofy "gosh, they're losers, but we love 'em anyway" thing, but I doubt the Tribune Company would want to let go of a marketing technique that has served them well (and allowed them to duck responsibility from fielding a competitive club). And yes, I did indulge in a bit of schadenfreude over the Cub loss. Pathetic, maybe, but when you root for a team that last won a playoff series 61 years before your birth, you have to take your thrills where you find them.

- That "God Bless America/Take Me Out to the Ball Game/Cotton Eye Joe/Oye Como Va/New York, New York/Afternoon Delight/Nights in White Satin" medley they play at the 7th inning stretch of Yankee games - could that be a little more self-indulgent, please? Could we get Rick Wakeman to do a 19 minute keyboard solo? Maybe an interpretative dance salute to Kevin Maas? There's no better way to express your patriotism than by having a huge, expensive masturbation session in front of 57,000 people. It's like measuring someone as a true American based on the size of the novelty hat they buy on July 4th.

- Thanks to the miracle of constant commercial repetition, I now have the following phrases etched into my memory:
"Standing on the corner, watching all the guys go by."
"And now for ze best part, he's reeech!"
"It's OK, I had Subway."
"His father is the DISTRICT ATTORNEY!"
Long after I'm permanently ensconced in some cheap, fly by night nursing home and I've forgotten my name and the names of everything and everyone around me, I'll be muttering those phrases over and over again.

Issue #2 of the High Hat is up and ready for your perusal. Lots and lots of smart, witty, thoughtful, original pop culture commentary and analysis from some damn fine writers.

And, lest I forget this blog's chief mission of endless self-promotion, here's my contribution - an interview with underground pop-funk legend Gary Wilson.

(With all apologies to the Onion.)

Election of Schwarzenegger Causes Californians to Lose Smug Superiority

Tuesday’s stunning victory by Arnold Schwarzenegger in California’s gubernatorial election has already had an instant effect on the psyche of Californians. Overnight, California residents, particularly in liberal enclaves such as San Francisco and Santa Cruz, have been forced to abandon their traditional sense of smug superiority and self-satisfaction over the rest of the country.

“I used to make fun of my cousin in Nevada for living in such a backward state full of rubes. But now, what can I say? The people in this state just elected a incomprehensible movie actor with no experience and no clearly defined plan besides ‘I vant to clean up Sacramento,’” said Elaine Strauss, a social worker from Alameda. “I guess I was wrong - people in this state is just as dumb as they are everywhere else.”

“Ever since California became one of the largest, most important states in the country in the early 1900’s, the sense that California is a special place filled with people who are more unique and intelligent than the rest of the country has become a huge part of this state’s definition of itself,” said Robert Milton, professor of sociology at UCLA. “It’s a tremendous blow for people to realize that California isn’t really the center of culture and progressive leadership that we had thought.”

“Governor Schwarzenegger,” he added, muttering under his breath. “What the fuck? I mean, what the fucking fuck?”

Even defenses such as irony or self-mocking humor have proven unsuccessful at warding off the shame and humiliation felt by non-Schwarzenegger voting California residents.

“I tried to make a joke about it the other day at work: ‘Governor Schwarzenegger? What’s next-’ and then I stopped, because I literally couldn’t think of anything more ridiculous,” said Alan Walker, a San Jose computer programmer. “I’m already looking for real estate in Seattle or Vancouver. I don’t think I can take another year of lame fucking Schwarzenegger impressions.”

Nevertheless, Californians continue to soldier forward and hope for the best.

“We survived Nixon and Reagan, so we can survive this,” said Strauss. “But it’s going to be irritating to be the butt of every cheap joke in America for the next year or so. I never thought I’d say this, but I really miss Pete Wilson now.”

Here’s an excerpt from chapter one of my hardboiled mystery novel, “Credit Murder, Debit Intrigue.”

It was a Tuesday, 8:35 in the evening. I was just about to leave this dank office and head out onto the rain soaked streets. Go down to the local gin mill, catch a trolley home, listen to a game on the radio and turn in for the night.

My name’s Nick Ledger. I’m a CPA. It’s a hard racket, a world of tough characters, cheap women and hard liquor. Your only true companions are the trusty .38 at your hip and your amortization tables.

I was pondering the state of the Brooklyn Dodgers’ pitching staff when in walked this incredible dame. She had a pair of gams that stretched from here to Bakersfield, and the way she moved her hips was illegal in 13 states. I lit a Chesterfield while she made her way to the chair.

“Are you Mr. Ledger?”

“That’s what the bookies and parole board call me.”

“Mr. Ledger, I’m in dire need of assistance. You see, my father’s cardboard box plant has been losing money for the past two years. We’ve always made a profit, and we can’t figure out the problem.”

I could see where this was headed. This skirt wasn’t quite as innocent as she made herself out to be. Probably skimming from the top and trying to pin it on some other poor sap. Sure, dames are pretty to look at, but they go together with business like dogs and cats, like hot dogs and ketchup, like oil and…something that doesn’t mix well with oil. (So sue me, I’m an accountant, not a chemist.)

“Look, I’m willing to audit your books. But internal control and fraud prevention consulting - that’s extra. And you’ve got to do an internal audit.”

“Is that really necessary? Why, I’ve looked through the books myself, and I can’t find any problems.”

“You looked through the books?” I scoffed.

“What’s wrong with that, Mr. Ledger?”

“Accounting is a man’s world, dollface. It’s no place for a pretty little thing like you. You don’t know what these bastards are capable of doing. I got a slug in the neck once just for switching depreciation methods.”

“You have some very old fashioned ideas about women, Mr. Ledger,” she sniffed haughtily.

This gal was more poisonous than a New Jersey soil sample, but I didn’t have much choice. Business was slower than the hamburger concession in Bombay. The only things I was coming up with recently were hangovers and labored similes.

“All right, I’ll take the case, Miss --”

“Peterson.”

“Right. But you’ve got to leave the real work to the experts. Run off a few copies, make a pot of coffee, something like that, but I don’t want you messing around in my business, understand?”

“Well, Mr. Ledger, I won’t get in your way, but I intend to help out. I want to get to the bottom of this. Besides, I took a couple of accounting courses at the business college ---”

“Business college?” I laughed. “You can’t learn accounting in a school. You’ve got to get on the street, get your hands dirty, use your sources, put the works on some mugs if they give you the runaround.”

“Well, I realize I have much to learn, but I just want to help out. Can I count on your services starting next week?”

“Yeah, yeah, I’ll do it. Now I’ve got to go see a man about a horse. Just remember what I said.”

She slinked out of the office just as quickly as she had entered. I leaned back in my chair and poured out three fingers and a thumb of gin from my hip flask. No doubt, this was going to be a dangerous and suspense-filled case, filled with opportunities for me to make dry, witty observations and clever, sexually charged banter with gorgeous dames. I just hoped that my instincts wouldn’t fail me this time. One more major slipup and the AICPA will disbar me, and I’ll have to go back to the soulless drudgery of bookkeeping. Once you get a taste of living on the edge of danger, you never want to go back. That’s why I do what I do.

MP3 - "Seven Minutes of Funk" by Tyrone Thomas and the Whole Darn Family. Like the British say, it does what it says on the tin - a seven minute encapsulation of 70s era funk. Irresistable, omnipresent Bootsy Collins-esque bass line? Check. Meandering yet still rhythmic keyboard noodling? Check. Succinct horn punctuation? Check. Flute solo? Check. This was later the basis for one of the best rap singles of all time, "It's My Thing" by EPMD.

Look, blog, I’m sorry. I know I’ve been neglecting you lately, but I’ve been real busy with work, trying to finish my article for the High Hat #3 and studying for this damn exam that looms in just six weeks. Plus I've got to work in a couple of hours a day of aimless meandering. You know how it is.

I promise you, I’ll make it up to you soon. I’ll take you upstate to that little place in the woods. Just you and me. It’ll be just like old times, baby. Now, don't cry, and don't threaten to move back to your parents' house - we both know you're not going to do that. Look, this weekend I'll buy you a nice dinner at a moderately priced restaurant, finish writing that piece I've been procrastinating on...

(In other words, updates may be semi-sporadic here for the next few weeks. I realize that my primary goal in life is to provide a minute or two of faint bemusement for a handful of people every week, but other priorities are temporarily taking precedence. But the show will go on. I have five Word pages worth of half-written blog entries, and by God, I'm going to inflict every one of them on you whether you like it or not.)

I couldn't put up an MP3 on Friday due to the blackout and whatnot, so here ya go - it's "Rampe Rampe" by Kaleidoscope, a bit of Middle Eastern-influenced psychamadelic mayhem from 1968.

During the blackout, I kept a running journal of my Brush with Sort of Peril, Kind of. Here, now, is an unexpurgated account of the Greatest Struggle Mankind Has Ever Known. Children, those with heart conditions and the otherwise weak and infirm should not read this entry, lest the horror and danger cause permanent and irrepairable harm.

9/18, 4:45 pm
Electricity goes out for the first time. I am prepared - flashlight, spare batteries and whatnot. Hey, this'll be just like camping, except for all of that "fresh air" and "communing with nature" shit I studiously try to avoid.

9/18, 5:27 pm
Already, I am plagued by massive waves of boredom and ennui. I now realize exactly why so many Amish youths turn to crime.

9/18, 6:18 pm
Play my unplugged electric guitar. Manage to work out a passable version of Neil Young's "Like a Hurricane" from memory. This is the most notable guitar-related accomplishment I've had in three years.

9/18, 7:13 pm
Darkness sets in. The storm is gaining in intensity, although it doesn't really seem all that severe. Realize that I only have enough food for another day or two, because everything in the freezer or refrigerator has already gone bad. Start to wonder if I could eat one of my own toes. Finally admit to self that you shouldn't resort to cannibalism for at least a week.

9/18, 7:38 pm
Without the constant barrage of music and ambient TV white noise that usually fills my apartment, listening to my own thoughts becomes unavoidable. I've already had several really stupid internal arguments, and I finally realize why solitary confinement is considered such a punishment. On the other hand, I finally decide that Double Indemnity really was the best film noir of all time, even better than The Postman Always Rings Twice, although Lana Turner was the sine qua non ne plus ultra casus belli femme fatale of mid-40s cinema.

9/18, 8:46 pm
I long for some form of televised entertainment. I don't even watch much TV, but I'm jonesing right now. A rerun of "One Day at a Time." Televised soccer. A paid political advertisement for a juice maker. Anything.

9/18, 10:01 pm
For the eighth time, I have the unfulfilled urge to Google something.

9/18, 10:36 pm
Some mind altering drugs would really hit the spot right now.

9/18, 11:13 pm
Fall asleep earlier than I have in two years. Realize that electricity is partly to blame for my chronic insomnia.

9/19, 7:56 am
Wake up to call the office and see if power has been restored there. Yes, it has - the only building in the entire metropolitan area, miraculously. Of all the bitter ironies I've had to swallow in a lifetime, this one...well, it's not the worst, but it's in the top 10. Take the world's coldest shower ever and go to work.

9/19, 1:36 pm
Return home from work (only a half day) to find the power is still off. Try to think of fun things that people did before the advent of electricity, but no one else in the apartment building seems to be interested in hootenannies, ether frolics or making corn liquor.

9/19, 2:13 pm
I organize and clean my desk. I have obviously hit rock bottom.

9/19, 2:59 pm
For the fifth time since the blackout began, I turn the lights on when entering a room.

9/19, 3:51 pm
Call Pepco for ninth time today, but no estimates on restoration were given beyond "three days to a week." I've already had a long hallucination involving myself as a lieutenant during the Civil War, so I doubt I'll maintain my sanity if it takes a week for power to return. And I'm not sure what I'll do with these letters I wrote to "my dearest Eulabelle."

9/19, 5:26 pm
Concede defeat and leave to go back to my parents' house to do laundry.

I guess we all learn something about ourselves when we face adversity, and I learned that in times of crisis, I'm an incredibly self-absorbed, spoiled, narcissistic whiner. I kind of figured that, but it was good to have it finally proven once and for all.

I am currently writing this from a secure, undisclosed location. (OK, it's my parents' house, where I have temporarily relocated so I can do my laundry and eat something besides canned soup and warm Coke.) Once the power is restored at Vitamin B Glandular Show World Headquarters, I'll regale you all with my hurricane story. It's a bracing tale of man emerging triumphant against the elements - sort of like a Jack London novel, but with a lot more petty whining and bitching. Also, expect the phrase "Pepco can eat a dick" to be liberally sprinkled throughout the text.

As I write this, Hurricane Isabel is threatening the mid-Atlantic region. As usual, the DC metro area has gone into Insane Weather Overreacting Mode - the weathermen relishing their one moment in the sun by predicting doom like an Old Testament prophet, frenzied crowds at the supermarket for bread/milk/toilet paper (whether it’s for personal use or for cornering the black market after civilization breaks down, I don’t know), that same list that keeps getting passed around of Things You Absolutely Must Have to Survive in a Post-Hurricane World (flashlights, batteries, the pine needles which will become our new national currency, etc.) and a general sense of overamplified paranoia. People around here go temporarily insane over something like a 6” snowfall, so you can imagine just how irrational people have gotten over this.

I guess I’m of two minds on this whole turn of events. On one hand, the untold death and destruction would be catastrophic. On the other hand, I could really use a day off from work. And on the other other hand, there’s a gigantic tree just outside of my apartment, and a hurricane will probably topple it over and crush me while I’m sitting in my living room watching old Match Game reruns. So I guess my options are another day at work or sudden, horrific death. All I can say is: bring it on Mother Nature, you vicious, insatiable whore.

Selected tracks from the upcoming rap album by a British Labour MP:

- "Tory Killa"
- “Sucker MPs”
- “Get EURO Freak On” (the controversial anti-pound track)
- “999 is a Joke”
- “Against Class Structure in Contemporary England (Get Some Dollar-Dollar Bills for the Poor, Y’all)”
- “Exchequer Yaself”
- “Socialise National Industry ‘03 Remix“ (old school jam with special guest Neil Kinnock)
- "18 Shots to Margaret Thatcher's Dome"

As mentioned in yesterday’s crass and tasteless post, today is my 25th birthday. There’s an entire cottage industry built around the premise that the date of your birthday is significant, that it tells something about you as a person. So I figured I’d put that idea to the test. I’ve picked out various celebrities born on September 12th and compared them to me, using a scientific similarity scale that is completely arbitrary and made up on the spot.

H.L. Mencken
Similarities: Reflexive cynicism, misanthropy, born in Maryland.
Differences: Mencken hated Jews and blacks in particular, I hate people of all ethnic groups equally.
Similarity score: 67

George Jones
Similarities: Brief, tempestuous marriage to Tammy Wynette. Inability to keep scheduled appointments.
Differences: I have never driven a lawnmower to a bar. (I did end up passed out next to a weed whacker once, but that’s another story.) Also, there’s that whole matter of George Jones being the best country singer ever and me having the vocal range of that guy in Trio who sang “Da Da Da.”
Similarity score: 40

Peter Scolari
Similarities: We’re both dorky white guys. We both performed in drag with Tom Hanks, although my performance has yet to be nationally televised. (Maybe on Fox’s “World’s Funniest Celebrity Blackmail Videos” this fall.)
Differences: Peter Scolari is still a somewhat successful character actor, whereas I am blacklisted from the entertainment industry for my ardent support of Lyndon LaRouche.
Similarity score: 48

Jesse Owens
Similarities: Burning hatred of Nazis.
Differences: Jesse Owens was one of the greatest Olympic runners of all time, I get winded walking across a parking lot in 90 degree weather.
Similarity score: 31

Barry White
Similarities: We both love the sexy slither of a lady snake.
Differences: Barry White - famous for his deep voice, me - notorious for my thin, reedy, annoying monotone.
Similarity score: 38

Maurice Chevalier
Similarities: None, really.
Differences: At least I would never sing anything as nauseatingly treacly or sleazy as “Thank Heaven for Little Girls.”
Similarity score: 11

So, there you have it - conclusive proof that people born on the same day have nothing in common and that astrology is a pointless waste of time. Next week, I’ll continue debunking leftover superstitions from the Middle Ages with my indepth, firsthand look at the world of trepanning.

The promised birthday self-indulgence will go on as planned, but I have to say something about this trend of my personal icons dying around the time of my birthday. Last year it was Johnny Unitas, this year it was Johnny Cash. There's not much I can add to the mountains of tribute and praise Johnny Cash has deservedly received, so I'll just link to this - an MP3 of his version of Will Oldham's great "I See a Darkness," from the 2000 album American III. Listen to this jawdropping vocal performance of one of the most unrelentingly bleak, morose songs of all time, and then marvel at the fact that Johnny Cash was 68 years old when he recorded it. He was a giant of American music, and he will sorely be missed.

Today is an important day in history. An anniversary of one of the most momentous days in world history. A somber, serious day of soul searching and reflection.

Yes, it’s the eve of my 25th birthday. Tomorrow in this space, an orgy of self-absorbed narcissism that would make Dave Eggers blush.

Thank God for the ever-vigilant eye of the RIAA. Now we don’t have to cower in fear over vicious criminals threatening our society, like this vermin. Take that bitch down, Hilary Rosen.

OK, besides providing a really horrible example of tineared, clueless public relations in action, does anyone really think the RIAA’s new crusade is going to do a damn thing to stop filesharing? I’m not sure if the RIAA thinks that people are going to stop doing something if it’s illegal - the same logic that stopped drug use and alcoholism in this country cold. I’ll give them some credit for intelligence and assume that their real intent is to make filesharing such a pain in the ass that no one would be willing to bother doing it, but that strategy hasn’t worked well to this point. Every time the most popular filesharing service is killed through legal action (ie Napster, Audiogalaxy), another one sprouts up to take its place. As long as there are programming experts with some sort of vague grudge against the world at large (and, gee, think the supply of those types will be running out any time soon?), there will be filesharing systems on the internet. And the ancillary fallout from suing your own customers is bound to come back and bite the music industry - either you’re needlessly pissing off the people who buy your albums in the first place, or you’re irritating poor college kids who weren’t going to buy anything anyway, since all their money is going to be spent on Ramen noodles and pot.

But even for those of us who have the money and are willing to go legit, there simply aren’t any viable options available at this point. OK, iTunes and eMusic are promising, but neither has the selection that can be found on even the lighter trafficked filesharing sites. The allure of filesharing for music geeks such as myself is that the rare, obscure stuff that isn’t going to turn a profit margin for anyone is now readily available. Will iTunes provide you with that obscure 50’s rockabilly tune, or that bootleg of Velvet Underground live at the Factory, or the entire Game Theory catalog? It’s hard for them to justify providing rare recordings on a cost-benefit level, but through filesharing the handful of us who like that stuff can finally have access without having to visit hundreds of used record stores and pay through the nose for imports that are often of dubious legality themselves.

I can’t blame the RIAA for doing this. The recording industry is facing technical obsolescence, just as the movie industry will face when DVD burners and broadband connections become the coin of the realm in modern entertainment systems. They provide services that are becoming increasingly irrelevant, and they are trying to scratch and claw to keep their piece of the pie from disappearing altogether. But it’s difficult to see how this strategy will do anything to stop the bleeding. Ultimately, just like with home taping and VCR recording a generation ago, they’ll have to figure out a way to make money off of filesharing or die out completely.

An expected but nevertheless sad day for many of us came today when the news was announced that Warren Zevon had passed away over the weekend. Warren was one of the best songwriters to ever work the rock beat - his songs were consistently smart and funny as hell, mixing biting, incisive wit with a clinical eye for detail and an unmistakable sense of compassion for the characters inhabiting his songs. His classic work of the late 1970s was a much needed blast of reality into the plastic gloss of then-contemporary LA rock music. And unlike many great artists who burn out early, he kept on producing consistently solid material right on up until his death. I can’t think of many other lyricists who’ve hit the nail on the head so often throughout their careers.

Moreover, he deserves a great deal of credit for the way he reacted after learning about his terminal cancer. His famous appearance on Letterman last year is a lesson in facing adversity with determination and humor, and he managed to channel his energy into recording one last album, The Wind. The mere fact that he recorded an album at all given his condition is remarkable, the fact that it’s a pretty damn good record that delivers an unflinching, affecting view of staring down the end of life is downright amazing. Would that we all face our own mortality with the same dignity and courage.

Rest in peace, Warren. Hope you enjoyed every sandwich along the way.

MP3 this week is "Ratfucker" by Armand Schaubroeck Steals. As you might expect, this song contains copious use of profanity and is not suitable for work unless you're employed at a loading dock. COD on my block, baby.

Hey, there was actual excitement in my real life today! Does everyone want to hear about it? No? Well, I'm going to write about it anyway. This blog is dangerously low on the FDA recommended allowance of personal self-indulgence, anyway, so consider it my part to bring things back into balance.

I was in a minor car accident today. I had to slam on the brakes to avoid hitting a car that was parked at a green light to let an ambulance go by, but the brakes wouldn't catch, so I had to swerve onto the curb to avoid hitting the car. Fortunately, it worked, and praise the indifferent gods that there were no pedestrians on the curb at the time. (It's a highway curb, so it wasn't a place where there's heavy pedestrian traffic.) The resulting collision blew out my right front tire, and who knows how much it'll cost to get the brakes fixed, but I managed to cheat death yet again. For those of you counting, this is the third car accident I've had in the past two years, and the only injury I suffered was a minor headache during the first one. None of those accidents were my fault, either, but I realize that's becoming increasingly difficult to believe as the incidents pile up.

So let this be a lesson to those of you who would wish for my death - I am very, very hard to kill. And God? I know you're up there, trying to get back at me for all that smack I've talked about you. Bring it on, bitch, but next time you best bring some Kryptonite.

Is it really time once again for one-paragraph reviews of albums I’ve listened to lately? My word, how the time doth fly.

Radiohead, Hail to the Thief. Enough ink (virtual and real) has been spilled about this already so there’s no chance I’ll have something original or thought provoking to say about it, but once more into the breach: While I admire Radiohead for their continual ability to reinvent their sound, Kid A and Amnesiac were in retrospect a little too atmospheric and meandering for my tastes, lacking the mix of musical adventurism and visceral sonic punch that made OK Computer one of the bestest albums ever. Hail to the Thief isn't quite up to the brilliant standard of that high water mark, but it's a damn fine piece of work on its own merits and contains two of their best realized songs to date, “2+2=5” and “There There.”

Various artists, No New York. Long out of print (I snagged my copy from one of those evil, soul stealing file sharing networks), this is one of those critical touchstones that is more often cited than listened to. It’s a decidedly schizophrenic listening experience, featuring four bands that had only passing aural similarities despite their involvement in the late 1970‘s “no-wave“ scene. Of the four, James Chance and the Contortions sound the most conventional - twitchy rhythms and squawky saxophone lines, sure, but it’s oddly danceable stuff grounded in the funk tradition. The four tracks by Teenage Jesus and the Jerks were the lowlight, presaging Lydia Lunch’s career as an annoying, self-righteous lefty/academic feminist spoken word artiste who finally ditched all pretenses of a music career. (Although the line “..and I puke elastic” is a personal favorite.) Mars’ careening, anarchic approach is the most interesting, highlighted by the incredible “Helen Fordsdale” - an urgent, skittering, jibbering mess that somehow manages to steamroll itself forward while threatening to fly apart at every turn, it’s like nothing created before or since, and an example of the best possible results of the “untrained amateurs” punk ethos. DNA’s best stuff would come later (the Taste of DNA EP), but Arto Lindsay’s dissonant guitar scrapings were already in full bloom here. All in all, worth a listen for those interested in experimental rock music, but as a listening experience it’s an extremely uneven venture.

The Fall, Country on the Click. My expectations for new Fall product have declined significantly in recent years. Since the 90’s high water mark The Light User Syndrome, the Fall’s last few albums have ranged from decent-but-uninspired (Levitate, The Marshall Suite) to flat out awful (The Unutterable, Are You Are Missing Winner). So Country on the Click is a pleasant surprise - not a return to former glory, but a damn solid set of songs played with a crisp edge by this year’s model of the Fall. Mark E. is in restrained form, only getting off some trademark bile in “Contraflow,” but that’s probably for the better considering how rote his rants have sounded lately. “Theme from Sparta FC,” a chantalong in the “Big New Prinz” tradition, the killer chorus of “Green Eyed Loco Man” and the chugging guitar riffs of “Contraflow” are signs enough that the Fall still have some life, which is a good sign since they’ll probably continue churning out albums every year as long as Mark E. Smith draws life on this planet.

Armand Schaubroeck Steals, Ratfucker. One of those weird “the hell?” out of print audio curiosities that treads that well-worn line between utterly brilliant and completely insane. Armand Schaubroeck is a Rochester-area guitar store impresario and former teenage petty thief who released several albums in the 1970s, mostly revolving around his criminal past and the seedy underbelly of 70s era American culture. Ratfucker is a damned odd mix of vaguely bluesy rock-based grooves, cheap analog synthesizers, inappropriately used female backup singers, and Schaubroeck’s Lou Reed-meets-Frank Zappa-in-a-dark-alley-and-whacked-out-on-paint-thinner talk-sung raps. Highlights include the title track (a meditation on pimpin’ and its difficulty, with a weird fixation on the black market baby trade), “Independent Hitter” (in which Schaubroeck spews the word “fuck” more often than Tony Montana) and the 12 minute epic “Queen Hitter,” an ode to killing one’s wife that somehow incorporates both the Peter Gunn guitar riff and “Zip-a-Dee-Doo-Dah.”

I didn't think it was possible for me to hate John Basedow any more than I already did, but on his most recent commercial he has dyed his hair blonde.

That's it, Basedow. You and I are sworn enemies, and I shall make it my life's work from this point onward to crush you and everything you hold dear. You pissed off the wrong man, mein freund - the last celebrity I committed myself to destroying was Pauly Shore, and look where he is now. Repent now and go back to your true calling of stocking the shelves at a GNC and I just might decide to spare you.

One of the great joys of being finished with school and firmly ensconced in the workaday world is finally being able to enjoy Labor Day. During your school years, Labor Day is a day of fear and dread - the end of summer’s once seemingly endless freedom and the return of daily drudgery and responsibility. No one (except for those insane handful of students who actually enjoyed school) can relax and enjoy the final day of summer. When I was a kid, it was even worse because we only had three television channels, one of which would always show the Jerry Lewis Telethon. There’s nothing to compound the abject misery of an impending school year for a kid than being forced to watch Shecky Greene and Andy Williams all day.

Now that I’m a salary slave, Labor Day is a treat - the only respite from work until the holiday season starts, and a sign that the bleary, woozy August heat will finally be leaving to be replaced by the crisp, cool early fall. Once you finally get conditioned to the fact that you'll be working almost every day of your life until you're too old and feeble to enjoy your life any more, something as small and insignificant as a three day weekend feels like a deep blue lake in the middle of the Sahara. And instead of being forced to watch the telethon, I can watch marathons of horrible movies from the 80s. (OK, so the holiday could still use some improvement, but it’s much better than it was.)

So, how about those MTV Video Music Awards, huh? (I hesitate to write anything about this, since a. I didn’t actually watch the damn thing and b. the news presence of such a non-event is about a day at the most, which makes writing about it at this date sort of like being the 473rd entrant in the Houston 500. But I’ve never let lack of timeliness or relevance stop me before, so boldly I press onwards.)

Anyway, the only somewhat notable event that occurred was the Britney/Madonna kiss. The headline in USA Today this weekend was “Madonna, Spears, Aguilera shock at MTV Awards.” “Shock?” Now, maybe I move in jaded, cynical Generation X circles, but I find it hard to believe that anyone is still shocked by anything Madonna or Britney Spears does at this point. I think even the least culturally aware people in this society are aware that Madonna and Britney have made their livelihoods by carefully marketing and manipulating their sexuality, so anything they do in that area can hardly be considered shocking any more. Maybe there are still Miss Hathaways out there muttering “my word” and pressing a handkerchief to their fevered brow over this stunt, but I doubt that many of them exist or have much cultural influence at this point. And is Christina Aguilera, who made a concerted effort a year ago to transform her public image into that of a Venusian streetwalker, physically capable of shocking anyone any more? I don't think that shock value is why Spears, Aguilera and Madonna are all still famous and selling records - Britney and Christina are still getting by with the combination of looks and carefully constructed pop product, while Madonna is more or less an institution more famous for being famous at this point.

More than anything else, the kiss is a microcosm of what MTV has specialized in over the years - a weightless, insignificant pop culture moment that in the long run will only be remembered as fodder for the endless MTV self-mythologizing clip shows that will run in perpetuity on that network. I can imagine a middle aged Michael Ian Black reminiscing in that flat, EZ-ironic tone about the whole event twenty years from now on “I Love the 00s.”

I'm gone for the weekend, so in lieu of a new entry, please enjoy these vaguely Labor Day-related diversions:

- An MP3 of "Working Girls (Sunlight Shines)" by the Pernice Brothers, a paean to all you clockwatchers out there keeping America's copy machines full of toner.

- A behind the scenes look back at Jerry Lewis' uncompleted magnum opus The Day the Clown Cried. To this day, I don't know why Jerry didn't sue Roberto Benigni for stealing his idea.

I always look forward to the annual Sporting News ranking of cities in North America based on their sports teams. I think it's because my hometown had the honor of being 1998's worst sports town in America, due to the perennial lousiness of the University of Maryland Eastern Shore basketball team. (This year, you'll be happy to note that Princess Anne has shot all the way up to 281. Ha ha ha, fuck you, Altoona! We're gunning for you next year, Bourbonnais, Illinois!)

Anyway, it's admittedly a dumb list. I mean - Los Angeles #1? Unless "leaving fashionably early" and "post-game traffic" are categories, how the hell could L.A. be the top sports town in America? Baltimore-Washington ranked together? People in Baltimore loathe the Redskins, and now that the novelty of Camden Yards has worn off, no one in DC really cares about the Orioles any more. And why New York and Chicago are on the same list with cities whose claim to sporting fame is hosting a South Atlantic League team is beyond me. So why create this list? For the same reason I'm posting about it here - absolutely nothing worth writing about happens in August, so stupid lists are employed to fill column space until the news cycle turns itself around and inspiration returns.

Hey, did someone say stupid lists?

Words that Snoop Cannot Physically Pronounce

- sloe gin fizz
- blizzard
- schism
- e-business
- Ben Gazzara
- Zizzer Zazzer Zuzz

Next year's music critic buzzword labels:

- Roots electronica
- Post-aggro thrash rap fusion
- Acousticlash (ironic, campy songs performed by hipster jug bands)
- Post-rock novelty songs
- Scrimshaw
- Drum and treble (a scintillating combination of looped techno beats and Tuvan throat singing)
- Unamericana

Traits I look for in a diner:

- Breakfast must be served 24 hours a day. No exceptions. If you can’t walk in there at 3 in the afternoon and get two eggs scrambled, toast, bacon and coffee, it ain’t a real diner.
- Meatloaf, chili and chicken fried steak must be on the menu. I would never actually order these items from a diner, but it’s part of the essential je ne sais croissant of the diner experience.
- For that matter, no more than two of the following items should not appear on a diner menu: buffalo chicken, wraps, any type of salad besides a side or chef salad, or any sort of non-American food. (Spaghetti is acceptable, but frowned upon.)
- Your waitresses (no waiters, thanks) must be middle aged, or at the very least look ten years older than their actual age, and they must loudly discuss the details of their ruinous personal lives within earshot of the customers.
- The jukebox cannot contain any song recorded after 1969. (Also, I prefer one central jukebox to those wall mounted jukeboxes that have popped up all over the place recently, but this isn’t a deal breaker.)
- A diner must be locally owned. The Silver Diner or Johnny Rockets or any of those other 50’s chains are not real diners, but a pale synthetic version of the real thing. Accept no substitutes. (Although, I must admit, the Silver Diner makes a pretty good Reuben.)

After countless libel lawsuits, backroom negotiations and blackmail threats, the long awaited sequel to Kenneth Anger’s Hollywood Babylon will finally be released by a small French publisher, Le Jejune Press. Here are some of the explosive revelations from Madison Avenue Babylon:

- Uncle Ben was much loathed in the industry for ratting out Communist sympathizers during the blacklist era. His testimony was single-handedly responsible for destroying the careers of Farfel the Nestle dog, the original kid from the Maypo ads and the woman inside the dancing Old Gold cigarette box.

- Speedy the Alka Seltzer mascot slept his way to the top, dissolving in the mouth of every Madison Avenue executive during his rise to fame.

- The Jolly Green Giant? Not exactly “giant,” if you know what I’m saying.

- Reddy Kilowatt’s “natural energy” came from a specially blended mixture of Colombian cocaine, ground African hippopotamus hooves, rust scrapings from a ‘39 LaSalle and fetal tissue directly injected into his bloodstream three times a day.

- Everyone knows that Morris the Cat was as gay as a French horn, but his bizarre interspecies dalliance with the dog from the Chuck Wagon commercials truly shocked and disgusted the animal commercial acting world.

- While portraying himself as a devoted family man in public, popcorn magnate Orville Redenbacher was notorious for his stable of hot young bitches. Orville’s oft-repeated motto was “No old maids in my popcorn, no old maids in my bed.”

This week's MP3 is "Spider in the Snow" by the Dismemberment Plan, off of 1999's Emergency and I. For my money, it's the best album released in the past five years, overflowing with brilliant ideas, original lyrical takes on the oft-covered subject of young adult angst, and driven by a tight-as-hell rhythm section. Sadly, the Plan will be defunct after a final show in DC next month, but their recorded work is well worth investigating if you're not familiar with them - there's more audio available on their website.

I’ve been ranting a little too much in this space lately. It’s time to provide a little balm for the soul in the form of three things that rule at this particular moment. Because why would you blog about things that make you hate, when you can blog about things that make you love?

1. Sketch comedy goodness on DVD. Mr. Show season 3 next week, SCTV early next year, The State sometime next year...all we need is for Comedy Central to finally release the Upright Citizens Brigade and a comprehensive Kids in the Hall release and all of the classic sketch comedy shows of the past two decades will be easily accessible on DVD.

2. Soulseek. I've raved plenty about this on ISOYG lately, but damn if this isn't the greatest thing ever invented. Electricity? The internal combustion engine? The microwave? How does MP3s of almost every song ever recorded, including every semi-obscure song I've been spending years searching for, grab you? I don't think it's exaggerating the point that all of mankind's achievements to this point were a mere prelude to the greatness that is Soulseek.

3. The Marathon Deli in College Park, MD. Best Greek takeout place in North America, restaurant quality meals for $7 or less. One of the best things about living in the much (somewhat unfairly) maligned county of Prince George's.

As a public service to the zero regular readers of this blog from California, the Vitamin B Glandular Show presents a truncated voters guide to the candidates for the California governor’s race. Please print this out and take it with you to the polls on Election Day:

Gray Davis
PUBLIC PERSONA: Bland, spineless nonentity.
FUTURE: Bleak.
WHAT HE SHOULD DO: Bring back the glory days of California under Jerry Brown by hosting nightly coke parties in the governor’s mansion with members of the Eagles and Linda Ronstadt.

Arnold Schwarzenegger
QUALIFICATIONS: Five minute conversation with one of the Kennedys at a Shriver family event.
WOULD PREFER YOU NOT MENTION: Hercules in New York, Junior, Jingle All the Way.
BIGGEST HURDLE TO OVERCOME: Americans will expect more from their elected officials than a unqualified, not too bright man who can barely speak the English language.
CAMPAIGN STRATEGY: If trailing near election day, will go back in time to kill Gray Davis.

Cruz Bustamante
CURRENT JOB: Lieutenant Governor, a job which usually entails cutting the ribbons for interstate off ramps and waiting for the governor to die or be recalled. Cruz is now living the Lieutenant Governor’s dream.
SORTA LOOKS LIKE: The Dunkin’ Donuts guy, plus 100 pounds.
REASON NOT TO VOTE FOR HIM: Proudly displays a picture of himself with Paul Rodriguez on his website.

Gary Coleman
MAJOR GOALS AS GOVERNOR: Put that creep Mr. Horton behind bars, kick the ass of that ripoff little punk Emmanuel Lewis.
WHY HE WON’T WIN: Protracted legal battle with parents over his Diff’rent Strokes earnings will alienate parents of child actors, who represent 11% of the Californian electorate.
CHIEF LIABILITY: Near the end of the Coleman administration, state executives will introduce a younger, cuter Lieutenant Governor to boost flagging approval ratings.

Arianna Huffington
CHIEF DISTINGUISHING CHARACTERISTIC: Comically indecipherable accent makes Schwarzenegger sound like Garrison Keillor in comparison.
BEST CHANCE OF VICTORY: Courting the sizable “woman in sham marriage with closeted homosexual for personal gain” vote in California.
CHIEF LIABILITY: I agree with almost everything she supports now, but given her erratic political mood swings, she’ll probably be a full-on Randroid Libertarian in a couple of years’ time.

Larry Flynt
MOST NOTED FOR: Making supporters of the First Amendment feel guilty and ashamed for defending him.
CREEPINESS LEVEL: Even for a pornographer, extraordinarily high.
WHY HE MUST BE STOPPED: After Governor Flynt, the Al Goldstein and Max Hardcore runs for high office are not far behind.

Mary Carey
PROFESSION: Porn actress.
TITS: Not real.
MOST SIGNIFICANT FOR: Adding to the “insane Italian election” vibe of the California governor’s race.

Diana Beall Templin
CHIEF DISTINGUISHING CHARACTERISTIC: Incredibly psychotic smile.
TURN-ONS: Guns, smashing the church-state barrier.
TURN-OFFS: Gays, budget deficits.

Gallagher
PLATFORM: Variations of the “hey, this traffic sure is awful” or “hey, these politicians sure do make too much money” gags that have delighted millions of stupid Americans.
SHOULD BE BEATEN REPEATEDLY WITH: A rusty farm implement, or maybe a seven-iron.
UNRELATED, BUT I THOUGHT I’D MENTION IT ANYWAY: The only thing more pathetic than Gallagher is Gallagher II, the guy who is related to the original Gallagher and borrowed his act or something. The fact that there is enough of a demand for not one, but two fucking Gallaghers in this country ought to be enough to take aback even the most ardent “America is #1” zealot.

MP3. There's been an unmistakeable pale hue to the songs I've picked thus far for the MP3 of the week, so let's break up that unbearable whiteness of being with this week's selection - "Can I Change My Mind" by Tyrone Davis, a sublime slice of soul circa 1969.

There are a lot of cultural critics (pop- and serious-) who malign the 1970's as a vast wasteland of endless crap: an endless parade of poor taste, misbegotten values and social decay. It seems to me that this is a gross oversimplification and the worthwhile-stuff-to-utter-crap ratio wasn't really much different than any other decade.

I'd like to write a first-hand defense of the 1970's, but I was born in 1978, and I'm not sure if any of my memories from that time period would be particularly relevant. (The first draft of this mini-essay was entitled "The 1970's: The Age of Crib Mobiles and My Parents Waving Shiny Things in Front of My Face.") So everything here is based on pop culture references and second hand accounts from people I know who were slightly more aware at the time, and probably has no basis in any sort of reality.

- Books. OK, the best seller lists were polluted by soft porn. self-help books and “Jonathan Livingston Seagull,” but there were some classic works created in the period as well. “Gravity’s Rainbow.” “Ragtime.” John Cheever’s short stories. Hunter S. Thompson, before he became completely unreadable. Great novels by Vonnegut, Roth, Kundera and Naipaul.

- Movies. The 1970’s represented the greatest confluence between artistic achievement and commercial success in the history of American movies. Just some of the classic movies that were also major successes at the box office: “The Godfather I and II,” “Apocalypse Now,” “A Clockwork Orange,” “Taxi Driver,” “Manhattan” and “Annie Hall,” “One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest,” “Chinatown,” and so forth.

- Music. A golden age for R&B and soul, the punk and post-punk explosion that provided a much needed shot in the arm to a fading genre, power pop, Krautrock, funk, the birth of rap music…the 1970’s had a lot of great musical trends and moments. Even the disco and dumb-as-dirt “classic” rock that dominated the charts at the time yielded some gems. Any era that features the best works by Al Green, Parliament/Funkadelic, the Clash, Steely Dan and Neil Young, to name just a few, deserves its historical due.

- Sex. If pop culture is to be believed, the 70’s were the epoch of casual sex. A shag-carpeted wonderland of singles bars, swingers parties and free clinics, where one night stands were the coin of the realm and the worst thing that would happen to you could be cured by a penicillin shot or (after Roe v. Wade) a quickie abortion. I daily curse the fact that I have to live in this incredibly Puritan, lethal disease-riddled social environment. The fact that I never got to bang a feather-haired secretary in my bachelor pad after a couple of burgers at the Ground Round is one of my great regrets in life.

- Politics. Not a great decade by any means, but subsequent years have made it look not quite as bad. I’m obviously not going to defend Nixon, but at least he was willing enough to exit the stage when the gig was finally up. Gerald Ford was kind of the proto-Bush; an inept, none too bright bumbler who became another example of the Peter Principle (and mercifully didn’t receive the artificial popularity boost that Bush did). Jimmy Carter may have been a failure, but at least he was intelligent and decent, something that’s been lacking in pretty much every major political leader since then. And the great American rightward shift that has led to the rich/poor gap widening and a return of Victorian sexual prudery was still in the future.

- Fashion. Even I won’t try to defend most of the fashion choices that were prevalent in the 1970’s, but there were a few cool things. The afro. The mass popularity of jeans, which remains with us to this day. (OK, that’s about it. Maybe the critics were right about this one.)

All in all, not as bad as you might think at first. Of course there were horrible things, too - the recession/oil crisis, Watergate, godawful clothing and design trends, having only three television networks (one of them usually controlled by Fred Silverman) - but the 1970’s had enough redeeming elements to make them worth revisiting and re-appreciating. (And not in the ironic, “gee, ain’t this quaint” sense of the word, either.)

Much apologies to anyone who has stumbled upon this site recently for the lack of substantial content in the past week or so. I blame it on August. There’s a certain dazed lethargy that everyone seems to get around August, the result of the relentless pounding of summer. Sure, June’s great - shorts! cold drinks! Slurpees! constant air conditioning! - but by August, the day-in day-out heat and humidity and evening thunderstorms have taken their toll. This is particularly painful for those of us who live in massively paved-over, swampy metropolises like DC where the air turns into soup and the harsh landscape offers no relief. Add that to the fact that absolutely nothing happens during August - the top news story the other day was that Carly Simon will finally reveal the subject of "You're So Vain" to the highest bidder, which might have been interesting in 1978 but now barely registers a shrug - and it's a recipe for ennui, mild crankiness and long afternoon naps. So let me try to shake this out of my system by listing off a few mild annoyances.

- These Williamsburg hipsters. I'm sick of them, with their hipper-than-thee attitudes, their mesh-back tricornered hats, their vegan johnnycakes with imported chicory.

- Men who say that they're "lesbians trapped in a man's body." OK, then, get the sex change already.

- The Hilton sisters. Angelyne is still alive, so why do we need more not-really-attractive women who are famous despite having no discernable talents or abilities?

- People who make lame jokes of a racial/sexual nature and then use the old "you're just being PC" defense when you don't laugh. I'm willing to laugh at "offensive" material, but it has to be more original than your run of the mill comedic fodder.

- My upstairs neighbors, who apparently have installed something sounding like a handcranked ice cream maker in the wall right above my bathroom mirror. I guess I should go up there at 3 am the next time I can't sleep, so at least I could get a couple of scoops of Razzleberry Double Nut Fudge out of the deal.

Way back in May, I posted a list of my 25 favorite albums of all time. Since then, I’ve been plagued with doubt and regret over the albums I omitted from that list. (Which should give you an idea of how shallow and unrewarding my internal life is, but anyway.) So in an attempt to assuage my conscience, I now present my 26th through 50th favorite albums of all time, again in rough chronological order and subject to change at any time due to personal whims:

Robert Johnson, Complete Recordings
Doo Wop Box, vol. 1
John Coltrane, Blue Train
Sonny Rollins, Way Out West
Grant Green, Born to be Blue
Beatles, Revolver
Bob Dylan, Highway 61 Revisited
Nuggets Box, vol. 1
Led Zeppelin III
Rolling Stones, Exile on Main Street
Can, Tago Mago
Cheap Trick, Heaven Tonight
Marvin Gaye, Anthology
Elvis Costello, My Aim is True
Television, Marquee Moon
The Fall, Hex Enduction Hour
R.E.M., Murmur
Replacements, Let it Be
Husker Du, New Day Rising
Tom Waits, Franks Wild Years
Teenage Fanclub, Bandwagonesque
Nirvana, In Utero
American Music Club, Mercury
Neutral Milk Hotel, In the Aeroplane Over the Sea
Bonnie ‘Prince’ Billy, I See a Darkness

This week's MP3 is "Doin' Me In" by Gonn, as mentioned in this month's High Hat. Not much I can add to that, so just enjoy one of the great lost rock and roll singles of all time.

This week marks the six month anniversary of the first post on this here blog. Founded by Swedish immigrants during the harsh winter of 2003, the Vitamin B Glandular Show has braved overwhelming public indifference, frequent creative dry spells and continual self-deprecation to become a leading source of obscure references and half-jokes, ponderings on topics important solely to the author, and disjointed run-on sentences.

Despite the lack of original content this week, rest assured that I'm not resting on my laurels here. I intend on hammering away at this thing long after the whole blog phenomenon moves from mildly unfashionable to completely embarrassing. Back tomorrow with more MP3s, more short essays, more stabs at comedy, more of the same blog-based pop culture product you've come to expect and tolerate from this site.

Today is a momentous day in world history. For today, the greatest publication mankind has ever known has launched its first issue. Yes, the long awaited first issue of The High Hat is finally here. Check it out - a murderer's row of smart, funny writers, slick-as-all-get-out visual design from Lee Caulfield, the definitive slam of that godawful "God Bless the USA"...what more could you want? I'd be saying this even if I didn't have an article in this issue. So read it today, and when historians are calling the early 2000's "the era of the High Hat," you can say you were one of the first onboard.

As part of our neverending attempt to provide a thin veneer of culture over this otherwise lunkheaded enterprise, the Vitamin B Glandular Show is moderately pleased to bring you a new segment, Culture for Internet Subcultures. Today, we bring you an excerpt from James Joyce's classic novel Ulysses translated entirely into l33tsp33k. I think you'll find that Joyce's rich, enveloping prose style takes on a new significance when translated into a language used by Mountain Dew-chugging, outside light-eschewing hax0rs. (Translation courtesy of this site.)

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